POETRY.
TO ALL WHO LOVE ME.
IF Death should claim this mortal shell of me Which you have seen and touched and thought to be
Needful to happiness, I pray you shed no tear as though this life Held all, or were but passing phase of strife 'Tween pleasure and distress.
I pray you clothe yourself in gala hue, Purging your soul of that self-pitying view That calls for mourning black.
For I would have you mingle with a throng, Bright-hued, exulting, cheering me along The road that leads not back, That I may pass beyond the SoLnmas' GATE, Whose arch is SACRIFICE and threshold FATE, Unburdened by regret; To greet my battle comrades who have bled For ENGLAND'S sake, and, risen from the dead, Rest, clear of Honour's debt.
I pray you, urgently, to see your woe As just that jarring note you would forgo Could you but feel at heart, How, grieving, I could have no other grief Than helplessness to bring you dear relief, Being near—yet far apart. J. BERKLEY, Lt.-Col.
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