The stranger’s eye wept that in life’s brightest bloom
  One gifted so highly should sink to the tomb;
  For in order he led in the van of his host,
  And he fell like a soldier, he died at his post.

  He wept not himself that his warfare was done,
  The battle was fought and the victory won,
  But he whispered of those whom his heart clung to most,
  “Tell my Brethren for me that I died at my post.”

  He asked not a stone to be sculptured with verse;
  He asked not that fame should his merits rehearse;
  But he asked as a boon when he gave up the ghost,
  That his Brethren might know that he died at his post.

  Victorious his fall, for he rose as he fell,
  With Jesus his Master in glory to dwell. 
  He has passed o’er the stream and has reached the bright court,
  For he fell like a martyr; he died at his post.

  And can we the words of his exit forget? 
  O, no, they are fresh in our memory yet. 
  An example so brilliant shall not be lost;
  We will fall in the work, we will die at our post.