 | Teresa and Other Poems |  |
101
XXI
MORS MORTE PEREMPTA
From the far Soudan desert comes a voice,
‘Slain, on my breast heroic Gordon sleeps:
Mourn all true hearts!’—and England, Europe weeps.
Yet mourn not him, nor mar with funeral noise
His birth in heaven: and, Wordsworth's soul, rejoice!
For he of all men in these latter days
Hath earned the meed of that melodious praise—
‘The happy warrior,’ hero of thy choice.
Mourn for who fill life's cistern to the brim
With lust of having, and desire to slay,
Wrath, pride, and vengeance: mourn for these who may;
But with your thriftless pity mock not him
Who died to life with every passing breath,
And, breath resigning, died at last to death.
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