Page:Poems Jones.djvu/112

 Startling, roused thy spirit proud.
Thine no holiday regalia:
   Battle-garb—and shroud.

   Ah my brother,
Vain are all our broken phrases;
 Down the cliffs of farthest time,
Shall for such roll hymns of praises,
   Surge-like and sublime!

   Ah my brother,
Thou, the loving boy and loyal,
 From thy laughing life of late,
Hast arisen, more than royal,
   Throned in grander state.

   Ah my brother,
Through the sable years before us,
 Heir of Heaven, thy soul of light
Shall, like Hesper burning o'er us,
   Kindle all our night.

   Ah my brother—
But alas! alas! to lose thee!
 Ne'er to wake thee out of sleep!
Theme for praise let others choose thee—
   We must weep—must weep!