NECROLOGICAL
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he friar had said his paternosters duly, And scourged his limbs, and afterward would have slept;But with much riddling his head became unruly; He arose, from the quiet monastery he crept. Dawn lightened the place where the battle had been won,The people were dead,—it is easy, he thought, to die,—These dead remained, but the living all were gone,Gone with the wailing trumps of victory. The dead men wore no raiment against the air,Bartholomew’s men had spoiled them where they fell;In defeat the heroes’ bosoms were whitely bare,
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