LXXIX.—THE ROAD TO THE TRENCHES.

“Leave me, comrades, here I drop,— No, sir, take them on, All are wanted, none should stop, Duty must be done; Those whose guard you take will find me As they pass below.” So the soldier spoke, and staggering, Fell amid the snow; And ever on the dreary heights, Down came the snow. “Men, it must be as he asks; Duty must be done; Far too few for half our tasks, We can spare not one. Wrap him in this; I need it less; Fear not, they shall know; Mark the place, yon stunted larch,— Forward,”—on they go; And silent on their silent march, Down sank the snow. O’er his features as he lies, Calms the wrench of pain: Close faint eyes, pass cruel skies, Freezing mountain plain; With far, soft sound, the stillness teems, Church bells—voices low, Passing into English dreams There amid the snow; And darkening, thickening o’er the heights, Down fell the snow. Looking, looking for the mark, Down the others came, Struggling through the snowdrifts stark, Calling out his name; “Here,—or there; the drifts are deep; Have we passed him?”—No! Look, a little growing heap, Snow above the snow; Where heavy on his heavy sleep, Down fell the snow. Strong hands raised him, voices strong Spoke within his ears; Ah! his dreams had softer tongue, Neither now he hears. One more gone for England’s sake, Where so many go, Lying down without complaint, Dying in the snow; Starving, striving for her sake, Dying in the snow. Simply done his soldier’s part, Through long months of woe; All endured with soldier heart, Battle, famine, snow. Noble, nameless, English heart, Snow cold, in snow!