officer, 'he was dead, although he breathed a few times—no suffering.'
The premonition that he was destined to die for his ideals, that he was plainly called to lay down his life for his country and the cause that was his and hers, is in other of Freston's poems, as it is in those of many of his comrades. It is in his 'Departure,' in 'When I am Dead,' in 'Two Nights'—
And I laugh to hear the bugles, but I weep to hear the bells,
For I know the bells of Oxford will ring no more for me—
It is in 'April 1915,' and again in 'October 31st, 1915,' written not long before he left England for the last time:
After I am dead,
And have become part of the soil of France,
This much remember of me:
I was a great sinner, a great lover, and life puzzled me very much.
Ah, love! I would have died for love!
Love can do so much both rightly and wrongly.
It remembers mothers and little children,
And lots of other things.
O men unborn, I go now, my work unfinished!
I pass on the problem to you: the world will hate you: be brave!
