Collected Poems 1897 - 1907 by Henry Newbolt
page 39 of 109 (35%)
page 39 of 109 (35%)
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For a handful of seventy men in a barrack of mud, Foodless, waterless, dwindling one by one, Answered a thousand yelling for English blood With stormy volleys that swept them gunner from gun, And charge on charge in the glare of the Afghan sun, Till the walls were shattered wherein they couched at bay, And dead or dying half of the seventy lay. Twice they had taken the cannon that wrecked their hold, Twice toiled in vain to drag it back, Thrice they toiled, and alone, wary and bold, Whirling a hurricane sword to scatter the rack, Hamilton, last of the English, covered their track. "Never give in!" he cried, and he heard them shout, And grappled with death as a man that knows not doubt. And the Guides looked down from their smouldering barrack again, And behold, a banner of truce, and a voice that spoke: "Come, for we know that the English all are slain, We keep no feud with men of a kindred folk; Rejoice with us to be free of the conqueror's yolk." Silence fell for a moment, then was heard A sound of laughter and scorn, and an answering word. "Is it we or the lords we serve who have earned this wrong, That ye call us to flinch from the battle they bade us fight? We that live--do ye doubt that our hands are strong? They that are fallen--ye know that their blood was bright! Think ye the Guides will barter for lust of the light |
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