well done. The wise and simple have one glance To greet yon stern head-stone, Which more of pride than pity gave To mark the Briton’s friendless grave. Yet it is a stately tomb; The grand return Of eve and morn, The year’s fresh bloom, The silver cloud, Might grace the dust that is most proud.

Yet not of these I muse In this ancestral place, But of a kindred face That never joy or hope shall here diffuse.

Ah, brother of the brief but blazing star! What hast thou to do with these Haunting this bank’s historic trees? Thou born for noblest life, For action’s field, for victor’s car, Thou living champion of the right? To these their penalty belonged: I grudge not these their bed of death, But thine to thee, who never wronged The poorest that drew breath.

All inborn power that could Consist with homage to the good Flamed from his martial eye; He who seemed a soldier born, He should have the helmet worn, All friends to fend, all foes defy, Fronting foes of God and man, Frowning down the evil-doer, Battling for the weak and poor. His from youth the leader’s look Gave the law which others took, And never poor beseeching glance Shamed that sculptured countenance.

There is no record left on earth, Save in tablets of the heart, Of the rich inherent worth, Of the grace that on him shone, Of eloquent lips, of joyful wit; He could not frame a word unfit, An act unworthy to be done; Honour prompted every glance, Honour came and sat beside him, In lowly cot or painful road, And evermore the cruel god Cried, “Onward!” and the palm-crown showed. Born for success he seemed, With grace to win, with heart to hold, With shining gifts that took all eyes, With budding power in college-halls, As pledged in coming days to forge Weapons to guard the State, or scourge Tyrants despite their guards or walls. On his young promise Beauty smiled, Drew his free homage unbeguiled, And prosperous Age held out his hand, And richly his large future planned, And troops of friends enjoyed the tide,— All, all was given, and only health denied.

I see him with superior smile Hunted by Sorrow’s grisly train In lands remote, in toil and pain, With angel patience labour on, With the high port he wore erewhile, When, foremost of the youthful band, The prizes in all lists he won; Nor bate one jot of heart or hope, And, least of all, the loyal tie Which holds to home ’neath every sky, The joy and pride the pilgrim feels In hearts which round the hearth at home Keep pulse for pulse with those who roam.

What 

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