The plumed staff officer gallops br Along the swaying line, br That shakes as, beaten by hailstones, br Shakes the loaded autumn vine; br And the earth beneath is reddened, br But not with the stain of wine. br br The regular shock of a battery br The rattling tumult stuns; br And its steady thrill through the hill-side br Like a pulse beneath it runs; br The many are dead around it, br But the few still work the guns. br br 'Who commands this battery?' br And Crosby his clear, young eyes br From the sliding gun-sights lifting br As the well-aimed death-bolt flies, br 'I command it today, Sir!' br With a steady voice replies. br br Answers as heroes answer, br With modest words and few, br Whose hearts and hands to duty br Even in death are true, br Though its awful light is breaking br Full on their blenchless view. br br The officer passes onward br With a less troubled eye, br The words and the look unshaken br Bid every wild doubt fly; br He knows that the young commander br Is there to do or die. br br To do br and br die; for the battle br And day of command are done, br While stands unmoved on the hill-side br Each shattered, blackened gun, br And Crosby in death beside them br A deathless name has won.