Horace Bray
And every bullet sped to find a mark,
But man by man the little group fell dead.
Faces all palled, black with battle smoke;
Strong hands tight clutched in lust of battle flame; And still the living islet never broke,
And still the hordes of dusky legions came.
The stars in solemn circles marched above, And what a sight was this they stooped to see!
No mercy here, or pity sweet, or love, But crashing death, and lust of victory !
Dawn lightened on the hills in cold gray streaks;
But few were there, indeed, who cheered the day: And still the rush of battle, still the shrieks
As steel drove sternly home the Saxon way.
A soldier paused in all the din of strife
And drew a banner from his heaving breast;
He fixed it to a staff, and newer life
Came with that sign and strengthened all the rest.
And ever burned the flag above the fray ;
And all about the ring of heroes stood ; And all about a dreadful rampart lay
Wounded and dead in sodden pools of blood.
Few stood, and fewer still; and at the last None stood to check the rush of dusky foes;
But ere one alien foot the circle passed, A dying lad, a slender youth arose
He rose and cast a look of pride and scorn, And from the shattered staff the flag he drew
The scarlet emblem, bloody, smoke-grimed, torn, And, on the smouldering watchfire embers, threw ;
He swayed and fell, the flag sent up a smoke Of incense to the memory of the brave
The memory of the post that never broke, The post that fills one great forgotten grave.
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