He was manifestly an amateur; he sometimes writes with labour, and he not infrequently ends with the unpardonable weak line.
Nevertheless he had rightly chosen this difficult form in which to express his inner self.

It suited his grave, concentrated thought, and each little imperfect poem of fourteen lines gives us a glimpse into a wise, beneficent mind.

He had fought his fight and suffered defeat, and had then withdrawn himself silently from the field to die.

But if he had been embittered he could have relieved himself in this little book.
There is no trace of such a feeling.

He only asks, in one sonnet, where can a balm be found for the heart fretted and torn with eternal cares; when we have thought and striven for some great and good purpose, when all our striving has ended in disaster?
His plan, he concludes, is to go out in the quiet night-time and look at the stars.
Here let me quote two more sonnets written in contemplative mood, just to give the reader a fuller idea not of the verse, as verse, but of the spirit in the old squire.