WHO GAINS BY WAR?
Not the great woman whose eighty years to-night completes,[C] who would carry with her to her grave the remembrance of the longest reign and the purest; who would have that when the nations gather round her bier, the whisper should go round, “That was a mother’s hand; it struck no child.”
WHO GAINS BY WAR?
Not the brave English soldier; there are no laurels for them here. The dying lad with hands fresh from the plough; the old man tottering to the grave, who seizes up the gun to die with it; the simple farmer who as he falls hears yet his wife’s last whisper, “For freedom and our land!” and dies hearing it—these men can bind no laurels on[103] a soldier’s brow! They may be shot, not conquered—fame rests with them. Go, gallant soldiers and defend the shores of that small island that we love; there are no laurels for you here!
WHO GAINS BY WAR?
Not we the Africans, whose hearts are knit to England. We love all. Each hired soldier’s bullet that strikes down a South African, does more; it finds a billet here in our hearts. It takes one African’s life—in another it kills that which will never live again.
WHO GAINS BY WAR?
There are some who think they gain! In the background we catch sight of misty figures; we know the old tread; we hear the rustle of paper, passing from hand to hand, and we know the[104] fall of gold; it is an old familiar sound in Africa; we know it now! There are some who think they gain! Will they gain?