In the following May he went to France, and after sharing in 'the long and terrible experience of trench warfare' there, was sent with his regiment to Mesopotamia, and whilst gallantly leading his men against the Turkish position at Sheikh Saad on the 7th January 1916, was shot down, and died of his wound next day.
'Months before,' as you read in Guy Ridley's Memoir, 'he had mused on the grim prank played by war upon the idealist. The poet who sings of peace must himself take up the sword to win it.' He is forced to fight wrong with the weapons of the wrong-doer, to add to the destruction and horror in order 'to prove his hatred of war and murder.' Even without such testimony, one might have guessed at the charm of his character, his broad human sympathies, his love of beauty, his feeling for the quieter arts of happiness from the poems he has left us—from such a snatch of song as that beginning—
Peace, God's own peace,
This it is I bring you;
The quiet song of sleep,
Dear tired heart, I sing you...
