Strong and manly was he,
Strong and tender and true;
Proud in the prime of his years;
Strong in the strength of the just:
A heart that was half a lion's,
And half the heart of a girl;
Tender to all that was tender,
And true to all that was true;
Bold in the battle of life,
And bold on the bloody field;
First at the call of his country,
First in the front of the foe.
Hope of the years was his--
The golden and garnered sheaves;
Fair on the hills of autumn
Reddened the apples of peace.
Dead? or is it a dream?
Dead in the prime of his years,
And laid in the lap of the dust.
Aye, it _is_ but a dream;
For the life of man is a dream:
Dead in the prime of his years
And laid in the lap of the dust;
Only a handful of ashes
Moldering down into dust.
Only a handful of ashes
Moldering down into dust?
Aye, but what of the breath
Blown out of the bosom of God?
What of the spirit that breathed
And burned in the temple of clay?
Dust unto dust returns;
The dew-drop returns to the sea;
The flash from the flint and the steel
Returns to its source in the sun.
Change cometh forever-and-aye,
But forever nothing is lost--
The dew-drop that sinks in the sand,
Nor the sunbeam that falls in the sea.
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