JOHN W. MORTON
The lad who made the cannon roar
Survives on Life’s tumultuous shore.
His locks are silvered, but his brain
Burns with heroic throbs amain.
Gentle and kind, but valiant yet,
Forgiving, he cannot forget
The Cause he fought for, with his mate
Immortal, whatsoe’er its fate;
While from his great dark eyes there gleams
The orient of remembered dreams.
And now the old bard’s final rhyme
Invokes a blessing of Easter time,
Upon his people and home and race,
Like manna-dew of heavenly grace.
With higher aims, in war’s surcease,
Be thou allied with the Prince of Peace,
And never, henceforth, forget to be
“Soldier of Him who died for thee.”
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