POETRY.
PRINCE CHRISTIAN VICTOR OF SCHLESWIG-HOLSTEIN. NOT in the battle he fell, making story, Dying as asketh the soldier to die, Pain lightly felt in the hour of glory, Joy of the onset undimmed in the eye.
He gave for nothing—another, no bolder, Sells life for victory, splendidly dies, Climbs to the Temple of Fame on Death's shoulder, Soars on the black wing to snatch at the prize.
So think we, weeping, the cloud hanging nearer; Ours so large the loss—his what the gain ? He, in some heaven unclouded, sees clearer, Sees his soul's travail and knows it not vain.
Ever his best he gave, lightly, unthinking; Royal he deemed to do royally well ; Took the high task or the humble, unshrinking ; Fearless the sickness faced, fearless the shell.
Aye, he rests well, soldier-Prince, simple-hearted, Watched by the shining Cross, far over sea, High 'mid the dead, who, from England departed, Build from their graves greater England to be.
F. W. BOURDILLON.
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