The Conqueror's Grave

    And yet the monument proclaims it not

    Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought

    The emblems of a fame that never dies —

    Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf

    Twined with the laurel's fair imperial leaf.

    A simple name alone

    To the great world unknown

    Is graven here and wild-flowers rising round

    Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground

    Lean lovingly against the humble stone.

    Here in the quiet earth they laid apart

    No man of iron mould and bloody hands

    Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands

    The passions that consumed his restless heart；

    But one of tender spirit and delicate frame

    Gentlest in mien and mind

    Of gentle womankind

    Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame：

    One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made

    Its haunt like flowers by sunny brooks in May

    Yet at the thought of others' pain a shade

    Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away.

    Nor deem that when the hand that moulders here

    Was raised in menace realms were chilled with fear

    And armies mustered at the sign as when

    Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East—

    Gray captains leading bands of veteran men

    And fiery youths to be the vulture's feast.

    Not thus were waged the mighty wars that gave

    The victory to her who fills this grave；

    Alone her task was wrought

    Alone the battle fought；

    Through that long strife her constant hope was staid

    On God alone nor looked for other aid.

    She met the hosts of Sorrow with a look

    That altered not beneath the frown they wore

    And soon the lowering brood were tamed and took

    Meekly her gentle rule and frowned no more.

    Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath

    And calmly broke in twain

    The fiery shafts of pain

    And rent the nets of passion from her path.

    By that victorious hand despair was slain.

    With love she vanquished hate and overcame

    Evil with good in her Great Master's name.

    Her glory is not of this shadowy state

    Glory that with the fleeting season dies；

    But when she entered at the sapphire gate

    What joy was radiant in celestial eyes！

    How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung

    And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung！

    And He who long before

    Pain scorn and sorrow bore

    The Mighty Sufferer with aspect sweet

    Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat；

    He who returning glorious from the grave

    Dragged Death disarmed in chains a crouching slave.

    See as I linger here the sun grows low；

    Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near.

    O gentle sleeper from thy grave I go

    Consoled though sad in hope and yet in fear.

    Brief is the time I know

    The warfare scarce begun；

    Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won.

    Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee

    The victors' names are yet too few to fill

    Heaven's mighty roll； the glorious armory

    That ministered to thee is open still.