Iii

Not for him were these days Of clerkly and sluggish calm-- To the petrel the swooping gale! Austere he seemed, but the hearts Of all men beat in his breast; No fetter but galled his wrist, No wrong that was not his own. What if those eloquent lips Curled with the old-time scorn? What if in needless hours His quick hand closed on the hilt? 'Twas the smoke from the well-won fields That clouded the veteran's eyes. A fighter this to the end!

Ah, if in coming times Some giant evil arise, And Honor falter and pale, His were a name to conjure with! God send his like again!