Thomas Joseph Byrnes
God gave him gifts: nor gave in vain
The great heart and the master-brain
To dream, to battle, to attain,
To storm the height.
The power that all men strive to gain
Was his by right.
O saddest Spring in all the land!
O Mystery, hard to understand—
When, at the stern unknown command,
With icy breath,
Fate placed within his fearless hand
The gift of Death!
Calm be his sleep who lived to dare.
Go, say a patriot slumbers there
Whose brows were never bent to wear
His loftiest fame,
Yet wrote on Queensland’s page a rare—
A fadeless name!
He fought his fight: he won his goal.
His name is on the battle-scroll;
And, whilst beyond our weak control
The tears we shed
Well deep within a Nation’s soul,
He is not dead.
poem by George Essex Evans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The Power Of Thy Sword
Lord of battle I pray on bended knee conquest by the rising sun
I'll wait for thy command with flame and blood at hand
glory and a broken sword.
I'm the master of the world I have no fear of man or beast
Born inside the soul of the world
Riding hard breaking bone with steel and stone
Eternal might I was born to wield.
Let us drink to the battles we've lived and we've fought
Celebrate the pain and havoc we have wrought
Great heroes charge into the fight
From the north to the south in the black of night
The clash of honor calls to stand when others fall
Gods of war feel the power of my sword
Drink to the battles we've lived and we've fought
Celebrate the pain and havoc we have wrought
Great heroes charge into the fight
From the north to the south in the black of night
Fierce is my blade fierce is my hate born to die in battle
I laugh at my fate
Now pay in blood when your blood has been spilled
You're never forgiven death is fulfilled !
The clash of honor calls to stand when others fall
Gods of war feel the power of my sword
The clash of honor calls
I will stand when others fall
Open magic doors
The will know the power of my sword
There is blood in my hands there is blood in my eyes
With blood in my voice I scream as you die
Thirsting for vengeance and mounds of the slain
Shaking the forest onto the plain
Fierce is my blade fierce is my hate born to die in battle
I laugh at my fate
Now pay in blood when your blood has been spilled
You're never forgiven death is fulfilled !
The clash of honor calls to stand when others fall
Gods of war feel the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
They will know the power of my sword
song performed by by Manowar from The Triumph Of Steel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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John Mitchel
I.
DEAD, with his harness on him:
Rigid and cold and white,
Marking the place of the vanguard
Still in the ancient fight.
The climber dead on the hill-side,
Before the height is won:
The workman dead on the building,
Before the work is done!
O, for a tongue to utter
The words that should be said—
Of his worth that was silver, living,
That is gold and jasper, dead!
Dead—but the death was fitting:
His life, to the latest breath,
Was poured like wax on the chart of right,
And is sealed by the stamp of Death!
Dead—but the end was fitting:
First in the ranks he led;
And he marks the height of his nation's gain,
As he lies in his harness—dead!
II.
Weep for him, Ireland—mother lonely;
Weep for the son w'ho died for thee.
Wayward he was, but he loved thee only,
Loyal and fearless as son could be.
Weep for him, Ireland—sorrowing nation
Faithful to all who are true to thee:
Never a son in thy desolation
Had holier love for thy cause than he.
Sons of the Old Land, mark the story—
Mother and son in the final test:
Weeping she sits in her darkened glory,
Holding her dead to her stricken breast.
Only the dead on her knees are lying—
Ah, poor mother beneath the cross!
Strength is won by the constant trying,
Crowns are gemmed by the tears of loss!
Sons of the Old Land, mark the story—
Mother and son to each other true:
She called, and he answered, old and hoary,
And gave her his life as a man should do.
She may weep—but for us no weeping:
Tears are vain till the work is done;
Tears for her—but for us the keeping
Our hearts as true as her faithful son.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If I Gave You My Heart
If I gave you my heart
Where would you be
Would it mean nothing
If not for me
If I gave you my eyes
What would they see
Would they see nothing
If not for me
But I gave you my hand and my sign and my soul on the earth
And I gave up on truth when I heard about the words
I lived out of love when I gave it away
And I sold off my soul when theres no one to pay
If I gave you my hand
What would it write
Would it say nothing
Or say its alright
If I gave you my arms
Would they hold you tight
First blood (? ) in morning
Or bid you goodnight
And I gave you my strength and my worth and I gave you my gift
And I moved on the first and I left us to drift
And I reap from the soil and I build hopes from wood
Its a new better life and we have to ensure
And I gave you my dream of the world and you stole the key
You sang to the wind in the whole ? ? ? sea
And I feel my weight and I guard my soul
And I found my beliefs when I found my control
I gave you my hand and my soul on the earth
And I gave up on the truth when I heard about the words
So I lived out of love when I gave it away
And I sold off my soul when theres no one to pay
Another version
---------------------------------------------------------
If I gave you my heart where would you be,
Would it mean nothing if not for me?
If I gave you my eyes what would they see,
Would they see nothing if not for me?
But I gave you my hand and my sign,
And my soul on the earth,
And I gave up on truth,
When I heard about the worst
So I lived out of love
When I gave it away
And I sold off my soul
When there was no-one to pay
If I gave you my hand what would it write
Would it say nothing or say its alright
If I gave you my arms would they hold you tight
First light of morning or bid you goodnight
And I gave you my strength and my worth
And I gave you my gift
And I moved on the first
And I left us to drift
And Ill reap from the soil
And Ill build home from wood
Its a new better life
And we have 2 and should
And I gave you my dream of the world
And we stood on the quay
And we sang to the wind
And the whole darkening sea
And I feel my weight
And I guard my soul
And I found my beliefs
When I found my control
I gave you my hand
And my soul on the earth
And I gave up on truth
When I heard about the worst
So I lived out of love
When I gave it away
And I sold off my soul
When there was no-one to pay
song performed by by Ocean Colour Scene
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Gandhihood....
You gave us a simple man, full of kindness
humblest and with godly bless
not a lord
owning his own soul like power
you like us, we poorest of poor
the real Indians..........
we like you Bapu, you only know us....
(they not know us... we are really Indians..)
the father of poorest of poor
the light still delight us...Bapu.....
and then we have many 'gandhees'
but the Indira we loved her
a worthy heir of a ablest leader
Blooded to the battle
Born to for fight
Sowed the pride in our soul nation
Not to thrill of the fight
To die for a cause
Honour and the great glory
To win without a great life
lived for India.......
the great Rajiv...
the' new' India wants glory.....
he made a new vision for this nation
and Sonia the mother....
without a power
but all these great sacrificing.....
poem by Thampi KEE
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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a new Gandhihood
You gave us a simple man, full of kindness
humblest and with godly bless
not a lord
owning his own soul like power
you like us, we poorest of poor
the real Indians..........
we like you Bapu, you only know us....
(they not know us... we are really Indians..)
the father of poorest of poor
the light still delight us...Bapu.....
and then we have many 'gandhees'
but the Indira we loved her
a worthy heir of a ablest leader
Blooded to the battle
Born to for fight
Sowed the pride in our soul nation
Not to thrill of the fight
To die for a cause
Honour and the great glory
To win without a great life
lived for India.......
the great Rajiv...
the' new' India wants glory.....
he made a new vision for this nation
and Sonia the mother....
without a power
but all these great sacrificing.....
poem by Thampi KEE
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At A Dinner To General Grant
JULY 31, 1865
WHEN treason first began the strife
That crimsoned sea and shore,
The Nation poured her hoarded life
On Freedom's threshing-floor;
From field and prairie, east and west,
From coast and hill and plain,
The sheaves of ripening manhood pressed
Thick as the bearded grain.
Rich was the harvest; souls as true
As ever battle tried;
But fiercer still the conflict grew,
The floor of death more wide;
Ah, who forgets that dreadful day
Whose blot of grief and shame
Four bitter years scarce wash away
In seas of blood and flame?
Vain, vain the Nation's lofty boasts,--
Vain all her sacrifice!
'Give me a man to lead my hosts,
O God in heaven!' she cries.
While Battle whirls his crushing flail,
And plies his winnowing fan,--
Thick flies the chaff on every gale,--
She cannot find her man!
Bravely they fought who failed to win,--
Our leaders battle-scarred,--
Fighting the hosts of hell and sin,
But devils die always hard!
Blame not the broken tools of God
That helped our sorest needs;
Through paths that martyr feet have trod
The conqueror's steps He leads.
But now the heavens grow black with doubt,
The ravens fill the sky,
'Friends' plot within, foes storm without,
Hark,--that despairing cry,
'Where is the heart, the hand, the brain
To dare, to do, to plan?'
The bleeding Nation shrieks in vain,--
She has not found her man!
A little echo stirs the air,--
Some tale, whate'er it be,
Of rebels routed in their lair
Along the Tennessee.
The little echo spreads and grows,
And soon the trump of Fame
Has taught the Nation's friends and foes
The 'man on horseback''s name.
So well his warlike wooing sped,
No fortress might resist
His billets-doux of lisping lead,
The bayonets in his fist,--
With kisses from his cannons' mouth
He made his passion known
Till Vicksburg, vestal of the South,
Unbound her virgin zone.
And still where'er his banners led
He conquered as he came,
The trembling hosts of treason fled
Before his breath of flame,
And Fame's still gathering echoes grew
Till high o'er Richmond's towers
The starry fold of Freedom flew,
And all the land was ours.
Welcome from fields where valor fought
To feasts where pleasure waits;
A Nation gives you smiles unbought
At all her opening gates!
Forgive us when we press your hand,--
Your war-worn features scan,--
God sent you to a bleeding land;
Our Nation found its man!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Failure
THE BOY went out from the ranges grim,
And the breath of the mountains went with him;
With a song in his heart and a smile on his face,
And a light in his eyes for a foremost place:
And the good green earth, and the salt sea spray,
And the soft blue skies, they were his that day;
And, like Eden, ringed with a golden fire—
Afar rose the Land of His Heart’s Desire.
The boy went down to the city’s strife,
And his face was lost in the surge of life;
But a Power that he did not understand
Had nerved his brain and his fighting hand.
And he strove and failed, and he rose and won—
And he failed again ere the fight was done;
But he battled on when the days were dire
To win to the Land of His Heart’s Desire.
And there, in the heart of the stress and din,
’Mid want and labour and wealth and sin,
The strong man struggled with shining eyes,
And forced a passage, and grasped the prize.
And he cried to the Power who had lent the fire:
“Lo! Fame is the Land of My Heart’s Desire!
Give the cup to me with a beaded brim.”
And the Power that he knew not gave it him.
But the air is keen on the Cliffs of Fame,
And the shafts that fly have a deadly aim!
With a foothold scarce, and a sleepless dread
For the gulfs below and the heights o’erhead,
He cried to the Power who had steeled his hand:
“I am outcast yet from my Fairyland!
For Fame is a land where no strength may tire,
But Love is the Land of My Heart’s Desire!”
Then there came to the man all his dream of Love,
With the brow of snow and the eyes of a dove,
With the glint of the sun on her wavy hair,
And her soul as pure as her face was fair.
Like a living lily to him she came,
Till his eyes were wet and his soul was flame,
And she called to him, with an outstretched hand,
And they entered into the Promised Land.
But there came a day when he asked his soul,
“Is this the land, and is this the goal?”
In his heart there lay what his lips denied—
The pang of a hunger unsatisfied.
“For Fame,” he said, “and for Love I wrought;
They are not the things that I should have sought:
’Tis to boundless power that my dreams aspire—
And Wealth is the Land of My Heart’s Desire!”
Then the Power that he did not understand
Gave him ships and houses and gold and land,
And the man’s power grew with each passing year;
But his thoughts were vexed with a sleepless fear,
And his hair grew gray with the iron strain
Of the dread of loss and the lust of gain,
And he bowed his head on his hands and said.
“All things are mine, but my heart is dead!”
And he thought of the boy from the ranges grim
With the breath of the mountains over him,
With a song in his heart and a smile on his face,
And a light in his eyes for a foremost place,
And the good green earth and the salt sea spray,
And the soft blue skies that were his that day,
When, like Eden, ringed with a golden fire,
Afar rose the Land of His Heart’s Desire.
Then clear on his startled ear there fell
A voice like the sound of a silver bell:
“To each is the work that he best can do,
But you turned from the work when it called to you.
And you sought instead for the vulgar praise,
For the lips of love, and for prosperous days.
And with all that the world can give you here,
You have lost the thing that you hold most dear.
For who hears the word that the Gods inspire—
In his work finds the Land of His Heart’s Desire.”
poem by George Essex Evans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ivisible Battlefield
Invisible Battlefield
There's a war that rages daily With many a battle fought And it seems that no one really Understands the foe named 'thought'...
Pastor..
He seems so small and passive Sometimes he's good and kind But his evil can be massive As war wages in our mind..
Throughout Faith in Action
It's an invisible battlefield No allies at our side As the foe its power wields We cannot run and hide...
But we have a Great Captain in our Pastor And He alone can see Each battle and each out-come Defeat or victory..
Throughout Faith in Action
It's an invisiblebattlefield But we have God's true Word We have faith's invisibleshield We have the Spirit's sword..
Throughout Faith in Action..
The demons, darkness, evil forces Strive to take control But they cannot alter courses With the One who saves our soul..
Throughout Faith in Action..
It's an invisiblebattlefield No one to cheer with glee As evil thoughts and armiesyield To inner victories..
Throughout Faith in Action..
For many a tear-stained battle Upon these plains are fought With many a plea and many a prayer Prayed for this foe named 'thought'..
Throughout Faith in Action..
Someday beyond these borders This battle will bedone As God our foot-steps orders We'll fight them one by one
Trust our Pastor..
With Him, the foe we'll conquer He is a faithful shield For He is Lord and Master Of our invisiblebattlefield...
RK. Hudson
poem by Ron Poetry
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I thought it was a gift.
They told me it was a gift;
they told me and I was so glad.
I put my heart and soul into it all,
cried tears and sweat so many beads of my own metallic crimson blood.
I gave it all; I thought it was a gift.
I worked longer than anyone I knew.
I worked harder.
I gave up so much more, I did so many things, all at the same time;
just so I could please them. I put their needs and wants over mine.
I gave it all; I thought it was a gift.
I thought that this was what they called fate,
I thought that this was what they called destiny.
I thought that I'd been given a gift for good.
I thought that gifts were supposed to bring joy, and happiness, and peace.
I gave it all, all because I thought it was a gift.
You never told me,
that one day I'd be sitting here,
questioning myself -
about how and why a God given gift, had suddenly turned
into a curse.
Angels VS. Demons
there is a battle raging within me
that i can't control.
of angels VS demons for my earthly soul.
i found that the demon can enter your mind
and at times control your thoughts
and try to get you to do things
you normally don't do..
if you are depressed
that's when he's at his best.
he fuels up the anger that
has built up inside
and gets you to believe all his lies.
he wants you to believe that
everything in life, is owed to you.
and tells you that
'this is what you have to do'.
take everything that you want in life
and no one will put up a fight.
for angels and humanity are weak as can be.
and he's here to set you free.
these are just a few of the lies
he will tell to you
to get you to do what he wants you to do.
then i have the angel with all its might
telling me that
'everything is going to be alright'
to believe and feel all that's in your heart
for that's how mankind got its start.
for the heart is the center of your soul
and is something the demon can't control.
so follow your heart like you do your deams
and don't let the demon get in between.
so in reality, i can say to you
the LORD gave you the power
to your heart be true.
poem by Louis Rams
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Sleeper
Sleep that half dead,
sleep the body not the head.
Sleep that bad said,
Poor owns that bed,
Dreams are found on that herd.
Sleep while awake,
Sleep that dead not closed eye fake.
Sleep that weak,
Tommorow u gona take.
Eat that sleep and enjoy its steak.
Sleep still stands,
None to overtake.
Sleep that height dare for cake.
Sleep that stress and have the bless,
Sleep to confess as she do to embrance,
Sleep for paid cash as he do to love false.
Sleep that sleep as no one sleep ever deep.
Sleep that better as no other sleeper.
Wear that sweater as did Brother Peter,
Sleep that firm to dream that greater,
Sleep not slopy arrise all the weaker.
poem by Abdallah Mpogole
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Andrew Jackson
On the life of Andrew Jackson,
Now dear people I will write,
And in sketches, I will tell you
His career with great delight.
His career on earth is ended;
But his name is ever bright,
And his memory is cherished
As a great glorious knight.
The early life of Andrew Jackson,
Its marked in high renown,
As a lover of his country
He proved steadfastly profound,
Through kind teaching of his mother,
That patriot lady brave;
His mind strengthened by her wisdom,
Ere she sank into her grave.
Ah, in manhood, Andrew Jackson,
Was a daring fearless man;
With a strong iron will commanding,
He was loved throughout our land.
He was kind and generous hearted
In his military acts,
Yet was stubborn, while commanding,
And no courage did he lack.
At middle age, Andrew Jackson
Was a noble warlike man,
And was capable of handling
The army at his command.
You can see it by the battles
Of his Indian campaign,
Or the battle of New Orleans,
Where so many men were slain.
The dauntless energy of Jackson,
Oh, should never be forgot,
Or the battle of New Orleans,
Where he diligently fought.
Where he fought to save his country,
From the British fleets of fame;
Through coolness and courage
The victory he did gain.
As commander, Andrew Jackson
Was a soldier of great skill,
And he nobly done his duty
To his country, with good will.
Yet in life his acts were censured,
Ah, by men both great and small.
One the acts that made him trouble
Was the arresting of Judge Hall.
Oh, that act cost Andrew Jackson
Many heart pang in after life,
For he thought it was his duty
In that hard cruel strife
That his soldiers should obey him
And fulfill every command,
As he knew no other method,
He could save his native land.
The people loved Andrew Jackson,
"Old Hickory" was their friend.
As a President o'er our country
He proved faithful to the end.
His career on earth was ended
Eighteen Forty Five; is seen
As a star his name is shining
The "hero" of "New Orleans."
poem by Julia A Moore
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A battle between soul and death
My body has become a battle field,
Battle, a fierce battle, I cried in pain,
As death comes and fights to pull the soul,
Nothing happens as death has no gain.
I have been a heart and gastric patient,
My body burns with a wound of heart,
And my heart burns with it's own light,
But soul and death wrestle part to part.
A great war took place in my body,
Death violently ordered to the soul to surrender,
But soul is not ready to surrender then war began,
Many souls and deaths saw the war and wonder.
What about my body? I shouted at them,
My body has been burning since long,
Listening this, death laughed and soul hit it,
Soul told me that “death is going to do you wrong”.
You go away otherwise the death harms you,
Soul strongly pushed to the death and saved me,
I forever pray to God to give strength to my soul,
I am very thankful to my soul to protect me like a bee.
poem by INDIA Mazid S Kazi
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The unfinished battle
`1The unfinished battle
The strive is not over, if it is not over
It has no ending, not a definite end.
Alas! There is no finish to a war, war-
is not won by victory.this battle of a hero
the good fight of a great protagonist one-
in which no winner emerged.alas! the unaccomplished-
runners, those with women like heart, they are dead.
The great protagonist is not dying, not in this war.
The brave ones never died, they die thousands of times.
the war is a cruel thing sometimes a haven. the peasants,
don’t want it, while an inevitable to the warriors.those who
are lucky with their faith are here in their threshold down,
they are safer indeed in their stony sleep but, the reminants-
in this unfinished battle of ours make this war our war when-
no alternative we got alas! the battle is unfinished.
It has no ending, war is not won by victory.
poem by Ipaye Olawole Peter
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Tall Tail
The moon listens as the sun tells a battle of epic proportions long ago,
that man can’t recall.
The sea and the land, were in a war of great power.
They fought and they fought until the sky stepped in,
being wise it knew what they desired.
Sky told them of its plan, to let each have its own, yet know the other.
Sky took some water and sprinkled it over the land, and put land under the water.
But they weren’t satisfied, they wanted to reside in sky’s domain as well,
so the land rose up and the sea jumped toward the sky and the battle was over.
poem by Michael Blancarte
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The Dying Bondman
Life was trembling, faintly trembling
On the bondman's latest breath,
And he felt the chilling pressure
Of the cold, hard hand of Death.
He had been an Afric chieftain,
Worn his manhood as a crown;
But upon the field of battle
Had been fiercely stricken down.
He had longed to gain his freedom,
Waited, watched and hoped in vain,
Till his life was slowly ebbing --
Almost broken was his chain.
By his bedside stood the master,
Gazing on the dying one,
Knowing by the dull grey shadows
That life's sands were almost run.
"Master," said the dying bondman,
"Home and friends I soon shall see;
But before I reach my country,
Master write that I am free;
"For the spirits of my fathers
Would shrink back from me in pride,
If I told them at our greeting
I a slave had lived and died;
"Give to me the precious token,
That my kindred dead may see --
Master! write it, write it quickly!
Master! write that I am free!"
At his earnest plea the master
Wrote for him the glad release,
O'er his wan and wasted features
Flitted one sweet smile of peace.
Eagerly he grasped the writing;
"I am free!" at last he said.
Backward fell upon the pillow,
He was free among the dead.
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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Nancy Hanks
Prairie child,
Brief as dew,
What winds of wonder
Nourished you?
Rolling plains
Of billowy green,
Far horizons,
Blue, serene;
Lofty skies
The slow clouds climb,
Where burning stars
Beat out the time:
These, and the dreams
Of fathers bold,
Baffled longings,
Hopes untold,
Gave to you
A heart of fire,
Love like deep waters,
Brave desire.
Ah, when youth's rapture
Went out in pain,
And all seemed over,
Was all in vain?
O soul obscure,
Whose wings life bound,
And soft death folded
Under the ground;
Wilding lady,
Still and true,
Who gave us Lincoln
And never knew:
To you at last
Our praise, our tears,
Love and a song
Through The nation’s years!
Mother of Lincoln,
Our tears, our praise;
A battle-flag
And the victor's bays!
poem by Harriet Monroe
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Above the Battle's Front
St. Francis, Buddha, Tolstoi, and St. John —
Friends, if you four, as pilgrims, hand in hand,
Returned, the hate of earth once more to dare,
And walked upon the water and the land,
If you, with words celestial, stopped these kings
For sober conclave, ere their battle great,
Would they for one deep instant then discern
Their crime, their heart-rot, and their fiend's estate?
If you should float above the battle's front,
Pillars of cloud, of fire that does not slay,
Bearing a fifth within your regal train,
The Son of David in his strange array—
If, in his majesty, he towered toward Heaven,
Would they have hearts to see or understand?
. . . Nay, for he hovers there to-night we know,
Thorn-crowned above the water and the land.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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[Remember the broken soldiers (ANZAC DAY) lest we forget]
Broken soldiers,
Tread with fear
Through this concrete land
Frayed hearts unravel
And slowly fall
Like empty shells
I sacrificed my life
For a world that doesn’t care…
In return for an ounce of peace
To calm this mental head.
When you stare at me,
You see my eyes weakening
Tears foster,
Instead of beaconing
The fire inside,
Burn my memories,
These withered old hands
Shake and start trembling…
Years have passed,
And I can still hear
The children scream
Women were raped
And freedom was just a dream
History pages turned
So fast the warrior
Fades away…
You read so much
You forget the struggle,
We fought to save this land.
Next time when you stare at me,
Remember who I am…
A person who fought for you…
Never gave up on you…
Zealous in battle to fight for your freedom…
And willing to sacrifice my soul for a…
Cause that doesn’t even seem to matter anymore…
poem by Empath In flames
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Gone
IN Collins Street standeth a statute tall,
A statue tall, on a pillar of stone,
Telling its story, to great and small,
Of the dust reclaimed from the sand waste lone;
Weary and wasted, and worn and wan,
Feeble and faint, and languid and low,
He lay on the desert a dying man;
Who has gone, my friends, where we all must go.
There are perils by land, and perils by water,
Short, I ween, are the obsequies
Of the landsman lost, but they may be shorter
With the mariner lost in the trackless seas;
And well for him, when the timbers start,
And the stout ship reels and settles below,
Who goes to his doom with as bold a heart,
As that dead man gone where we all must go.
Man is stubborn his rights to yield,
And redder than dews at eventide
Are the dews of battle, shed on the field,
By a nation’s wrath or a despot’s pride;
But few who have heard their death-knell roll,
From the cannon’s lips where they faced the foe,
Have fallen as stout and steady of soul,
As that dead man gone where we all must go.
Traverse yon spacious burial ground,
Many are sleeping soundly there,
Who pass’d with mourners standing around,
Kindred, and friends, and children fair;
Did he envy such ending? ’twere hard to say;
Had he cause to envy such ending? no;
Can the spirit feel for the senseless clay,
When it once has gone where we all must go?
What matters the sand or the whitening chalk,
The blighted herbage, the black’ning log,
The crooked beak of the eagle-hawk,
Or the hot red tongue of the native dog?
That couch was rugged, those sextons rude,
Yet, in spite of a leaden shroud, we know
That the bravest and fairest are earth-worms’ food,
When once they’ve gone where we all must go.
With the pistol clenched in his failing hand,
With the death mist spread o’er his fading eyes,
He saw the sun go down on the sand,
And he slept, and never saw it rise;
’Twas well; he toil’d till his task was done,
Constant and calm in his latest throe,
The storm was weathered, the battle was won,
When he went, my friends, where we all must go.
God grant that whenever, soon or late,
Our course is run and our goal is reach’d,
We may meet our fate as steady and straight
As he whose bones in yon desert bleach’d;
No tears are needed—our cheeks are dry,
We have none to waste upon living woe;
Shall we sigh for one who has ceased to sigh,
Having gone, my friends, where we all must go?
We tarry yet, we are toiling still,
He is gone and he fares the best,
He fought against odds, he struggled up hill,
He has fairly earned his season of rest;
No tears are needed—fill our the wine,
Let the goblets clash, and the grape juice flow,
Ho! pledge me a death-drink, comrade mine,
To a brave man gone where we all must go.
poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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