A man of men was he, the steadfast glances
    Of whose steel-grey, indomitable eyes
  So pierced the mind, behind all countenances,
    Crushed were the sophist’s arts, the coward’s lies. 
  A man of men but in his greatness lonely—­
    Undaunted in defeat, in conquest calm,
  For God and Country living and dying only,
    And winner therefore of the deathless palm.

* * * * *

  A truce to tears then.  Though his body hath
    No rest in English earth, his shining soul
  Still leads his armies up the arduous path
    He paved for them forthright to Glory’s goal.

  And we the men and women who remain,
    Let us to be his other Army burn
  With such pure fires of sacrificial pain
    As shall reward our warriors’ return.

  But now a sudden heavy silence falls
    On all our streets, half-mast the standard hangs—­
  The hearseless funeral passes to St. Paul’s,
    And out of every steeple the death-bell clangs.

  Now sorrowing King and Queen, as midday booms,
    The hushed Fane enter, while o’er mourners black,
  Grey soldier, choral white, quick gleams and glooms
    Of sun and shadow darkle and sparkle back. 
  The prayers of priest and people to heaven’s gate win
    And a choir as of angels welcoming thither our chief—­
  Till a thunder of drums the mighty Dead March beats in
    And the Last Post lingers, lingers and dies on our grief.

INSCRIPTION FOR A ROLL OF HONOUR IN A PUBLIC SCHOOL

  Since to die nobly is Life’s act supreme,
    And since our best and dearest thus have died,
  Across our cloud of grief a solemn gleam
    Of joy has struck, and all our tears are dried.

  For these men to keep pure their country’s fame
    Against great odds fell fighting to the death,
  God give us grace who here bear on their name
    To grow more like them with each proud-drawn breath.

AN EPITAPH

On an Irish Cross in memory of Charles Graves, Bishop of Limerick

  To God his steadfast soul, his starry mind
  To Science, a gracious heart to kin and kind,
  He living gave.  Therefore let each fair bloom
  Of Faith and Hope breathe balsam o’er his tomb.

AN INTERCESSIONAL ANSWERED

(June 26, 1902)

  We thought to speed our earthly King
    Triumphant on his way
  Unto his solemn Sacreing
    Before Thy throne to-day;
  His royal robes were wrought, prepared
    His sceptre, orb and crown,
  And all earth’s Princes here repaired
    To heighten his renown;
  When, hurtling out of bluest Heaven,
    Thy bolt upon us fell;
  Our head is pierced, our heart is riven,
    Struck dumb the Minster bell. 
  Yet flags still flutter far and wide;
    The league-long garlands glow,
  Still London wears her gala pride
    Above a breast of woe. 
  Lord shall these laughing leaves and flowers
    Their joyful use forget? 
  Nay, on this stricken realm of ours
    Have Thou compassion yet.