Faithful Sentinel

Away from his home and the friends of his youth,He hastened, the herald of mercy and truth;For the love of his Lord, and to seek for the lost;Soon, alas! was his fall; but he died at his post.

The stranger's eye wept, that in life's brightest bloom,One gifted so highly should sink to the tomb:For in ardor he led in the van of the host,And he fell like a soldier, he died at his post.

He wept not, himself, that his warfare was done:The battle was fought, and the victory won;But he whispered of those whom his heart loved the most,"Tell my brethren for me, that I died at my post."

He asked not a stone to be sculptured with verse;He asked not that fame should his merits rehearse;But he asked as a boon,—this he coveted most—That his brethren might know that he died at his post.

How can we the words of our brother forget?Oh, no! they are fresh in our memory yet:And example so sacred shall never be lost,We will fall in the work—we will die at our post.