��AFTERMATH
Slain by a Prussian bullet as he led
The men that loved him — dying, cheered them
on — My son, my eldest son. So be it, God !
This is no time for tears, no time to mourn. No time for sombre draperies of woe. Let the aggressors weep ! for they have sinned The sin of Satan. Lust of power and pride, ^lean envy of their neighbors' weal, a plot Hatched amidst glozing smiles and prate of peace Through the false years ; until the Day, the Day When all this worship at the Devil's feet Should win the world. Ay, let them weep !
But we ^^'itll eyes undimmed march on; our mourning
robes Be-jcwelled by the deeds of those that die. Lustre on lustre, till no sable patch Peeps through their brilliance.
In the years to come, When we have done our work, and God's own peace,
�� �
