shadowy premonition that touched him had in it no shadow of fear:
...Grief though it be to die, 'tis grief yet more
To live and count the dear dead comrades o'er....
Peace. After all, you died not. We 've no fear
But that, long ages hence, you will be near—
A thought by night—on the warm wind a breath,
Making for courage, putting by old Death,
Living wherever men are not afraid
Of aught but making bravery a parade;
Yes, parleying with fear, they 'll pause and say,
'At Gommecourt boys suffered worse that day';
Or, hesitating on some anxious brink,
They will become heroic when they think,
'Did they not rise mortality above
Who staked a lifetime all made sweet with love?'
Grenfell's joy of battle, the high spirits, the courage, and grim, gay humour of our old and new armies, and some of the noblest poetry the war has occasioned live in the two volumes of Ewart Mackintosh, who also, as I have shown you, seemed to foresee that he would find his grave in France.
Born at Brighton, he was a son of the late Alexander Mackintosh, of Alness, in Ross-shire, and a grandson of Dr. Guiness Rogers. At Brighton College he won a
