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THE BURIAL OF LATANÉ
by Thompson, John Randolph [1823-1873]

The combat raged not long, but ours the day;
And, through the hosts that compassed us around,
Our little band rode proudly on its way,
Leaving one gallant comrade, glory-crowned,
Unburied on the field he died to gain—
Single of all his men, amid the hostile slain.
One moment on the battle's edge he stood—
Hope's halo, like a helmet, round his hair;
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The next beheld him, dabbled in his blood,
Prostrate in death—and yet, in death how fair!
Even thus he passed through the red gates of strife,
From earthly crowns and palms, to an immortal life.
A brother bore his body from the field,
And gave it unto strangers' hands, that closed
The calm blue eyes on earth forever sealed,
And tenderly the slender limbs composed:
Strangers, yet sisters, who, with Mary's love,
Sat by the open tomb, and, weeping, looked above.
A little child strewed roses on his bier—
Pale roses, not more stainless than his soul,
Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere,
That blossomed with good actions—brief, but whole;
The aged matron and the faithful slave
Approached with reverent feet the hero's lowly grave.
No man of God might say the burial rite
Above the "rebel"—thus declared the foe
That blanched before him in the deadly fight;
But woman's voice, with accents soft and low,
Trembling with pity—touched with pathos—read
Over his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead.
"'Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power!"
Softly the promise floated on the air,
While the low breathings of the sunset hour
Came back responsive to the mourner's prayer.
Gently they laid him underneath the sod,
And left him with his fame, his country, and his God!
Let us not weep for him, whose deeds endure!
So young, so brave, so beautiful! He died
As he had wished to die; the past is sure;
Whatever yet of sorrow may betide
Those who still linger by the stormy shore,
Change cannot harm him now, nor fortune touch him more.
John R. Thompson.

Source: Project Gutenberg

Source: Project Gutenberg