And from the rear
A distant echo comes—they turn to see
A khaki company stream through the dawn—
Relief and victory with day new-born!
But where is he?
They call—he comes; across the open space
He dashes; ere he gains the rampart's face
A volley breaks—he totters through the gap—
The stripling lays him riddled 'gainst the sap.
......
"The dawn's on Devon hills!" the dry lips sighed,
"The hills of home!" . . .
THE CALL
HARK! 'Tis the rush of the horses,
The crash of the galloping gun!
The stars are out of their courses;
The hour of Doom has begun.
Leap from thy scabbard, O sword!
This is the Day of the Lord!
Prate not of peace any longer,
Laughter and idlesse and ease!
Up, every man that is stronger!
Leave but the priest on his knees!
Quick, every hand to the hilt!
Who striketh not—his the guilt!
Call not each man on his brother!
Cry not to Heaven to save!
Thou art the man—not another—
Thou, to off glove and out glaive!
Fight ye who ne'er fought before!
Fight ye old fighters the more!
