Up, to the many-miled Karoo, Along the spreading, sea-like veld,
Starlit, or 'neath the burning blue—. Day after day, and month by month, Safely the mail-train passes thro'.
A vital pulse, replenishing, From the whole world beyond the waves, The tingling town, whose doubled power, Already, doubled action craves : From life to life, a-throb with life, She takes her eager way—past graves : Small, scatter'd clots of earth, wherein, Exiled from all activity For ever, powerless, done with, dead, And turning to corruption, lie Hands that were ready, hearts that leapt, Once, while the mail went safely by.
The ruin'd blockhouse gapes beside ; The empty food-tins,* red with rust, Blirik from the sod, or from the wires Prate, idly, to each passing gust— Meagre memorials of hard days Here borne, and ending here—in dust : Lonely, imwatch'd, unvisited, Far-off alike from friend and foe, Maybe forgotten. Overhead The indifferent light and darkness go, The silent days and months march on, The mail-train passes to and fro.
On, by an Empire, furthering Fate, Fraught with the Future, she is sped.
Behind her, humbly, these remain, Who for her prosperous passage bled.
Behind, beside, before her, glows
The glory of the helpless dead.B. E. BAIIGHeN.
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