POETRY.
PACISQUE IMPONERE MOREM.
THE flame of battle burns no more For warrior Briton, warrior Boer; No more their answering thunder fills The hollows of the fortress hills; No more the murderous marksmen hide Entrenched along the mountain-side; No more our lines with gathering speed Press onward to their desperate deed, And, fired beyond all human fear, Storm the fell rampart with a cheer.
Sons of the North, one toil is done; Now be a bloodless task begun !
Of that redoubled work of Rome The weightier half is yet to come: The proud are crushed, the vanquisht spared, Now be the paths of peace prepared !
Behold, the long-distracted land Lies in the hollow of our hand, And where the robber flags have flown Our flag must fly, and ours alone. Even now the foe has felt the light Pierce his dim cave of truthless night, And owns with half-amazed relief The chivalry of an English chief. Slowly his sullen brow shall clear, Lightened of all but wholesome fear, Till Time have purged his better part From the false cunning at his heart, To earn a freedom far more true Than any that ere now he knew.
Britain, thy task to frame the State !
No new achievement for thy fate—
(So witness by St. Lawrence flood Wolfe and Montcalm in brotherhood, While o'er the Indian sea shall speak
The wild Patluin, the warrior Sikh)—
Thy task to heal the scars of strife By lessons from an Empire's life, To blend the strains of rival blood, To build the road, to bridge the flood, To sow amid the scattered garths Light from our veterans' loyal hearths, To lead the land in willing awe To learn and love a juster law, To know with gradual new delight The restful rule of equal right, And 'neath thy large and liberal away Work out her own redemption day.
Then shall the ghosts of greed and lies Fly hellward from that fair sunrise, And the swart storm-cloud palely cease, Lost in the broad Britannic Peace.
ERNEST MYERS.
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