Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/388

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He might not lead the battle as of old,

But, as of old, among his own he went,

Breathing a faith that never once grew cold,

A courage still unspent.

So was his end; and, in that hour, across

The face of War a wind of silence blew,

And bitterest foes paid tribute to the loss

Of a great heart and true.

But we who loved him, what have we to lay

For sign of worship on his warrior-bier?

What homage, could his lips but speak to-day,

Would he have held most dear?

Not grief, as for a life untimely reft;

Not vain regret for counsel given in vain;

Not pride of that high record he had left,

Peerless and pure of stain;

But service of our lives to keep her free,

The land he served; a pledge above his grave

To give her even such a gift as he,

The soul of loyalty, gave.

That oath we plight, as now the trumpets swell

His requiem, and the men-at-arms stand mute,

And through the mist the guns he loved so well

Thunder a last salute! Owen Seaman

HE world hath its own dead; great motions start

In human breasts, and make for them a place

In that hushed sanctuary of the race

Where every day men come, kneel, and depart.

Of them, O English nurse, henceforth thou art,

A name to pray on, and to all a face

Of household consecration; such His grace

Whose universal dwelling is the heart.