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Ionicus

I live—I am old—I return to the ground—Blow trumpets! and still I can dream to the sound.William Cory.
With failing feet and shoulders bowedBeneath the weight of happier days,He lagged among the heedless crowd,Or crept along suburban ways.But still through all his heart was young,His mood a joy that nought could mar,A courage, a pride, a rapture, sprungOf the strength and splendour of England's war.
From ill-requited toil he turnedTo ride with Picton and with Pack,Among his grammars inly burnedTo storm the Afghan mountain-track.When midnight chimed, before QuebecHe watched with Wolfe till the morning star;At noon he saw from Victory's deckThe sweep and splendour of England's war.

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