The English Dead

Give honour to our heroes fall'n, while still
Dark on the desert the red war-stains lie.
Honour to him, the untimely struck, whom high
In men's salutes and praises 'twas Fate's will
With tedious pain unsplendidly to kill.
Honour to him, doom'd splendidly to die,
Child of the city whose foster-child am I,
Who hotly leading up the ensanguin'd hill
His charging thousand, fell without a word;
Fell, but shall fall not from our memory.
Also for them let honour's voice be heard
Who nameless sleep, while dull Time covereth
With no illustrious shade of laurel tree,
But with the poppy alone, their deeds and death.
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