A swift, a terrible bugle pealed.
The sulphurous clouds were rolled away.
Embraced, embraced, on that red field,
The wounded and the dying lay.
We bring good news! Blood choked the word,
—We knew you not; so dark the night!—
O father, was I worth your sword?
O son, O herald of the light!
We bring good news!—The darkness fills
Mine eyes!—Nay, the night ebbs away!
And, over the everlasting hills,
The great new dawn led on the day.
THE LONELY SHRINE
(A few months after the Milton Ter-centenary.)
I
The crowd has passed away,
Faded the feast, and most forget!
Master, we come with lowly hearts to pay
Our deeper debt.
II
High they upheld the wine,
And royally, royally drank to thee!
Loud were their plaudits. Now the lonely shrine
Accepts our knee.