Far spread the gleaming foot hills,
And the deep, green vales between;
Fair lift the distant coast-lines
And the water’s shifting sheen—
And weary, ye pause on the Summit
For the first victorious breath,
When a hand at your elbow beckons—
And ye know that the hand is Death.
THE LITTLE BRONZE CROSS
THE VICTORIA CROSS IN THE CROWN JEWELS ROOM OF THE TOWER OF LONDON
Glittering—glaring—glistening—
In pompous, proud array;
Maces and crowns and sceptres—
Orders and ribbons gay:
Bright in the white electric light;
Caged and guarded there;
Symbol and sign that the luck of line
A king or a cad might wear.
Blinking—blinding—blazing—
The crown-topped hillock shone,
And the gaping crowd in voices loud
Coveted gilt and stone.
Coveted idle gilt and stone,
Though never stopped to stare
At a little cross on the other side,
Half hid in the alcove there.
But slowly into the Tower
Through the narrow windows crept,
The Winds of the Outer Marches—
The Winds that had seen and wept
At Ladysmith—Trafalgar—
Sebastopol—Lahore;
Khartoum—Seringapatam—
Kabul and Gwalior.
The breath of the red Sirocco
That sweeps from the white Soudan:
The winds that beat through the Kyber Pass
Where the blood of England ran:
The winds that lift o’er the Great South Drift—
O’er the veldt and the frozen plain—
They stooped and kissed the little bronze cross,
And went on their way again.
And the blaze of crowns and sceptres—
The power and pomp of kings;
And the glare of the glittering Orders—
The tinsel of Little Things,
Paled in the ancient Tower—
Faded and died alone,
And only a cross—For Valour—
With mystic brightness shone.