As the hung avalanche is suddenly hurled
Down the abyss, though but a pebble stirred,
So a crowned monster’s will, a Kaiser’s word,
Plunged into Armageddon half a world,
And Chaos was again. Crashed the blue skies
Above, as if to splinters. Was God dead?
Or deaf? or dumb? or reigned there, in His stead,
Only a devil in a God’s disguise?
Staggered and stunned, our England backward reeled
A moment. Then, magnificent, erect,
Flashed forth her sword, her ally to protect,
And over prostrate Belgium cast her shield.
Above the babel of voices, mists of doubt,
Rang forth his stern “To arms!” England to nerve;
Too old to fight, but not too old to serve,
Again he hears the call—is “ordered out.”
“Roberts!” the voice was Duty’s, arm’d and helm’d,
“To France! where India, greatly loyal, lands
Her stalwarts, and the bestial horde withstands
That raped and ravaged, burned and overwhelmed
“Heroic Belgium. Roberts, ’gainst the foe
No voice like thine can the swart Indians fire
To valour, and to loyalty inspire;
Roberts! to France!” Came answer calm: “I go.”
Nor once reproached: “I warned. You gave no heed,”
Nor pleaded fourscore years—“Ah, that I could!”
He who had England saved, an England would,
Only of England thought, in England’s need.
Then, where, on high, God captains legions bright
(On earth is Armageddon, and in hell—
May it not be?—Satan leads forth his fell
And fallen hosts, the heavens to storm and smite?)
Yea, from on high, from heaven’s supreme redoubt,
Came the last call of all, far-sounding, clear;
God spoke his name; he answered: “I am here.”
Stood to salute; again was “ordered out.”
From Camp to Camp he passed—beyond the sun’s
Red track, to where the immortal armies are,
Honoured of God, Hero of peace and war,
Amid the thunder-requiem of the guns.