Ii

Not of these was the man Whose wraith, through the mists of night, Through the shuddering wintry stars, Has passed to eternal morn. Fit were the moan of the sea And the clashing of cloud on cloud For the passing of that soul!

Ever he faced the storm! No weaver of rare romance, No patient framer of laws, No maker of wondrous rhyme, No bookman wrapt in his dream. His was the voice that rang In the fight like a bugle-call, And yet could be tender and low As when, on a night in June, The hushed wind sobs in the pines. His was the eye that flashed With a sabre's azure gleam, Pointing to heights unwon!