Poems by Sir Alfred C. Lyall :: :: University of Virginia Library

A late moon that sinks o'er a river
Flowing luminous, languid, and still;
Long white tents that shroud men, and shiver
In the cold morning breeze from the hill;

Just a thin veil of darkness above you,
While the cool quiet hour is your own;
Then farewell to the faces that love you,
With the fast fading night they'll be gone.

Look up, see above you the star-land
Wanes dim with the flush of the dawn,

You are called from your flight to the far land,
And your visions must break with the morn.

But your soul, by sweet memories haunted,
Still wanders, forgetful and free,
To the West, and in echoes enchanted
Hears the long winding plash of the sea.

Ah, sleep, though the falling dews wet you;
Ah, rest in that home while you may;
Other scenes, other sounds, shall beset you
When you wake, and your dreams pass away.

When the sun beats aflame on your faces,
What the old fighters felt, ye shall feel,
When the pitiless strife of the races
Flashes out in the smoke and the steel;

For the plain, bare and burning, lies yonder,
And perchance, when the war-cloud has passed,
Never more, day or night, shalt thou wander
And thy sleep shall be dreamless at last.