Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/112

 112

So they stormed the iron Hill,

O'er the sleepers lying still,

And their trumpets sang them forward through the dull succeeding dawns,

But the thunder flung them wide,

And they crumpled up and died,—

They had waged the war of monarchs—and they died the death of pawns.

But the forts still stood. . . . Their breath

Swept the foeman like a blade,

Though ten thousand men were paid

To the hungry purse of Death,

Though the field was wet with blood,

Still the bold defences stood,

Stood!

And the King came out with his bodyguard at the day's departing gleam—

And the moon rode up behind the smoke and showed the King his dream. Dana Burnet