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118 Listening to our earliest nightingale Under the woodland sprays of soft young green; But we have strewn spring flowers upon the bier And we have wrought in white azaleas A cross thereover; while our kindly Queen Has twined her delicate wreath for him; and some Lay fadeless amaranth, with roses rare, And his own cherish'd palms of Africa, Palms of the conqueror, upon his breast. Now while those ashes slowly sink to rest, All Europe, and his Country bending over; While solemn music soars with seraph plume; Pearly soft sun-rays, like sweet wings of doves, Enter yon high clerestories, and abide Athwart grey marrying fans of the dim ceiling: So all we mourners, piers, and monuments, Glow with a rainbow glory, as from Heaven.

Is it not better as the Lord hath will'd? On his own chosen battle-field he falls, Still pressing forward, face toward the foe! A martyr's death and tomb illume with light