POETRY.
THE CALL.
HARK 1 'Tis the rush of the horses, The crash of the galloping gun ! The stars are out of their courses ; The hour of Doom has begun. Leap from thy scabbard, 0 sword This is the Day of the Lord !
Prate not of peace any longer, Laughter and idlesse and ease! Up, every man that is stronger !
Leave but the priest on his knees! Quick, every hand to the hilt! Who striketh not—his the guilt !
Call not each man on his brother I
Cry not to Heaven to save ! Thou art the man—not another—
Thou, to off glove and out glaive I Fight ye who ne'er fought before I Fight ye old fighters the more! Oh, but the thrill and the splendour, The sudden new knowledge—I can! To fawn on no hireling defender, But fight one's own fight as a man! On woman's love won we set store; To win one's own manhood is more.
Who bath a soul that will glow not, Set face to face with the foe ?
"Is life worth living ? "—I know not: Death is worth dying, I know. Aye, I would gamble with Hell, And—losing such stakes—say, 'Tis well!
F. W. BOURDILLON.
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