Classic Poem

Death is a road our friends have gone;
Why, with such leaders, fear to say " Lead on"?
Its gate repels, lest it too soon be tried;
But turns in balm on the immortal side.
Mothers have passed it; fathers; children; men,
Whose like we look not to behold again;
Women, that smiled away their loving breath —
Soft is the travelling on the road of Death.

But guilt has passed it? Men not fit to die?
Oh, hush — for He that made us all, is by
Human were all; all men; all born of mothers;
All our own selves, in the worn shape of others;
Our used , and oh! be sure, not to be ill -used brothers.