Classic Poem

The shout of battle hath fled,
The flame of it fallen dim;
We are sick of the war, it is said,
Weary of tales so grim.
But to-night, and our Captain lies dead;
To-night, and we think of him.

Knight of the cloudless sun,
Ithuriel of the spear,
Whose touch was the foe undone,
Whose name was a nation's cheer;
Whose voice and Victory's one,
Vanished in silence here.

But the flash of a fusillade,
In the gloom that hath lifted never,
And our guide and our glory fade
In the Wilderness forever,
Till we follow his smile to the shade
Of the Tree, by the beautiful river.

In the shadows with no release
From the sorrows that haunt us grim,
Where our hopes at their fountain cease,
And the light of the Heaven is dim,
It is strength, it is hope, it is peace,
It is triumph to think of Him.