But woman s voice, in accents soft and low,
Trembling with pity, touched with pathos, read
Over his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead.
T is sown in weakness, it is raised in power,"
Softly the promise floated on the air,
And the sweet 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.
And when Virginia, leaning on her spear,
Victrix et vidua, the conflict done,
Shall raise her mailed hand to wipe the tear
That starts as she recalls each martyred son,
No prouder memory her breast shall sway,
Than thine, our early-lost, lamented Latane.
WILLIAM GORDON McCABE
[William Gordon McCabe was born at Richmond, Virginia, in 1841. During the war he served in the artillery of the Army of Northern Virginia. After the war he established at Petersburg, Virginia, a boys preparatory school, which after some years was moved to Richmond. Mr. McCabe has published not only poems but textbooks, literary reviews, and historical articles.]
