Here is a rough

Rude sketch of my friend,

Faint-coloured enough

And unworthily penned.

Fearlessly fair

And triumphant he stands,

And holds unaware

Friends' hearts in his hands;

Stalwart and straight

As an oak that should bring

Forth gallant and great

Fresh roses in spring.

On the paths of his pleasure

All graces that wait

What metre shall measure

What rhyme shall relate

Each action, each motion,

Each feature, each limb,

Demands a devotion

In honour of him:

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