The Warrior

He wrought in poverty, the dull grey days,                          But with the night his little lamp-lit room                         Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze                          Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the boom                         Of Bluecher's guns; he shared Almeida's scars,                          And from the close-packed deck, about to die,                         Looked up and saw the "Birkenhead"'s tall spars                          Weave wavering lines across the Southern sky:                         Or in the stifling 'tween decks, row on row,                          At Aboukir, saw how the dead men lay;                             Charged with the fiercest in Busaco's strife,                         Brave dreams are his -- the flick'ring lamp burns low --                          Yet couraged for the battles of the day                             He goes to stand full face to face with life.