Naught but a memory in your mother's bosom,
Shall soon recall your transient, earthly days.
In vain our aid. Our utmost skill and patience
Cannot re-string the loosened silver cord.
The golden bowl is broken at the fountain,
And your lone soul must hence to meet it's God,
Lonely, yet clad in beauty pure and holy,
For of your best you gave, unstinted, glad,
That at your country's call all selfish thought and purpose
Faded away—you gave your life, dear lad!