 | The music-lesson of Confucius, And Other Poems |  |
154
A SONG OF '62.
THERE'S a sorrowful old story how the army of the Turk
Once fell into an ambush, full of blood and evil work;
When the fate-believing Moslem, caring not that all was gone,
With sword a-sheath and eyes firm closed right into death rode on.
Once fell into an ambush, full of blood and evil work;
When the fate-believing Moslem, caring not that all was gone,
With sword a-sheath and eyes firm closed right into death rode on.
He could not fly—his hour had come—and so he kissed the rod
With La il Allah! on his lips, gave all the rest to God:
Down rolled the rocks—the muskets roared—in heaps the Faithful fell,
But one escaped of all the host the dreadful tale to tell.
With La il Allah! on his lips, gave all the rest to God:
Down rolled the rocks—the muskets roared—in heaps the Faithful fell,
But one escaped of all the host the dreadful tale to tell.
But there's another story, how a slave, in cruel sport,
Was thrown unto a tiger before the Roman court.
The man was born of fighting blood, and so he turned at bay:
The Roman at the tiger!—and the great brute slunk away!
Was thrown unto a tiger before the Roman court.
The man was born of fighting blood, and so he turned at bay:
The Roman at the tiger!—and the great brute slunk away!
155
Hurrah! we're called to battle—hurrah! the word is ‘fight!’
We've a bloody day before us, perhaps a deathly night.
But let there happen what there may in all our battlework,
We'll pattern by the Roman, and never by the Turk.
We've a bloody day before us, perhaps a deathly night.
But let there happen what there may in all our battlework,
We'll pattern by the Roman, and never by the Turk.
| The music-lesson of Confucius, And Other Poems | |