THE DEATH OF AN INVINCIBLE SOLDIER
ON A GREAT MAN WHOSE MIND IS CLOUDING
That sovereign thought obscured? That vision clear
Dimmed in the shadow of the sable wing,
And fainter grown the fine interpreting
Which as an oracle was ours to hear!
Nay, but the Gods reclaim not from the seer
Their gift,—although he ceases here to sing,
And, like the antique sage, a covering
Draws round his head, knowing what change is near.
1882.
ON THE DEATH OF AN INVINCIBLE SOLDIER
O what a sore campaign,
Of which men long shall tell,
Ended when he was slain—
When this our greatest fell!
For him no mould had cast
A bullet surely sped;
No falchion, welded fast,
His iron blood had shed.
Death on the hundredth field
Had failed to bring him low;
He was not born to yield
To might of mortal foe.
Even to himself unknown,
He bore the fated sword,
Forged somewhere near His throne
Of battles still the Lord.
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