 | Poems : medley and Palestina |  |
67
VI
The Dead March.
The hoarse drum groans, the shrill fife greets,
The dead-march wails from hearth to tomb,
The ranked feet tramp through black-hung streets,
The swart steeds drag the bier's slow gloom.
The dead-march wails from hearth to tomb,
The ranked feet tramp through black-hung streets,
The swart steeds drag the bier's slow gloom.
The men he led still march with him,
They keep the step and speak no word;
Their brows are knit, their eyes are dim,
Their thoughts are grave, their hearts are stirred.
They keep the step and speak no word;
Their brows are knit, their eyes are dim,
Their thoughts are grave, their hearts are stirred.
They mind how oft in war's fierce blaze
He cheered them where a fiend might quail,
How red his cheek, how blithe his gaze—
That gaze now quenched, that cheek now pale.
He cheered them where a fiend might quail,
How red his cheek, how blithe his gaze—
That gaze now quenched, that cheek now pale.
With slow, set tread they pass her by,
She gives one glance and drops one tear.
They know he died, they ask not why;
They mark her not, though she is near.
She gives one glance and drops one tear.
They know he died, they ask not why;
They mark her not, though she is near.
They hold that death is lord of all,
They hold that no man owns his breath,
They hold that each must have his ball,
That life is war, and war is death.
They hold that no man owns his breath,
They hold that each must have his ball,
That life is war, and war is death.
They halt; they fire the last sad shot
With calm, stern eyes and sure, strong hands;
Then quickly, lightly leave the spot
To jubilant bars of brazen bands.
With calm, stern eyes and sure, strong hands;
Then quickly, lightly leave the spot
To jubilant bars of brazen bands.
| Poems : medley and Palestina | |