The marks of d**h were on him, and he bore
In every feature that sharp, clear, cold look
Which is not of this world; his weak frame shook,
Yet not with terror shook; for oft before
He had sought d**h amid the battle's roar;
Nor shrank he now, when in his chamber lone
d**h, visible d**h, for three long moons had shown
His dart upraised, but struck not; still he wore
His brow, though sad, undaunted; for he knew
This was his last great fight, whose promise high
Was endless glory to the faithful few,
Whose courage can endure to victory.
And so he conquered, and a soldier true
And gallant, as he lived, did Gordon die.