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 formUnder the war’s red rain, I deem it trueThat He who made the earthquake and the stormPerchance makes battles too!The life He loves is not the life of spanAbbreviated by each passing breath,It is the true humanity of manVictorious over death,The long expectance of the upward gaze,Sense ineradicable of things afar,Fair hope of finding after many daysThe 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 besideThe trampling of the surge.And now, not only Englishmen at needHave won a fiery and unequal fray,—No infantry has ever done such deedSince Albuera’s day!Those who live on amid our homes to dwellHave grasped the higher lessons that endure,—The gallant Private learns to practise wellHis heroism obscure.His heart beats high as one for whom is madeA mighty music solemnly, what timeThe oratorio of the cannonadeRolls 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,TheAma Nesciri1of some grim and greyÀ 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 learnedIn that baptismal fire?Not that the only end beneath the sunIs to make every sea a trading lake,And all our splendid English history oneVoluminous 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 cheekSuddenly 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 gunShall ever waken more.And the boy-beauty passed from off the faceOf those who lived, and into it insteadCame 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 presentimentOf high self-sacrifice.Thus, as the heaven’s many-coloured flamesAt sunset are but dust in rich disguise,The ascending earthquake dust of battle framesGod’s pictures in the skies.William 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 formUnder the war’s red rain, I deem it trueThat He who made the earthquake and the stormPerchance makes battles too!The life He loves is not the life of spanAbbreviated by each passing breath,It is the true humanity of manVictorious over death,The long expectance of the upward gaze,Sense ineradicable of things afar,Fair hope of finding after many daysThe 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 besideThe trampling of the surge.And now, not only Englishmen at needHave won a fiery and unequal fray,—No infantry has ever done such deedSince Albuera’s day!Those who live on amid our homes to dwellHave grasped the higher lessons that endure,—The gallant Private learns to practise wellHis heroism obscure.His heart beats high as one for whom is madeA mighty music solemnly, what timeThe oratorio of the cannonadeRolls 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,TheAma Nesciri1of some grim and greyÀ 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 learnedIn that baptismal fire?Not that the only end beneath the sunIs to make every sea a trading lake,And all our splendid English history oneVoluminous 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 cheekSuddenly 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 gunShall ever waken more.And the boy-beauty passed from off the faceOf those who lived, and into it insteadCame 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 presentimentOf high self-sacrifice.Thus, as the heaven’s many-coloured flamesAt sunset are but dust in rich disguise,The ascending earthquake dust of battle framesGod’s pictures in the skies.William 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 formUnder the war’s red rain, I deem it trueThat He who made the earthquake and the stormPerchance makes battles too!
The life He loves is not the life of spanAbbreviated by each passing breath,It is the true humanity of manVictorious over death,
The long expectance of the upward gaze,Sense ineradicable of things afar,Fair hope of finding after many daysThe 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 besideThe trampling of the surge.
And now, not only Englishmen at needHave won a fiery and unequal fray,—No infantry has ever done such deedSince Albuera’s day!
Those who live on amid our homes to dwellHave grasped the higher lessons that endure,—The gallant Private learns to practise wellHis heroism obscure.
His heart beats high as one for whom is madeA mighty music solemnly, what timeThe oratorio of the cannonadeRolls 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,TheAma Nesciri1of some grim and greyÀ 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 learnedIn that baptismal fire?
Not that the only end beneath the sunIs to make every sea a trading lake,And all our splendid English history oneVoluminous 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 cheekSuddenly 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 gunShall ever waken more.
And the boy-beauty passed from off the faceOf those who lived, and into it insteadCame 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 presentimentOf high self-sacrifice.
Thus, as the heaven’s many-coloured flamesAt sunset are but dust in rich disguise,The ascending earthquake dust of battle framesGod’s pictures in the skies.
William Alexander.
1The heading of a remarkable chapter in theDe Imitatione Christi.
1The heading of a remarkable chapter in theDe Imitatione Christi.