Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/167

MERIDIAN Like huntsmen, rallied by the winding horn,

Who seek the shade with trophies lightly borne,

Remembering their deeds of derring-do—

What bows were bent, what arrows speeded true.

All, all have striven, and far apart have strayed:

Fling down! fill up the can! wipe off the blade!

Ring out the song! nor care, in this our mood,

What hollow echo mocks us from the wood!

Or is it with us, haply, as with those

Each man of whom the morn's long combat knows?

All veterans now: the bugle's far recall

From the hot strife has sounded sweet to all.

Welcome the rendezvous beneath the elms,

The truce, the throwing down of swords and helms!

Life is a battle! How these sayings trite

Which school-boys write—and know not what they write—

In after years begin to burn and glow!

What man is here that has not found it so?

Who here is not a soldier of the wars,

Has not his half-healed wound, his early scars,—

Has broken not his sword, or from the field

Borne often naught but honor and his shield?

Ah, ye recruits, with flags and arms unstained,

See by what toil and moil the heights are gained!

Learn of our skirmish lost, our ridges won,

The dust, the thirst beneath the scorching sun;

Then see us closer draw—by fate bereft

Of men we loved—the firm-set column left.

II

To me the picture that some painter drew

Makes answer for our past. His throng pursue

A siren, one that ever smiles before,

Almost in reach, alluring more and more. 137