  (Vimy Ridge, April, 1917) They stand with reverent faces, And their merriment give o'er, As they drink the toast to the unseen host, Who have fought and gone before. It is only a passing moment In the midst of the feast and song, But it grips the breath, as the wind of death In a vision sweeps along. No more they see the banquet And the brilliant lights around: But they charge again on the hideous plain When the shell-bursts rip the ground. Or they creep at night, like panthers, Through the waste of No Man's Land, Their hearts afire with a wild desire And death on every hand. And out of the roar and tumult, Or the black night loud with rain, Some face comes back on the fiery track And looks in their eyes again. And the love that is passing woman's, And the bonds that are forged by death, Now grip the soul with a strange control The vision dies off in the stillness, Once more the tables shine, But the eyes of all in the banquet hall Are lit with a light divine. Frederick George Scott By permission of the Author and The Musson Book Company, Limited, Toronto |
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