To Arthur de Noe Walker

Arthur ! whose path is in the quiet shade,
After hot days in the wide wastes of war,
Where India saw thy sword shine bright above
The helms of thousand brave. Peace, wooed and won.
Could not detain thee from that Tauric coast
Where lay the wounded, festering in their gore,
And none to raise them up, thou hastenedst
To succour : often thy strong shoulder bore
Amid the freezing sleet and heavier hail
The wretch whom Death lookt down on and past by :
Thou fearedst not, for what hadst thou to fear
From Death ? the standard of his vanquisher
Thou never hast deserted ; thee he call'd
To work his will, and saw the call obey'd.