Methinks I see how spirits may be tried,
Transfigured into beauty on war’s verge,
Like flowers, whose tremulous grace is learnt beside
The trampling of the surge.
And now, not only Englishmen at need
Have won a fiery and unequal fray,—
No infantry has ever done such deed
Since Albuera’s day!
Those who live on amid our homes to dwell
Have grasped the higher lessons that endure,—
The gallant Private learns to practise well
His heroism obscure.
His heart beats high as one for whom is made
A mighty music solemnly, what time
The oratorio of the cannonade
Rolls through the hills sublime.
Yet his the dangerous posts that few can mark,
The crimson death, the dread unerring aim,
The fatal ball that whizzes through the dark,
The just-recorded name—
The faithful following of the flag all day,
he duty done that brings no nation’s thanks,
The Ama Nesciri[1] of some grim and grey
À Kempis of the ranks.
These are the things our commonweal to guard,
The patient strength that is too proud to press,
The duty done for duty, not reward,
The lofty littleness.
And they of greater state who never turned,
Taking their path of duty higher and higher,
What do we deem that they, too, may have learned
In that baptismal fire?
Not that the only end beneath the sun
Is to make every sea a trading lake,
And all our splendid English history one
Voluminous mistake.
They who marched up the bluffs last stormy week—
Some of them, ere they reached the mountain’s crown,
The wind of battle breathing on their cheek
Suddenly laid them down.