 | English Roses |  |
THE MODERN SOLDIER.
In his pouch he carries fifty lives and more,
Fifty lives of goodly men
Ready for the reaping, when
He requires their store.
At a thousand paces
And for wider spaces,
He is sure to reach them with his rifle's bore.
Terrible and true his aim,
Lightning breath and winged death
Bound to mangle or to maim;
With his message driven through red tissues riven,
Into ruin past reclaim.
Fifty lives of goodly men
Ready for the reaping, when
He requires their store.
At a thousand paces
And for wider spaces,
216
Terrible and true his aim,
Lightning breath and winged death
Bound to mangle or to maim;
With his message driven through red tissues riven,
Into ruin past reclaim.
Not one soldier but a mighty host is he,
Multiplied by demon skill
To a dreadful murder-mill,
Duly thus to be;
Clothed with fear and lasting
Havoc, grimly blasting
All that faces him and will not hide or flee.
Mere machine of killing force
Flashing doom and damned gloom
On our noontide's sunny source,
Without pulse or pity for the soul or city
Grinding his destructive course.
Multiplied by demon skill
To a dreadful murder-mill,
Duly thus to be;
Clothed with fear and lasting
Havoc, grimly blasting
All that faces him and will not hide or flee.
Mere machine of killing force
Flashing doom and damned gloom
On our noontide's sunny source,
Without pulse or pity for the soul or city
Grinding his destructive course.
| English Roses | |