ALEXANDER

They say that ‘war is hell,’ the ‘great accursed,’ The sin impossible to be forgiven; Yet I can look beyond it at its worst, And still find blue in Heaven. And as I note how nobly natures form Under the war’s red rain, I deem it true That He who made the earthquake and the storm Perchance makes battles too! The life He loves is not the life of span Abbreviated by each passing breath, It is the true humanity of man Victorious over death, The long expectance of the upward gaze, Sense ineradicable of things afar, Fair hope of finding after many days The bright and morning star. Methinks I see how spirits may be tried, Transfigured into beauty on war’s verge, Like flowers, whose tremulous grace is learnt beside The trampling of the surge. And now, not only Englishmen at need Have won a fiery and unequal fray,— No infantry has ever done such deed Since Albuera’s day! Those who live on amid our homes to dwell Have grasped the higher lessons that endure,— The gallant Private learns to practise well His heroism obscure. His heart beats high as one for whom is made A mighty music solemnly, what time The oratorio of the cannonade Rolls through the hills sublime. Yet his the dangerous posts that few can mark, The crimson death, the dread unerring aim, The fatal ball that whizzes through the dark, The just-recorded name— The faithful following of the flag all day, he duty done that brings no nation’s thanks, The Ama Nesciri1 of some grim and grey À Kempis of the ranks. These are the things our commonweal to guard, The patient strength that is too proud to press, The duty done for duty, not reward, The lofty littleness. And they of greater state who never turned, Taking their path of duty higher and higher, What do we deem that they, too, may have learned In that baptismal fire? Not that the only end beneath the sun Is to make every sea a trading lake, And all our splendid English history one Voluminous mistake. They who marched up the bluffs last stormy week— Some of them, ere they reached the mountain’s crown, The wind of battle breathing on their cheek Suddenly laid them down. Like sleepers—not like those whose race is run— Fast, fast asleep amid the cannon’s roar, Them no reveillé and no morning gun Shall ever waken more. And the boy-beauty passed from off the face Of those who lived, and into it instead Came proud forgetfulness of ball and race, Sweet commune with the dead. And thoughts beyond their thoughts the Spirit lent, And manly tears made mist upon their eyes, And to them came a great presentiment Of high self-sacrifice. Thus, as the heaven’s many-coloured flames At sunset are but dust in rich disguise, The ascending earthquake dust of battle frames God’s pictures in the skies. William Alexander.