A. H., 1855-1912 a laurelled soldier he; yet who could find




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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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