Early next morning the janitor found him lying senseless where he had fallen. He was carried to his room, and all that medical science could do was done. Slowly he returned to sense, but not health. The cold had perfected its work—his limbs were without life, and after many days he was carried back to his father’s house helpless as a child. So he yet remains, humble, sad and repentant.
In the little church-yard, not far from his home, is a green mound, where the soft falling snow of winter and the wild birds of spring see no name—no marble tomb, but where the long grass whispers in the summer winds, Dudley Fletcher may be frequently seen reading or musing silently, having been carried there, his only haunt from home.
THE DEAD AT THERMOPYLÆ.
FROM THE GREEK OF SIMONIDES.
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BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT.
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Bright was their fortune and sublime their doom,
Who perished at Thermopylæ—their tomb