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THE BURIAL OF LATANE

The combat raged not long, but ours the day; And through the hosts that compassed us around Our little band rode proudly on its way, Leaving one gallant comrade, glory-crowned, Unburied on the field he died to gain, Single of all his men amid the hostile slain. One moment on the battle s edge he stood, Hope s halo like a helmet round his hair, The nest beheld him, dabbled in his blood, Prostrate in death, and yet in death how fair! Even thus he passed through the red gate of strife, From earthly crowns and psalms to an immortal life. A brother bore his body from the field And gave it unto stranger s hands that closed The calm, blue eyes on earth forever sealed, And tenderly the slender limbs composed: Strangers, yet sisters, who with Mary s love, Sat by the open tomb and weeping looked above. A little child strewed roses on his bier, Pale roses, not more stainless than his soul, Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere That blossomed with good actions, brief, but whole: The aged matron and the faithful slave Approached with reverent feet the hero s lowly grave. No man of God might say the burial rite Above the " rebel " thus declared the foe That blanched before him in the deadly fight,