Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/237

THE DEATH OF AN INVINCIBLE SOLDIER ON A GREAT MAN WHOSE MIND IS CLOUDING

ON THE DEATH OF AN INVINCIBLE SOLDIER

a sore campaign,

Of which men long shall tell,

Ended when he was slain—

When this our greatest fell!

For him no mould had cast

A bullet surely sped;

No falchion, welded fast,

His iron blood had shed.

Death on the hundredth field

Had failed to bring him low;

He was not born to yield

To might of mortal foe.

Even to himself unknown,

He bore the fated sword,

Forged somewhere near His throne

Of battles still the Lord.

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