This tomb-walled temple proudly, sadly shows
How much it costs to make a nation great;
Each to its cause his best must dedicate,
And each must feel that what he gives he owes.
Here mourns Britannia o'er the sweet repose
Of one who gave beyond all estimate —
Whose piteous story these mute stones relate,
Who died lamented even by his foes.
He finds at last within this sacred nave
His recompense, however dearly bought,
Place with his peers, these of the laureled brow,
Who, might they die for England, recked not how,
Fame questions not the title of the brave;
Pro Patria — sword or halter matters naught.