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18
THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE.
Tread softly where there lies a soldier's grave,
In the waste field, or on the mountain side.
Where many in comely rows these lowly mounds,
Shall seem a garden not a mourning place.
In the waste field, or on the mountain side.
Where many in comely rows these lowly mounds,
Shall seem a garden not a mourning place.
Shall honour who live in the days to come,
Our latest kindred guard this faithful dust!
Which fell for Britain in her battle ranks.
Our latest kindred guard this faithful dust!
Which fell for Britain in her battle ranks.
Brief is his pain who falls without disease
Before his foeman's face. To heaven ascend
Like to an holy incense with his soul
The Nation's prayers unto his endless rest.
Before his foeman's face. To heaven ascend
Like to an holy incense with his soul
The Nation's prayers unto his endless rest.
We bare our heads at an unlettered grave,
Which mark few gathered stones in land far off,
Whereunder some slain soldier glorious sleeps.
Returned his comrades, they the pit, they digged
In haste, have deckt, lo! round as maiden neat.
Which mark few gathered stones in land far off,
Whereunder some slain soldier glorious sleeps.
Returned his comrades, they the pit, they digged
In haste, have deckt, lo! round as maiden neat.
19
What greater comfort unto dying heart
Whose eyelids close to that eternal sleep
Which all awaits, who yieldeth now his breath
(Though now at noonday goeth down his sun),
Than to have well God's trust used of his life.
Whose eyelids close to that eternal sleep
Which all awaits, who yieldeth now his breath
(Though now at noonday goeth down his sun),
Than to have well God's trust used of his life.
Who would not say, is better than their life,
That rust at home, and rot in idleness,
Heroic warfare and swift soldier's death.
That rust at home, and rot in idleness,
Heroic warfare and swift soldier's death.
Nor small their honour which at home remain,
Some of their kindred in this war have lost.
They shall not mourn nor grieve as other men,
They shall not grudge. The soldiers' widows' bread
Is sure, and shall not orphans be their babes.
Some of their kindred in this war have lost.
They shall not mourn nor grieve as other men,
They shall not grudge. The soldiers' widows' bread
Is sure, and shall not orphans be their babes.
But longs my soul, and burns my heart, and pants
This breast, dear Foster Land! How sweet it were
To fall, to die for Thee, an hundred deaths!
This breast, dear Foster Land! How sweet it were
To fall, to die for Thee, an hundred deaths!
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