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[139] A grief alike to wound and heal,
     A thought to soothe and pain,
The sad, sweet pride that mothers feel
     To her must still remain.

Good men and true she has not lacked,
     And brave men yet shall be;
The perfect flower, the crowning fact,
     Of all her years was he!

As Galahad pure, as Merlin sage,
     What worthier knight was found
To grace in Arthur's golden age
     The fabled Table Round?

A voice, the battle's trumpet-note,
     To welcome and restore;
A hand, that all unwilling smote,
     To heal and build once more!

A soul of fire, a tender heart
     Too warm for hate, he knew
The generous victor's graceful part
     To sheathe the sword he drew.

When Earth, as if on evil dreams,
     Looks back upon her wars,
And the white light of Christ outstreams
     From the red disk of Mars,

His fame who led the stormy van
     Of battle well may cease,
But never that which crowns the man
     Whose victory was Peace.

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