BRIDGE-GUARD IN THE KARROO
‘and will supply details to guard the Blood River Bridge.’District Orders—Lines of Communication.
Suddenthe desert changes,The raw glare softens and clings,Till the aching Oudtshoorn rangesStand up like the thrones of kings—Ramparts of slaughter and peril—Blazing, amazing—aglow’Twixt the sky-line’s belting berylAnd the wine-dark flats below.Royal the pageant closes,Lit by the last of the sun—Opal and ash-of-roses,Cinnamon, umber, and dun.The twilight swallows the thicket,The starlight reveals the ridge;The whistle shrills to the picket—We are changing guard on the bridge.(Few, forgotten and lonely,Where the empty metals shine—No, not combatants—onlyDetails guarding the line.)We slip through the broken panelOf fence by the ganger’s shed;We drop to the waterless channelAnd the lean track overhead;We stumble on refuse of rations,The beef and the biscuit-tins;We take our appointed stations,And the endless night begins.We hear the Hottentot herdersAs the sheep click past to the fold—And the click of the restless girdersAs the steel contracts in the cold—Voices of jackals callingAnd, loud in the hush between,A morsel of dry earth fallingFrom the flanks of the scarred ravine.And the solemn firmament marches,And the hosts of heaven riseFramed through the iron arches—Banded and barred by the ties,Till we feel the far track humming,And we see her headlight plain,And we gather and wait her coming—The wonderful north-bound train.(Few, forgotten and lonely,Where the white car-windows shine—No, not combatants—onlyDetails guarding the line.)Quick, ere the gift escape us!Out of the darkness we reachFor a handful of week-old papersAnd a mouthful of human speech.And the monstrous heaven rejoices,And the earth allows again,Meetings, greetings, and voicesOf women talking with men.So we return to our places,As out on the bridge she rolls;And the darkness covers our faces,And the darkness re-enters our souls.More than a little lonelyWhere the lessening tail-lights shine.No—not combatants—onlyDetails guarding the line!
Suddenthe desert changes,The raw glare softens and clings,Till the aching Oudtshoorn rangesStand up like the thrones of kings—Ramparts of slaughter and peril—Blazing, amazing—aglow’Twixt the sky-line’s belting berylAnd the wine-dark flats below.Royal the pageant closes,Lit by the last of the sun—Opal and ash-of-roses,Cinnamon, umber, and dun.The twilight swallows the thicket,The starlight reveals the ridge;The whistle shrills to the picket—We are changing guard on the bridge.(Few, forgotten and lonely,Where the empty metals shine—No, not combatants—onlyDetails guarding the line.)We slip through the broken panelOf fence by the ganger’s shed;We drop to the waterless channelAnd the lean track overhead;We stumble on refuse of rations,The beef and the biscuit-tins;We take our appointed stations,And the endless night begins.We hear the Hottentot herdersAs the sheep click past to the fold—And the click of the restless girdersAs the steel contracts in the cold—Voices of jackals callingAnd, loud in the hush between,A morsel of dry earth fallingFrom the flanks of the scarred ravine.And the solemn firmament marches,And the hosts of heaven riseFramed through the iron arches—Banded and barred by the ties,Till we feel the far track humming,And we see her headlight plain,And we gather and wait her coming—The wonderful north-bound train.(Few, forgotten and lonely,Where the white car-windows shine—No, not combatants—onlyDetails guarding the line.)Quick, ere the gift escape us!Out of the darkness we reachFor a handful of week-old papersAnd a mouthful of human speech.And the monstrous heaven rejoices,And the earth allows again,Meetings, greetings, and voicesOf women talking with men.So we return to our places,As out on the bridge she rolls;And the darkness covers our faces,And the darkness re-enters our souls.More than a little lonelyWhere the lessening tail-lights shine.No—not combatants—onlyDetails guarding the line!
Suddenthe desert changes,The raw glare softens and clings,Till the aching Oudtshoorn rangesStand up like the thrones of kings—
Ramparts of slaughter and peril—Blazing, amazing—aglow’Twixt the sky-line’s belting berylAnd the wine-dark flats below.
Royal the pageant closes,Lit by the last of the sun—Opal and ash-of-roses,Cinnamon, umber, and dun.
The twilight swallows the thicket,The starlight reveals the ridge;The whistle shrills to the picket—We are changing guard on the bridge.
(Few, forgotten and lonely,Where the empty metals shine—No, not combatants—onlyDetails guarding the line.)
We slip through the broken panelOf fence by the ganger’s shed;We drop to the waterless channelAnd the lean track overhead;
We stumble on refuse of rations,The beef and the biscuit-tins;We take our appointed stations,And the endless night begins.
We hear the Hottentot herdersAs the sheep click past to the fold—And the click of the restless girdersAs the steel contracts in the cold—
Voices of jackals callingAnd, loud in the hush between,A morsel of dry earth fallingFrom the flanks of the scarred ravine.
And the solemn firmament marches,And the hosts of heaven riseFramed through the iron arches—Banded and barred by the ties,
Till we feel the far track humming,And we see her headlight plain,And we gather and wait her coming—The wonderful north-bound train.
(Few, forgotten and lonely,Where the white car-windows shine—No, not combatants—onlyDetails guarding the line.)
Quick, ere the gift escape us!Out of the darkness we reachFor a handful of week-old papersAnd a mouthful of human speech.
And the monstrous heaven rejoices,And the earth allows again,Meetings, greetings, and voicesOf women talking with men.
So we return to our places,As out on the bridge she rolls;And the darkness covers our faces,And the darkness re-enters our souls.
More than a little lonelyWhere the lessening tail-lights shine.No—not combatants—onlyDetails guarding the line!