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Some poet who hath sung
The griefs o'er which he wept;
The rose where rain hath clung,
That fresh and sweet is kept?
Some martyr who hath sealed
With his blood, his faith divine;
That ever men should yield
To their passions, God's own shrine?
Who can think on men like these?
Nor feel that in them dwell,
The highest energies;
And a hope unquenchable:
While the grave an altar seems,
For the most exalted creed,
Till resolves that were as dreams,
End in honourable deed.
Plant the laurel on the grave,
There the spirit’s hope hath fed,
By the good, the great, the brave,—
Be honour to the dead.
L. E. L.
