He laughed: "If one may settle the score for five, I am ready; but let the reckoning stand till day: I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive." "You shall die at dawn," said they.
He flung his empty revolver down the slope, He climbed alone to the Eastward edge of the trees; All night long in a dream untroubled of hope He brooded, clasping his knees.
He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills The ravine where the Yassin river sullenly flows; He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills, Or the far Afghan snows.
He saw the April noon on his books aglow, The wistaria trailing in at the window wide; He heard his father's voice from the terrace below Calling him down to ride.
He saw the gray little church across the park, The mounds that hide the loved and honoured dead; The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark, The brasses black and red.
He saw the School Close, sunny and green, The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall, The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between His own name over all.
He saw the dark wainscot and timbered roof, The long tables, and the faces merry and keen; The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof, The Dons on the daïs serene.
He watched the liner's stem ploughing the foam, He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; He heard her passengers' voices talking of home, He saw the flag she flew.
And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet, And strode to his ruined camp below the wood; He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet; His murderers round him stood.
Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast, The blood-red snow-peaks chilled to a dazzling white: He turned, and saw the golden circle at last, Cut by the Eastern height.
"O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun, I have lived, I praise and adore Thee." A sword swept.
Over the pass the voices one by one Faded, and the hill slept.
I live--I am old--I return to the ground-- Blow trumpets! and still I can dream to the sound. WILLIAM CORY.
With failing feet and shoulders bowed Beneath the weight of happier days, He lagged among the heedless crowd, Or crept along suburban ways. But still through all his heart was young, His mood a joy that nought could mar, A courage, a pride, a rapture, sprung Of the strength and splendour of England's war.