The Warrior
He wrought in poverty, the dull grey days,But with the night his little lamp-lit roomWas bright with battle flame, or through a hazeOf smoke that stung his eyes he heard the boomOf Bluecher’s guns; he shared Almeida’s scars,And from the close-packed deck, about to die,Looked up and saw the “Birkenhead”’s tall sparsWeave wavering lines across the Southern sky:
Or in the stifling ’tween decks, row on row,At Aboukir, saw how the dead men lay;Charged with the fiercest in Busaco’s strife,Brave dreams are his—the flick’ring lamp burns low—Yet couraged for the battles of the dayHe goes to stand full face to face with life.