Ay!—that was a week ago, Dear Lad,
And a week is a long, long time,
When a second's enough, in the thick of the strife,
To sever the thread of the bravest life,
And end it in its prime.
Oh, a week is long when so little's enough
To send a man below.
It may be that while we named your name
The bullet sped and the quick end came,—
And the rest we shall never know.
But this we know, Dear Lad,—all's well
With the man who has done his best.
And whether he live, or whether he die,
He is sacred high in our memory;—
And to God we can leave the rest.
So—wherever you're sleeping to-night, Dear Lad,
This one thing we do know,—
When "Last Post" sounds, and He makes His rounds,
Not one of you all will be out of bounds,
Above ground or below.
BE QUIET!
Soul, dost thou fear
For to-day or to-morrow?
'Tis the part of a fool
To go seeking sorrow.
Of thine own doing
Thou canst not contrive them.
'Tis He that shall give them;
Thou may'st not outlive them.
So why cloud to-day
With fear of the sorrow,
That may or may not
Come to-morrow?
TO YOU WHO HAVE LOST
I know! I know!—
The ceaseless ache, the emptiness, the woe,—
The pang of loss,—
The strength that sinks beneath so sore a cross.
"—Heedless and careless, still the world wags on,
And leaves me broken … Oh, my son! my son!"
Yet—think of this!—
Yea, rather think on this!—
He died as few men get the chance to die,—
Fighting to save a world's morality.
He died the noblest death a man may die,
Fighting for God, and Right, and Liberty;—
And such a death is Immortality.
"He died unnoticed in the muddy trench."
Nay,—God was with him, and he did not blench;
Filled him with holy fires that nought could quench,
And when He saw his work below was done,
He gently called to him,—"My son! My son!
I need thee for a greater work than this.
Thy faith, thy zeal, thy fine activities
Are worthy of My larger liberties;"—
—Then drew him with the hand of welcoming grace,
And, side by side, they climbed the heavenly ways.