Sonnet 6 Poem by Joanna Baillie

THE marks of death 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 death amid the battle's roar;
Nor shrank he now, when in his chamber lone,
Death, visible death, for three long moons had shewn
His dart uprais'd, 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 conquer'd, and a soldier true
And gallant, as he liv'd, did G----n die.