With failing feet and shoulders bowed Beneath the weight of
happier days, He lagged among the heedless crowd, Or crept along
suburban ways. But still through all his heart was young, A
courage, a pride, a rapture, sprung Of the strength and
splendour of England's war. From ill-requited toil he turned To
ride with Picton and with Pack, Among his grammars inly burned
To storm the Afghan mountain-track. When midnight chimed, before
Quebec He watched with Wolfe till he morning star; At noon he
saw from Victory's deck The sweep and splendour of England's
war. Beyond the book his teaching sped, He left on whom he
taught the trace Of kinship with the deathless dead, And faith
in all the Island race. He passed : his life a tangle seemed,
His age from fame and power was far; But his heart was night to
the end, and dreamed Of the sound and splendour of England's
war.