Sleep well, heroic souls, in silence sleep,

Lapped in the circling arms of kindly death!

No ill can vex your slumbers, no foul breath

Of slander, hate, derision mar the deep

Repose that holds you close. Your kinsmen reap

The harvest you have sown, while each man saith

"So would I choose, when danger threateneth,

Let my death be as theirs," we dare not weep.

For you have scaled the starry heights of fame,

Nor ever shrunk from peril and distress

In fight undaunted for the conqueror's prize;

Therefore your death, engirt with loveliness

Of simple service done for England's name,

Shall shine like beacon-stars of sacrifice.