When first the blackthorn blossomed, thou wast brave And strong, but April left thee faint and sick; The May-wasp dipt into thine open grave, And struck the velvets of thy hearse - so quick Thy summons came. Disease and languor stole The pulses of thy young heroic hands; But thou didst ever bow to Heaven's commands, And so the act of dying made thy soul An instant guest in Paradise! How calm And still lay those brave hands, which ever yearned For prayer, yet never from the combat turned! Though sundered for dispatch of martial deeds, Each with its weapon, serving fiery needs, They longed to press each other, palm to palm. |