We find that it's ever so
In this life's uneven flow;
We've only to wait,
In the face of fate,
For the green grass under the snow.
ANNIE A. PRESTON.
THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE.
Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies,
And yet the monument proclaims it not,
Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought
The emblems of a fame that never dies,
Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf,
Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf.
A simple name alone,
To the great world unknown,
Is graven here, and wild flowers, rising round,
Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground,
Lean lovingly against the humble stone.
Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart
No man of iron mould and bloody hands,
Who sought to wreck upon the cowering lands
The passions that consumed his restless heart:
But one of tender spirit and delicate frame,
Gentlest in mien and mind,
Of gentle womankind,
Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame;
One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made
Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May,
Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shade
Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away.
Nor deem that when the hand that molders here
Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear,
And armies mustered at the sign, as when
Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East,
Gray captains leading bands of veteran men
And fiery youths to be the vulture's feast.
Not thus were raged the mighty wars that gave
The victory to her who fills this grave;
Alone her task was wrought,
Alone the battle fought;
Through that long strife her constant hope was staid
On God alone, nor looked for other aid.
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