| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895. |
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| Raglan |
| | | Sir Edwin Arnold (1832–1904) |
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| AH! not because our Soldier died before his field was won; | |
| Ah! not because life would not last till life’s long task were done. | |
| Wreathe one less leaf, grieve with less grief,—of all our hosts that led | |
| Not last in work and worth approv’d,— | |
| Lord Raglan lieth dead. | 5 |
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| His nobleness he had of none, War’s Master taught him war, | |
| And prouder praise that Master gave than meaner lips can mar; | |
| Gone to his grave, his duty done; if farther any seek, | |
| He left his life to answer them,—a soldier’s,—let it speak! | |
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| ’T was his to sway a blunted sword,—to fight a fated field, | 10 |
| While idle tongues talk’d victory, to struggle not to yield; | |
| Light task for placeman’s ready pen to plan a field for fight, | |
| Hard work and hot with steel and shot to win that field aright. | |
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| Tears have been shed for the brave dead; | |
| Praise hath been given for strife well striven; praise him who strove o’er all, | 15 |
| Nor count that conquest little, though no banner flaunt it far, | |
| That under him our English hearts beat Pain and Plague and War. | |
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| And if he held those English hearts too good to pave the path | |
| To idle victories, shall we grudge what noble palm he hat? | |
| Like ancient Chief he fought a-front, and mid his soldiers seen, | 20 |
| His work was aye as stern as theirs; oh! make his grave as green. | |
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| They know him well,—the Dead who died that Russian wrong should cease, | |
| Where Fortune doth not measure men,—their souls and his have peace; | |
| Ay! as well spent in sad sick tent as they in bloody strife, | |
| For English Homes our English Chief gave what he had,—his life. | 25 |
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