| |
| WITHIN this lowly grave a Conqueror lies, | |
| And yet the monument proclaims it not, | |
| Nor round the sleeper’s name hath chisel wrought | |
| The emblems of a fame that never dies, | |
| Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf, | 5 |
| Twined with the laurel’s fair, imperial leaf. | |
| A simple name alone, | |
| To the great world unknown, | |
| Is graven here, and wild flowers, rising round, | |
| Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground, | 10 |
| Lean lovingly against the humble stone. | |
| |
| Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart | |
| No man of iron mould and bloody hands, | |
| Who sought to wreck upon the cowering lands | |
| The passions that consumed his restless heart: | 15 |
| But one of tender spirit and delicate frame, | |
| Gentlest in mien and mind, | |
| Of gentle womankind, | |
| Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame; | |
| One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made | 20 |
| Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May, | |
| Yet, at the thought of others’ pain, a shade | |
| Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away. | |
| |
| Nor deem that when the hand that molders here | |
| Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear, | 25 |
| And armies mustered at the sign, as when | |
| Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East, | |
| Gray captains leading bands of veteran men | |
| And fiery youths to be the vulture’s feast. | |
| Not thus were raged the mighty wars that gave | 30 |
| The victory to her who fills this grave; | |
| Alone her task was wrought, | |
| Alone the battle fought; | |
| Through that long strife her constant hope was staid | |
| On God alone, nor looked for other aid. | 35 |
| |
| She met the hosts of sorrow with a look | |
| That altered not beneath the frown they wore, | |
| And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took, | |
| Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no more. | |
| Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath, | 40 |
| And calmly broke in twain | |
| The fiery shafts of pain, | |
| And rent the nets of passion from her path. | |
| By that victorious hand despair was slain. | |
| With love she vanquished hate and overcame | 45 |
| Evil with good, in her Great Master’s name. | |
| |
| Her glory is not of this shadowy state, | |
| Glory that with the fleeting season dies; | |
| But when she entered at the sapphire gate | |
| What joy was radiant in celestial eyes! | 50 |
| How heaven’s bright depths with sounding welcomes rung, | |
| And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung! | |
| And He who, long before, | |
| Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, | |
| The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet, | 55 |
| Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat; | |
| He who returning, glorious, from the grave, | |
| Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave. | |
| |
| See, as I linger here, the sun grows low; | |
| Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near. | 60 |
| Oh gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go | |
| Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear. | |
| Brief is the time, I know, | |
| The warfare scarce begun; | |
| Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won. | 65 |
| Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee; | |
| The victors’ names are yet too few to fill | |
| Heaven’s mighty roll; the glorious armory, | |
| That ministered to thee, is open still. | |
| |
