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<h2> The Warrior </h2>
<p>He wrought in poverty, the dull grey days,<br/>
But with the night his little lamp-lit room<br/>
Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze<br/>
Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the boom<br/>
Of Bluecher's guns; he shared Almeida's scars,<br/>
And from the close-packed deck, about to die,<br/>
Looked up and saw the "Birkenhead"'s tall spars<br/>
Weave wavering lines across the Southern sky:<br/>
<br/>
Or in the stifling 'tween decks, row on row,<br/>
At Aboukir, saw how the dead men lay;<br/>
Charged with the fiercest in Busaco's strife,<br/>
Brave dreams are his — the flick'ring lamp burns low —<br/>
Yet couraged for the battles of the day<br/>
He goes to stand full face to face with life.<br/></p>
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