HENRY NEWBOLT
He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills The ravine where the Yassln river sullenly flows;
He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills, Or the far Afghan snows.
He saw the April noon on his books aglow, The wistaria trailing in at the window wide;
He heard his father's voice from the terrace below Calling him down to ride.
He saw the gray little church across the park,
The mounds that hid the loved and honour'd dead;
The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark, The brasses black and red.
He saw the School Close, sunny and green,
The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall,
The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between, His own name over all.
He saw the dark wainscot and timbered roof, The long tables, and the faces merry and keen;
The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof, The Dons on the dais serene.
He watch'd the liner's stem ploughing the foam,
He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw;
He heard the passengers' voices talking of home, He saw the flag she flew.
And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet, And strode to his ruin'd camp below the wood;
He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet: His murderers round him stood.
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