GORDON OF KHARTOUM
Of men he would have raised to light he fell:
In soul he conquered with those nerveless hands.
His country’s pride and her abasement knell
The Man of England circled by the sands.
J. C. M.
A fountain of our sweetest, quick to spring
In fellowship abounding, here subsides:
And never passage of a cloud on wing
To gladden blue forgets him; near he hides.