I go--I know not where,
Upward or down, or toward the setting sun
None knows,--some shadowy goal is won,
Some unseen issue near,
So oft with death I journeyed hand in hand,
The spectral pageant of his border land
I do not fear.

* * * * *

Weep not when I have passed, but go thy way,
Thou art not portionless nor service free,
A warrior Sikh, for thee a high behest
Abides, to claim thy true-sword's ministry.
Go, Atmâ, from those echoing hillsides, lest
The haunting voices of the vanished say
'Vain is thy travail, poor thine utmost store,
We loved and laboured, lo, we are no more,'
And thy fond heart in fealty to our clay
Fail in allegiance to the name we bore.
Go, seek thy kinsman, to a brother's hand
I gave possession of a gem more fair,
More costly far than gold, than rubies rare,
Thy part and heritage, of him demand
Its just bestowal, and with dauntless tread
Pursue the pathway of thy holy dead."

When the old Sikh had ceased speaking, he lay greatly exhausted. The
night deepened. It was a remote spot. Now and then the sound of
trampling feet or the tread of a horse climbing the difficult road