WHAT nerves the soldier in the field, When foes are raging nigh? What makes him proudly scorn to yield, Though numbers round him die? The faith that Heaven directs each ball, And course that it shall run;-- 'Tis, that he knows he will not fall, Until his work be done!
What makes the sailor on the wreck, When storms are frowning near, Bear up, with heart and form erect His bosom free from fear?-- 'Tis that he feels that God is by, To shield him like a son;-- 'Tis, that he knows he will not die, Until his work be done!
God holds the winds as by a rein, Which still they must obey; The ocean fierce he doth restrain, By his all-guiding sway: The hand that bears the planets high. Upholds the fulgent sun, Has fixed the hour that all must die, When their set work is done!
What arms the martyr 'midst his fires, To smile serene at death; And his whole heart and soul inspires With never-changing faith?-- Until the victor's crown is gained, The laurel wreath is won; Th' oppressor's fury is restrained-- His work must first be done!
What leads Christ's servant still to dare All dangers for his sake, And with unshaken firmness bear, Ills that the boldest shake? The trust that God is ever nigh, To prosper what's begun; To send a blessing from on high, Upon his work when done!
And when the good fight he has fought, His earthly struggles o'er, He finds the recompense he sought, Where grief is felt no more: 'Tis then he gains th' appointed prize, His triumph is begun;-- He lives immortal in the skies, When all his work is done!
WHEN from its prison-house of clay The spirit is unbound, When one we love is borne away To the lone narrow mound: We feel as if the charm were gone That renders life so dear, And as a darkening cloud were thrown O'er all our prospects here.
And when _he_ died, we mourned for him As only they could mourn Who felt as if a precious limb Were from the body torn. Gentle and kind, and always true, Revered wherever known; No guile his bosom ever knew, 'Twas friendship's sacred throne.
From painful days, without relief, Death brought at last release; The change that gave to us but grief To him was lasting peace. We bore him to his hill-side grave,[3] To sleep, but not alone; To kindred dust his dust we gave, To mingle with his own.