By no sad orphan is his name abhorred,
A hero, yet no battered shield he brings.
Nor on his bier a blood encrusted sword;
Nor as his trophies Kings, nor crowns of Kings.
War hath its heroes, Peace hath hers as well,
Armed by Heaven's King from Heaven's armoury;
And this dead man was one, who fought and fell,
Life less his choice, than death and victory.
To do his work with purpose iron strong,
To loose the captive, set the prisoner free;
To heal the hideous sore of deadly wrong
Kept festering by greed and cruelty;
Love on his banner, Pity in his heart;
His lofty soul moved on with single aim;
'Mid deadly perils bore a noble part,
And, dying, left a pure, unsullied name.
Thro' dreary miles of foul eternal swamp,
And over lonely leagues of burning sand,
He wrought his purpose; Faith his quenchless lamp,
And Truth his sword held as in giant's hand.
His lot was as his sorrowing Master's lot,
Nowhere to lay his weary honoured head;
"My limbs they fail me, and my brow is hot;
Build me a hut--wherein--to die," he said.
"Ah, England, I shall see thee nevermore.
Farewell, my loved ones, far o'er ocean's foam;
Ye watch in vain on that dear mother shore,"
He looked to Heaven and cried, "I'm going home.
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