Within the frozen statuary of death,
Was softened by that radiant 'whelming flood.
Alert and silent the thin outpost stood;
The deep-drawn breath
Told how the tide of memory ebbed and flowed,
And each heart glowed
Whene'er they heard him pass from post to post,
A word of home and England on his lip,
The seal and guerdon of their comradeship,
And fear was lost
In the assurance speaking in his eyes:
"He lives who dies!"
Just before dawn a cloud-bank drew the moon
Behind her ramparts; the black pall of night
Fell on the slope; hope vanished with the light;
They listened; soon
A stone dislodged the climbing feet betrayed,
They searched the darkness with a fusillade;
Then to the stripling: "You will keep guard here;
I'll wait them there,"
The leader whispered, pointing with his sword
Out where a furrow folded in its dead,
Where a long furrow drank the stains of red—
And disappeared
Over the looming parapet. A breeze
Ruffled the silence and died down again.
Would he assail dark destiny in vain?
......
The nine hearts freeze
At a low gurgling sob of agony,
But flutter free
As one—two—three revolver shots ring out—
A stifled shout,
A scuffle and a groan—and lo! the light
Returns as at the call of destiny:
Down the white slope the stumbling foemen flee
In piteous plight—
