With failing feet and shoulders bowed

　　Beneath the weight of happier days，

　　He lagged among the heedless crowd，

　　Or crept along suburban¹ ways.

　　But still through all his heart was young，

　　A courage， a pride， a rapture²， sprung

　　Of the strength and splendour of England's war.

　　From ill-requited toil³ 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 tangle⁴ 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.

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