AT AN OUTPOST.
THE panting land that swims in light,
The jungle scream that tears the night, The tropic dust, the tropic smell, The sights and sounds I know so well Are strangers yet, For in my heart beats evermore The surf upon an island shore The North seas fret.
You grant no place for sentiment Where common-sense is prepotent, Yet is it altogether weak To hear sometimes the silence speak Across the foam, To see where beds of mist lie low The moonlight sleep on Christmas snow, The fields of home ?
'Tis joy to know and strength to feel 'Tis blood that rules, and not bare steel ; That truth and justice hold a sway Which lasts beyond the fighter's day ; I count it pride That here, for heathen eyes to see, The lessons of my mother's knee Are still my guide.
The Empire's built within our hearts, We fashion there its shape and parts, As its foundations deep were laid In sacrifiees gladly made ; Then happy I, If in its splendid eastern wing I set a stone for God and King Before I die.
HENRY WOOLLEY.
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