I.
Dead!
But not where the flashing guns
Bring in a moment’s glittering space
Death,—and heaven—and deathless fame—
To Victory’s sons.
Dead!
But not where the crimson flame,
Leaping fierce in a cruel grace,
From the earthly clod
Burns away all pitiful dross
Till a martyr’s soul on fiery cross
Ascends to God.
Whose life was martyrdom
Shall be spared a martyr’s death
In winning a martyr’s crown.
No struggle for restless breath;—
A life laid calmly down;—
Eloquent lips grown dumb;—
Only for us the pain,
And the agony of loss;
Only for us the test;
For him, the wonderful gain,
For him, a longed-for rest.