How Is It that Brave Men Go; A Hero’s Death

How is it that brave men go,
To rise above any laurels,
Concieved here,
Earthly or otherwise,
When the expression of mortal strife,
Has just seemed to pass,
Slips,
And the breaths of golden,
Disntinguished life,
Whispers,
From such sudden a blow,

Porthos,
Noble heart,
Muscles as a bull,
Could fell one equally,
With redoubled strength,
As he grew into and past,
Maturity-
Alas,
To be crushed,
Like Enceladus,
Among stoney supulchre,
What is Lochmaria,
To bury a titan,
Like you?

Athos,
Aged 12 years,
Without out duty to behold,
Towards death as seemlessly,
As the smooth even steps,
Of the royalty he served-
A letter from Grimuad,
To his master,
Who waits,
Sickly and old,
Look now!
The reaper,
the ghost,
Behold!
The son Braggelone,
Dead upon Africas burning shores,
A sudden campaign;
Did you push to suicide?
Death before itself even came,
Catastrophe has reaped its harvest,
Yet so prematurely,
And cruel.

Aramis,
Eternal cunning,
Careerist thou art,
Have ye’ gone to Spain,
As a jesuit,
Or a fugitive?
To lick yer’ wounds,
In yer’ dotage,
And shame,
To live and to be last,

d’Artagnan,
Is it honor that condemns a soldier to die,
To have made ye’ trudge upon a road,
From the first conscription,
At Rochelle,
Or before with broken sword in hand,
Crying indignation,
Now escaped from parted lips,
And the Marshals baton clutched,
All your scruples,
Your morals,
Supreme Gascon wit!
Bled,
Weeping from a wound to the chest,

Mastricht and Belle Isle.,
Be it a lake,
Or a bog-
To places insignificant,
One and one for all,
Holding great heros,
Their deeds but echos,
Vanished,
Gone.
How is it,
Brave men who have gone?

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