We found him, grasping hard the sword he never more might wield!
There was glory on his visage, like a rosy light, or flood,
Though his golden hair was dabbled with his swiftly-flowing blood.
Oh, rev’rently we lifted him, and wiped away the stain
That marred the bright young forehead, where a mother’s kiss had lain.
We loosed the things about his breast, but turned aside—for there
We saw a maiden’s picture, and a tender lock of hair!
He was not dead: he strove to smile; he lifted up his hands—
But Death had turned the hour-glass, and was counting out the sands!
We were rough and hardened soldiers, and we could not mourn, because