Noble Cowards, will you to follow me?
The fray has proven scornful of young blood,
though God will shine his grace upon our brow.
Appraised to worth of petulant flies we charge,
filling fathers’ absence with our lives.
Cowards! Shadows of shells, so how can we?
Strike that which has no form save idle breeze!
Great; the promised kingdom will reward.
Admit in weight of flies, we cannot save.
That price, undeserved, will prove their very grave.