Classic Poem

When first the blackthorn blossom'd, thou wast brave
And strong, but April left thee faint and sick;
The May-wasp dipt into thine open grave,
And struck the velvets of thy hearse — so quick
Thy summons came. Disease and languor stole
The pulses of thy young heroic hands;
But thou didst ever bow to Heaven's commands,
And so the act of dying made thy soul
An instant guest in Paradise! How calm
And still lay those brave hands, which ever yearn'd
For prayer, yet never from the combat turn'd!
Though sunder'd for dispatch of martial deeds,
Each with its weapon, serving fiery needs,
They long'd to press each other, palm to palm.