Classic Poem

I thought I saw, upon the shining coast,
A mighty host.
Their eyes were luminous with joy and peace,
That would not cease.
Somehow they seemed more royal and more blest
Than all the rest.
Yet ever did they wonder that their names
Met loud acclaims;
And that such honor unto them was given,
In highest Heaven.
They had not borne the banners, in the strife
Of mortal life.
Their foreheads had not felt the touch of wreaths,
Which fame bequeaths
To conquering heroes, as they homeward march,
Through Victory's arch.
These were the souls that when the strife was high,
Made soft reply.
The men and women, who could patient stand,
And make demand
For peace, peace only, though their pride was crost,
Their dear hopes lost.
Oft had they caught, with soft and naked hands,
The flaming brands
Which anger hurled, and quenched before it fell
Some fire of Hell.
They did not dream how great their souls had grown;
No sculptured stone
Was piled above their ashes when they slept;
But God had kept
Their faces in His sight; He knew the cost,
When passion-tost
And sorely hurt, they patient came and went,
On peace intent.
Now they are “blessèd” evermore, and lo!
Where'er they go,
The angels look on them, and smile and say,
“God's children, they!”

I thought I saw, upon the shining coast,
A mighty host.
Their eyes were luminous with joy and peace,
That would not cease.
Somehow they seemed more royal and more blest
Than all the rest.
Yet ever did they wonder that their names
Met loud acclaims;
And that such honor unto them was given,
In highest Heaven.
They had not borne the banners, in the strife
Of mortal life.
Their foreheads had not felt the touch of wreaths,
Which fame bequeaths
To conquering heroes, as they homeward march,
Through Victory's arch.
These were the souls that when the strife was high,
Made soft reply.
The men and women, who could patient stand,
And make demand
For peace, peace only, though their pride was crost,
Their dear hopes lost.
Oft had they caught, with soft and naked hands,
The flaming brands
Which anger hurled, and quenched before it fell
Some fire of Hell.
They did not dream how great their souls had grown;
No sculptured stone
Was piled above their ashes when they slept;
But God had kept
Their faces in His sight; He knew the cost,
When passion-tost
And sorely hurt, they patient came and went,
On peace intent.
Now they are “blessèd” evermore, and lo!
Where'er they go,
The angels look on them, and smile and say,
“God's children, they!”