Who would make me the shadow to his sun,
And boast his strength in my infirmity.
Since, then, I cannot turn a sycophant
To woo the loud-mouthed plaudits of the mob,
I scorn the changing fancies of these days,
And wait the verdict of impartial fame.
Plain can I see the drift of Wolseley’s plots:
By false deductions and imputed blame
To make our victories all imperfect seem,
Our troops superfluous, and his skill supreme.