Close let my sheaf of arrows stand; My mighty battle-axe now bring; My ashen spear place in my hand; Around my neck my buckler sling. Let my white locks once more be pressed By the old cap of Milan steel; Such soldier’s gear becomes them best - They love their old defence to feel. ‘Tis well! Now buckle to my waist My well-tried gleaming blade of Spain My old blood leaps in joyful haste To feel it on my thigh again. And here this pendent loop upon, Suspend my father’s dagger bright; My spurs of gold, too, buckle on - Or Seward dies not like a knight. 'Twas done. No tear bedimmed his eyes - His manly heart had ne'er known fear; It answered not the deep-fetched sighs Of friends and comrades standing near. Death was upon him: that grim foe Who smites the craven as the brave. With patience Seward met the blow - Prepared and willing for the grave.