Sachal. A Waif Of Battle.

I.

            Lo! at my feet,
        A something pale of hue;
        A something sad to view;
    Dead or alive I dare not call it sweet.


II.

            Not white as snow;
        Not transient as a tear!
        A warrior left it here,
    It was his passport ere he met the foe.


III.

            Here is a name,
        A word upon the book;
        If ye but kneel to look,
    Ye'll find the letters "Sachal" on the same.


IV.

            His Land to cherish,
        He died at twenty-seven.
        There are no wars in Heaven,
    But when he fought he gain'd the right to perish.


V.

            Where was he born?
        In France, at Puy le Dôme.
        A wanderer from his home,
    He found a Fatherland beyond the morn.


VI.

            'Twas France's plan;
        The cause he did not ask.
        His life was but a mask,
    And he upraised it, martyr'd at Sedan.


VII.

            And prone in death,
        Beyond the name of France,
        Beyond his hero-glance, -
    He thought, belike, of her who gave him breath.


VIII.

            O thou dead son!
        O Sachal! far away,
        But not forgot to-day,
    I had a mother, too, but now have none.


IX.

            Our hopes are brave.
        Our faiths are braver still.
        The soul shall no man kill;
    For God will find us, each one in his grave.


X.

            A land more vast
        Than Europe's kingdoms are, -
        A brighter, nobler star
    Than victory's fearful light, - is thine at last.


XI.

            And should'st thou meet
        Yon Germans up on high, -
        Thy foes when death was nigh, -
    Nor thou nor they will sound the soul's retreat.


XII.

            For all are just,
        Yea, all are patriots there,
        And thou, O Fils de Pierre!
    Hast found thy marshal's baton in the dust.


XIII.

            Oh, farewell, friend;
        My friend, albeit unknown,
        Save in thy death alone,
    Oh, fare thee well till sin and sorrow end.


XIV.

            In realms of joy
        We'll meet; aye, every one:
        Mother and sire and son, -
    And my poor mother, too, will claim her boy.


XV.

            Death leads to God.
        Death is the Sword of Fate,
        Death is the Golden Gate
    That opens up to glory, through the sod.


XVI.

            And thou that road,
        O Sachal! thou hast found;
        A king is not so crown'd
    As thou art, soldier! in thy blest abode.


XVII.

            Deathless in death,
        Exalted, not destroy'd,
        Thou art in Heaven employ'd
    To swell the songs of angels with thy breath.