The flag of his country wrapped round him? The seal as of peace sleeps on his broad brow, In battle though Azrael found him!
Ah! this is the chaplain who offered his life, And, dying for country, won peace in the strife!
The lips of this martyr, now silent and cold,
Were wont, with their eloquence glowing,
The soldiers to kindle, with loyal hearts bold
And firm, to the battle-field going:
Where, willing to practise what others he taught,
In van of the peril he fearlessly fought.
Hark! what martial music is heard in the streets,
Of mingled gloom, glory, and gladness?
The throb of the muffled drum mournfully beats!
* The trumpet speaks triumph and sadness, —
A strain swelling proudly in praise of the brave,
But sinking to grief as it leads to the grave!
The train of the mourners thus slowly proceeds,
By soldiers in sorrow escorted,
With draped carriage drawn by four black-plumèd steeds, Its pall with the banner consorted:
And hushed is the crowd where it moves in the street, Their hearts with the muffled drum seeming to beat!
And now to Mount Auburn they bear the dead brave,
The soldiers his coffin surrounding,
Who lower their heads as he sinks in the grave, -
And then, with the volleys resounding,
Is sorrow of martial hearts fitly expressed,
And earth folds the hero to sleep in her breast!
Servant of God! thy race is run,
Life's toils and trials o'er;
A crown of glory thou hast won
By Rappahannock's shore.
Thou wast not kissed by fragrant breeze,
Where Summer reigns the year,
Nor stretched on "flowery beds of ease,"
When Azrael grim drew near.
'Neath smoke-wreathed sky, in battle-storm,
While heroes led the van,
With musket clenched and heart all warm,
He found thee, noble man!
Anon a winged death-shot came,
Unerring, to thy breast;
It quenched at once the vital flame,
And brought eternal rest.
It let thy spirit upward soar,
To join the martyred throng
Who chant, as angels did of yore,
Sublime, joy-giving song.
Now let the martial pæan swell,
Loud, sweet, and clear in air!
Toll not a solemn, dirge-like knell, -
Thy bliss we hope to share;
To tread at last the heavenly strand,
When our course, too, is run;
To stand for aye at Christ's right hand,
And hear him say, "Well done!"
"Something for my country!" was thy battle-cry,
Man's great glory; with Curtius, as with thee.
Nor for "country" only wouldst thou gladly die.
Man's cause was thine, by ready sympathy.
That "something" was thy life, O generous soul!
Gav'st all! and now to keep thee from the stain
Of blood, angelic music's muffled roll
Calls Angel Death to count thee with the slain,
To whisper his brief measure in thine ear,
And snatch to heaven their tried and proved compeer.
Although the tidings of his death
Came like a stunning blow,
So nobly did he fall, we feel
"T is blessed he should go.
O, none can gain a brighter name,
Or win a deeper love,
Than he who sweetly sings to-day
The songs of heaven above.
We cannot find it in our hearts
To raise a note of woe;
So nobly did he fall, we feel
"T is blessed thus to go!
NORTON, Mass., Dec. 31, 1862.
No dearer the gift, O my Country! is thine
Than the one which in tears we lay on thy shrine ;
And pray that his life, with its teachings so pure,
May give us the strength which we need to endure.
Since our Father in mercy has set his soul free,
When no more he could do, O my Country! for thee.
Write his name with living heroes,
Though the noble soul has fled;
Write it still in golden letters,
Arthur Fuller is not dead.
To this work of Christ, his Master,
O how faithful he has been !
As in all his deeds of mercy,
To his suffering fellow-men.
He has watched beside their pillow
With a father's tender care;
And no peril, death, nor danger
Was too hard for him to share.
Cold, white lips have left their blessing For the faithful, kindly hand, Guiding them beside still waters, Leading to the Better Land.
How narrow the terminal bound
Dividing the now and the then;
Though scenes it encloses around
We never may visit again!
It shows, like the cavern of yore,
The footsteps returning no more! *
These ramparts the moments upraise
Exclude us forever, alas!
Though soaring love vainly essays
His wings, o'er the summit to pass.
Nor higher can memory climb
Than serves to look over the time!
Ah! can it be, brother, that thou,
Who shared every burden I bore,
Whose life-lamp shone brightly but now,
Hast passed to eternity's shore,
Where mortal ne'er mixed with the choir,
Save Orpheus, once, with his lyre?
* "Nulla vestigia retrorsum."
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