KILLED AT THE FORD.

He is dead, the beautiful youth,
The heart of honor, the tongue of truth,
He, the life and light of us all,
Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call,
Whom all eyes followed with one consent,
The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word,
Hushed all murmurs of discontent.

Only last night, as we rode along,
Down the dark of the mountain gap,
To visit the picket-guard at the ford,
Little dreaming of any mishap,
He was humming the words of some old song: 
“Two red roses he had on his cap,
And another he bore at the point of his sword.”

Sudden and swift a whistling ball
Came out of a wood, and the voice was still;
Something I heard in the darkness fall,
And for a moment my blood grew chill;
I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks
In a room where some one is lying dead;
But he made no answer to what I said.

We lifted him up to his saddle again,
And through the mire and the mist and the rain
Carried him back to the silent camp,
And laid him as if asleep on his bed;
And I saw by the light of the surgeon’s lamp
Two white roses upon his cheeks,
And one, just over his heart, blood-red!

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet
That fatal bullet went speeding forth,
Till it reached a town in the distant North,
Till it reached a house in a sunny street,
Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat
Without a murmur, without a cry;
And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town,
For one who had passed from cross to crown,
And the neighbors wondered that she should die.

GIOTTO’S TOWER

How many lives, made beautiful and sweet
  By self-devotion and by self-restraint,
  Whose pleasure is to run without complaint
  On unknown errands of the Paraclete,
Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet,
  Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint
  Around the shining forehead of the saint,
  And are in their completeness incomplete! 
In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto’s tower,
  The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,—­
  A vision, a delight, and a desire,—­
The builder’s perfect and centennial flower,
  That in the night of ages bloomed alone,
  But wanting still the glory of the spire.

TO-MORROW

’T is late at night, and in the realm of sleep
  My little lambs are folded like the flocks;
  From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks
  Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep
Their solitary watch on tower and steep;
  Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks,
  And through the opening door that time unlocks
  Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep. 
To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest,
  Who cries to me:  “Remember Barmecide,
  And tremble to be happy with the rest.” 
And I make answer:  “I am satisfied;
  I dare not ask; I know not what is best;
  God hath already said what shall betide.”