Thy charge was: "Hold My banner Against our hidden foe; To war where sounds no manner Of glorious music, go!" And like Thy word my answer all joyless: "Be it so." Ah, not to brave Thy censure But win Thy smile of light, My heart of misadventure Will end in the losing fight, And lie out yonder, wattled with wounds from left to right. The day will pass of torment, The evenfall be sweet When I shall wear for garment The nakedness of defeat. But when afield Thou comest, and look'st in vain to meet That eagle of the wartime, That oriflamme, outrolled With strength of staff aforetime, With cleanly and costly fold,— Ride on, ride on! and seek me with lanthorns through the cold, And take from me (turned donor That night on blood-soaked sand), The stick and rag of Honour There safe in a stiffened hand, Not left, not lost, nor ever a spoil in the victor's land.
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