3 MARCH 1923, Page 14

POETRY.

A DEAD WARRIOR.

HERE sown to dust lies one that drave

The furrow through his heart ; Now, of the fields he died to save His own dust forms a part.

Where went the tramp of martial feet, The blare of trumpets loud, Comes silence with her winding-sheet, And shadow with her shroud.

His mind no longer counsel takes, No sword his hand need draw, Across whose borders peace now makes Inviolable law.

So, with distraction round him stilled, Now let him be content !

And time from age to age shall build His standing monument.

Not here, where strife, and greed, and lust

Grind up the bones of men ; But in that safe and secret dust Which shall not rise again.

LAURENCE TIOUSMAN.