They lifted up his weary head,
Stained with a dark and bitter dew:
"How does the battle go?" he said.
Sir, it is victory," -- when he heard
He smiled the darkening shadows through
And died as blithe as a singing bird.
On the stained grass as on a bed
Dying he lay and well content --
"Sir, it is victory," they said.
So smiling, smiling all the way,
To the undying Dead he went
As to a heavenly holiday.
