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