William Francis Bartlett

Oh, well may Essex sit forlorn     Beside her sea-blown shore;     Her well beloved, her noblest born,     Is hers in life no more!     No lapse of years can render less     Her memory's sacred claim;     No fountain of forgetfulness     Can wet the lips of Fame.     A grief alike to wound and heal,     A thought to soothe and pain,     The sad, sweet pride that mothers feel     To her must still remain.     Good men and true she has not lacked,     And brave men yet shall be;     The perfect flower, the crowning fact,     Of all her years was he!     As Galahad pure, as Merlin sage,     What worthier knight was found     To grace in Arthur's golden age     The fabled Table Round?     A voice, the battle's trumpet-note,     To welcome and restore;     A hand, that all unwilling smote,     To heal and build once more;     A soul of fire, a tender heart     Too warm for hate, he knew     The generous victor's graceful part     To sheathe the sword he drew.     When Earth, as if on evil dreams,     Looks back upon her wars,     And the white light of Christ outstreams     From the red disk of Mars,     His fame who led the stormy van     Of battle well may cease,     But never that which crowns the man     Whose victory was Peace.     Mourn, Essex, on thy sea-blown shore     Thy beautiful and brave,     Whose failing hand the olive bore,     Whose dying lips forgave!     Let age lament the youthful chief,     And tender eyes be dim;     The tears are more of joy than grief     That fall for one like him!