(Henry C. Tinsley, Died August 21, 1902)
Not 'mid the din of battle long ago,
But in the lingering clutch of later pain
Death found him, whom we shall not see again
Lifting a fearless front to every foe.
Yet shall suns somewhere shine for him, and blow
The lilies and the roses without stain,
Who through the lengthened years in heart and brain
Knew most of storm and winter with its snow.
For it is written in the starry sky,--
In the vast spaces and the silences,--
That God's eternal universe is his
Who fears not, though he live or if he die.
--A soldier to the dauntless end was he,
As riding with his red artillery.