A.H., 1855–1912

A laurelled soldier he; yet who could find
In camp or court a less vainglorious mind?
Sincere as bold, one read as in a book
His modest spirit in his candid look.

At duty's beckoning alert as brave,
We could have wished for him a later grave!
A season ere the setting of his sun
To rest upon the honours he had won. . . .

Yet let us not lament. We do not weep
When our best comrade sinks in fitful sleep,
And why indulge regrets if he should fall
At once into the sweetest sleep of all?
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