If Falsehood’s honey it disdained,
And, when it could not praise, was chained;
If bold in Virtue’s cause it spoke,
Yet gentle concord never broke,
This silent tongue shall plead for thee
When time unveils Eternity.”
Stooping, one of his old soldiers bent reverently to lift the skull of his general, and place it in the handsome casket intended for its final resting place. But it clung to the earth, and on looking we see that a beautiful rose bush that had been growing all the years at his head had sent its roots down, completely filling the skull and drawing nourishment from the mind that had once led conquering lines into battle.
’Tis sentiment only that counts at last. What more beautiful thought than that from the brain of the brave should come the perfume of the rose? Or, as Tennyson, In Memoriam:
“’Tis well—’tis something we may stand
Where he in English soil was laid,