Where at the central pulse of England's might
The Abbey towers stand stately, rears its head
One column, to the memory of the dead
On forgotten fields of glorious fight;
It stands before the gates that saw them go
In fullness of strong years to yield their breath, -
Some the sword's toil, some sickness'; all, we know,
Bravest and best, and over young for death.

Yet it may chance that some, who boys to-day,
Treading the path to manhood, shall speed forth,
To stand as these stood, 'neath a stranger sky
In some life-crowning foray far away,
Remembering that proud pillar in their North,
May with a joyful soul go forth to die.