To A Fighter, Dead.

Pass, pass, you fiery spirit! Never bland
And halting never! Hosted round to-night,
At the great wall, with spears of lifted light,
Held by embattled seraphim, who stand
To greet their friend, their comrade, and their own!
Doubtless, spirit made for burning war.
Doubtless your God has need of you afar.
To lead, for Him, some heav'nly fight and lone.
And therefore knights you, thus, before the throne!