Keeps step and time
With those who marched away and fell,
And all his lines
Are humble shrines
Where love of right will love to dwell.




Death of the Prince Imperial



Waileth a woman, "O my God!"
A breaking heart in a broken breath,
A hopeless cry o'er her heart-hope's death!
Can words catch the chords of the winds that wail,
When love's last lily lies dead in the vale!
Let her alone,
Under the rod
With the infinite moan
Of her soul for God.
Ah! song! you may echo the sound of pain,
But you never may shrine,
In verse or line,
The pang of the heart that breaks in twain.

Waileth a woman, "O my God!"
Wind-driven waves with no hearts that ache,
Why do your passionate pulses throb?