RUSSELL
By the Boer lines at Congella,Where the west wind sheds its rain,All the yellow sands grew crimsonWith the wounded and the slain.Etched upon the deadly sky-line,Mark for guns behind each dune,Flashed the silver of the bayonetsIn the lethal night’s high noon.Far across the bay the boomingOf the cannon rose and fell;Echoing to bluff and island,Rang the soldier’s passing-bell.Blood of England shed for EmpireAt our southern Trasimene—Such it is that fosters heroes,Keeps the graves of valour green.All life’s nobler thoughts are strengthenedBy the valiance of our sires,As it glows undimmed, undying,Like Rome’s cherished vestal-fires.Ever burning—happy omenFor the progress of the State!Patriots give their lives as incenseOn the altars reared by Fate.Such pure light streamed o’er the citiesOf the pulsing Punic world;Lit their galleys through the PillarsOf 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 itFrom their Lusitanian pyre;Bore it over hungry surgesTo the Cape of Storms and Fire;And it gleamed upon our verdureFrom their storm-vexed caravel—Band of afternoon undying—O’er tired visions cast its spell.Clear the deathless flame was glowingBy the wide bay’s tender blue,When their blood was shed for EnglandBy the men of ’Forty-two.Robert Russell.
By the Boer lines at Congella,Where the west wind sheds its rain,All the yellow sands grew crimsonWith the wounded and the slain.Etched upon the deadly sky-line,Mark for guns behind each dune,Flashed the silver of the bayonetsIn the lethal night’s high noon.Far across the bay the boomingOf the cannon rose and fell;Echoing to bluff and island,Rang the soldier’s passing-bell.Blood of England shed for EmpireAt our southern Trasimene—Such it is that fosters heroes,Keeps the graves of valour green.All life’s nobler thoughts are strengthenedBy the valiance of our sires,As it glows undimmed, undying,Like Rome’s cherished vestal-fires.Ever burning—happy omenFor the progress of the State!Patriots give their lives as incenseOn the altars reared by Fate.Such pure light streamed o’er the citiesOf the pulsing Punic world;Lit their galleys through the PillarsOf 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 itFrom their Lusitanian pyre;Bore it over hungry surgesTo the Cape of Storms and Fire;And it gleamed upon our verdureFrom their storm-vexed caravel—Band of afternoon undying—O’er tired visions cast its spell.Clear the deathless flame was glowingBy the wide bay’s tender blue,When their blood was shed for EnglandBy the men of ’Forty-two.Robert Russell.
By the Boer lines at Congella,Where the west wind sheds its rain,All the yellow sands grew crimsonWith the wounded and the slain.
Etched upon the deadly sky-line,Mark for guns behind each dune,Flashed the silver of the bayonetsIn the lethal night’s high noon.
Far across the bay the boomingOf the cannon rose and fell;Echoing to bluff and island,Rang the soldier’s passing-bell.
Blood of England shed for EmpireAt our southern Trasimene—Such it is that fosters heroes,Keeps the graves of valour green.
All life’s nobler thoughts are strengthenedBy the valiance of our sires,As it glows undimmed, undying,Like Rome’s cherished vestal-fires.
Ever burning—happy omenFor the progress of the State!Patriots give their lives as incenseOn the altars reared by Fate.
Such pure light streamed o’er the citiesOf the pulsing Punic world;Lit their galleys through the PillarsOf 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 itFrom their Lusitanian pyre;Bore it over hungry surgesTo the Cape of Storms and Fire;
And it gleamed upon our verdureFrom their storm-vexed caravel—Band of afternoon undying—O’er tired visions cast its spell.
Clear the deathless flame was glowingBy the wide bay’s tender blue,When their blood was shed for EnglandBy the men of ’Forty-two.
Robert Russell.