LINES

Dead? or is it a dream — Only the voice of a dream? Dead in the prime of his years, And laid in the lap of the dust;

Only a handful of ashes Moldering down into dust. Strong and manly was he, Strong and tender and true;

Proud in the prime of his years; Strong in the strength of the just: A heart that was half a lion's, And half the heart of a girl;

Tender to all that was tender, And true to all that was true; Bold in the battle of life, And bold on the bloody field;

First at the call of his country, First in the front of the foe. Hope of the years was his — The golden and garnered sheaves;

Fair on the hills of autumn Reddened the apples of peace. Dead? or is it a dream? Dead in the prime of his years,

And laid in the lap of the dust. Aye, it is but a dream; For the life of man is a dream: Dead in the prime of his years

And laid in the lap of the dust; Only a handful of ashes Moldering down into dust. Only a handful of ashes

Moldering down into dust? Aye, but what of the breath Blown out of the bosom of God? What of the spirit that breathed

And burned in the temple of clay? Dust unto dust returns; The dew-drop returns to the sea; The flash from the flint and the steel

Returns to its source in the sun. Change cometh forever-and-aye, But forever nothing is lost — The dew-drop that sinks in the sand,

Nor the sunbeam that falls in the sea. Ah, life is only a link In the endless chain of change. Death giveth the dust to the dust

And the soul to the infinite soul: For aye since the morning of man — Since the human rose up from the brute — Hath Hope, like a beacon of light,

Like a star in the rift of the storm, Been writ by the finger of God On the longing hearts of men. O follow no goblin fear;

O cringe to no cruel creed; Nor chase the shadow of doubt Till the brain runs mad with despair. Stretch forth thy hand, O man,

To the winds and the quaking earth — To the heaving and falling sea — To the ultimate stars and feel The throb of the spirit of God —

The pulse of the Universe.