by John Murray
Where the fierce tide
Of battle rolled its bloody crest,
Leave me abide.
Have I not come as conqueror, and won
Eternal title-deed beneath the sun
To this bare mound, this cross that marks my rest?
Here let me lie.
So may this empyty soil
No more deny
Rich fruitfulness... whose lasting sign shall be
The clust'ring graves of our great company;
A harvest sown in blood, and sweat, and toil.
And, though the drift
Of ages cover cross and mound,
Or then the swift
Forgetfulness of man neglect our place
Of lonely burial, yet shall heaven's shining face
Forever know that this is holy ground.
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