POETRY.
IN MEMORIAM,—CECIL WILLIAM BOYLE.
car-rAiN LN THE IMPERIAL YEOMANRY. KILLED IN THE SUCCESSFUL FIGHT AT BOSHOF, APRIL 5TH, 1990.
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DEAR hero, you, of school's ideal day, Ranging the Clifton close in far-off years A king and captain of our battling play, Once more your form appears. .
The Achilles of our host you were to us, The goodliest and most glorious chief we knew, Keen, hot, and even to friends imperious, But passionately true: The lion's heart, the panther's lissom grace Were your inheritance from a generous line ; A leader born, your character and face Ruled as with right divine.
Life's business came, you passed into the stress Of gainful rivalry, and 'lost,' we cried, 'Buried in honoured affluence and success, His promise and our pride, 'Who might have filled the world with noble noise, In some great cause, the foremost in the fight, Captaining men as once he captained boys, For country and for right.'
Not so : through lulling ease alert and trained You kept your manhood's force and your desire, Still quick, though slumbering, in your breast remained The seed of sacred fire.
Then struck the stern hour of an Empire's need, And you were forward to obey the call, Forward, high heart, to follow or to lead, Or, if God willed, to fall.
And you have fallen, and it is achieved, Duty and victory, and a gallant end, Not all, not all our love and faith conceived, But nought we would amend.
Willing you went, and willingly have striven To widen liberty and equal peace ; Comes Death so soon ? 'Tis glorious to have given Our life that wrong may cease.
He takes Who lent : Sleep now, your service done, Compeer and comrade chivalrous and brave, Sleep, well content, our hero, to have won A warrior's wreath, and grave.
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