DIED OF WOUNDS RECEIVED AT THE DARDANELLES.
Where stern grey busts of gods and heroes old
Frown down upon the corridors' chill stone,
On which the sunbeam's amber pale is thrown
From leaf-fringed windows, one of quiet mould
Gazed long at those white chronicles which told
Of honours that the stately School had known.
He read the names: and wondered if his own
Would ever grace the walls in letters bold.
He knew not that he for the School would gain
A greater honour with a greater price -
That, no long years of work, but bitter pain
And his rich life, he was to sacrifice -
Not in a University's grey peace,
But on the hilly sun-baked Chersonese.