RUSSELL

By the Boer lines at Congella, Where the west wind sheds its rain, All the yellow sands grew crimson With the wounded and the slain. Etched upon the deadly sky-line, Mark for guns behind each dune, Flashed the silver of the bayonets In the lethal night’s high noon. Far across the bay the booming Of the cannon rose and fell; Echoing to bluff and island, Rang the soldier’s passing-bell. Blood of England shed for Empire At our southern Trasimene— Such it is that fosters heroes, Keeps the graves of valour green. All life’s nobler thoughts are strengthened By the valiance of our sires, As it glows undimmed, undying, Like Rome’s cherished vestal-fires. Ever burning—happy omen For the progress of the State! Patriots give their lives as incense On the altars reared by Fate. Such pure light streamed o’er the cities Of the pulsing Punic world; Lit their galleys through the Pillars Of the West, with sails unfurled. In wild camps it thrilled Rome’s legions, Stemmed the East at Marathon; Bore sea-heroes through the Syrtes, Through strange seas and tropic dawn. Diaz and Da Gama snatched it From their Lusitanian pyre; Bore it over hungry surges To the Cape of Storms and Fire; And it gleamed upon our verdure From their storm-vexed caravel— Band of afternoon undying— O’er tired visions cast its spell. Clear the deathless flame was glowing By the wide bay’s tender blue, When their blood was shed for England By the men of ’Forty-two. Robert Russell.