And so we carried to his place of rest
All that of our great Paladin was mortal:
The cross, and not the sabre, on his breast,
That opes the heavenly portal.
No more of tribute might to us remain;
But there will still come a time when Freedom's martyrs
A richer guerdon of renown shall gain
Than gleams in stars and garters.
I hear from out that sunlit land which lies
Beyond these clouds that gather darkly o'er us,
The happy sounds of industry arise
In swelling peaceful chorus.
And mingling with these sounds, the glad acclaim
Of millions undisturbed by war's afflictions,
Crowning each martyr's never-dying name
With grateful benedictions.
In some fair future garden of delights,
Where flowers shall bloom and song-birds sweetly warble,
Art shall erect the statues of our knights
In living bronze and marble.
And none of all that bright heroic throng
Shall wear to far-off time a semblance grander,
Shall still be decked with fresher wreaths of song,
Than this beloved commander.
The Spanish legend tells us of the Cid,
That after death he rode, erect, sedately,
Along his lines, even as in life he did,
In presence yet more stately;
And thus our Stuart, at this moment, seems
To ride out of our dark and troubled story
Into the region of romance and dreams,
A realm of light and glory;
And sometimes, when the silver bugles blow,
That ghostly form, in battle reappearing,
Shall lead his horsemen headlong on the foe,
In victory careering!
John Randolph Thompson.