GORDON

Idle although our homage be and vain,

Who loudly through the door of silence press

And vie in zeal to crown death's nakedness,

Not therefore shall melodious lips refrain

Thy praises, gentlest warrior without stain,

Denied the happy garland of success,

Foil'd by dark fate, but glorious none the less,

Greatest of losers, on the lone peak slain

Of Alp-like virtue. Not to-day, and not

To-morrow, shall thy spirit's splendour be

Oblivion's victim; but when God shall find

All human grandeur among men forgot,

Then only shall the world, grown old and blind,

Cease, in her dotage, to remember Thee.