K. L. H.

Where stern grey busts of gods and heroes old

Frown down upon the corridors’ chill stone,

On which the sunbeam's amber pale is thrown

From leaf-fringed windows, one of quiet mould

Gazed long at those white chronicles which told

Of honours that the stately School had known.

He read the names: and wondered if his own

Would ever grace the walls in letters bold.

He knew not that he for the School would gain

A greater honour with a greater price —

That, no long years of work, but bitter pain

And his rich life, he was to sacrifice —

Not in a University's grey peace,

But on the hilly sun-baked Chersonese.