When the news of his death reached the United States, the people were every where loud in their regrets, and he will be remembered as one of the heroes of the Mexican war.
Captain Walker had risen by his own exertions. Brought up in a good school, "the Light Dragoons of the U. S.," his knowledge of tactics, acquired in Florida, was most useful to his first service as an officer in the army of the Texan Republic. He is spoken of as having possessed every requisite for a cavalry officer--a quick perception, a keen eye, a strong arm, perfect control of his horse, thorough knowledge of military combination, and the rarer and more valuable faculty of winning the confidence of his men. Had he not been cut off so untimely in his chosen career, he could not but have become a distinguished general.
Captain Walker died at the age of 33, in sight almost of the famous dungeon of Perote, where he had long been a prisoner. There was something like retribution in the fact that more than one other Texan, who, like himself, had been confined there, contributed to raise above its battlements the colors of the United States.
What! offer thee the tribute of my numbers? Thou daughter of the East! whose infancy The warring desert winds rocked to its slumbers-- Dost thou demand incense of Poesy?
Flower of Aleppo! whom the Bulbul choosing Would wander from his worshiped rose of May, O'er thy fair chalice her remembrance losing, To languish 'mid thy leaves his moonlight lay!
Bear odors to the balm pure sweets exhaling? Hang on the orange bough a riper load? Lend fires to Syria's East at dawn unveiling? Pave with new stars[1] the Night's all-glittering road?
No verses here!--Verse would despair of raising Aught save an image dark and faint of thee; But gently in yon basin's mirror gazing Behold thyself! Embodied Poesy!
When through the kiosque's grated ogive straying, The sea-breeze mingles with the Moka's fume, Where softly o'er thy form the moonbeams playing Glance on thy couch, rich from Palmyra's loom--
When on the jasmine tube thy lip half closes, Veiled with its golden threads in bright array, While ruffling at thy breath, fragrant with roses, Murmur the drops within the Narquité--
When as winged perfumes rise into thy brain, In light caressing clouds around thee wreathing All love's and youth's lost visions throng again, An atmosphere of dreams thy listeners breathing--