WE buried of our dead the dearest one—
Said each to other, "Here then let him lie,
And they may find the place, when all is done,
From the old may tree standing guard near by."
Strong limbs whereon the wasted life blood dries,
And soft cheeks that a girl might wish her own,
A scholar's brow, o'ershadowing valiant eyes,
Henceforth shall pleasure charnel-worms alone.
For we, that loved him, covered up his face,
And laid him in the sodden earth away,
And left him lying in that lonely place
To rot and moulder with the mouldering clay.
The hawthorn that above his grave head grew
Like an old crone toward the raw earth bowed,
Wept softly over him, the whole night through,
And made him of her tears a glimmering shroud.
· · · · · ·
Oh Lord of Hosts, no hallowed prayer we bring,
Here for Thy grace is no importuning,
No room for those that will not strive nor cry
When loving kindness with our dead lies slain:
Give us our fathers' heathen hearts again,
Valour to dare, and fortitude to die.