POETRY.
A VETERAN'S LAMENT.
How can I serve thee, England, Motherland Of sons who now set forth by land and sea, Their hearts, that seemed so void of true intent, Now stripped of paltry trammels spun in peace Or slothful ease, and beating high and full
Of purpose for their country's righteous cause ?
They go, but I must stay, and there appears To be no use for me. My hair is white, Mine eyes could no more scan the distant plains Where battles rage, mine arm can no more wield The sword, my knees no longer grip a horse, But only stiffly bend in fervent prayer.
And yet, long years ago, in torrid zones, The few against a host, I too have fought, And seen the glorious charge, the stricken field, The fearful rout, have heard the boom of guns, The clash of steel, the cries of wounded men That almost drowned the shouts of victory.
But now, alas ! they say "too old, too old " ; and yeti
The fire of battle runs through all my veins, The smell of powder draws my feet to war As incense draws the pious soul to prayer.
Can I do naught P Ah, yes, I still can take Much willing toll of ease and hoped-for rest,
And bid God-speed to many a trusty man; I still can give, most precious gift of all, The dearest and the best I have on earth To serve thee gladly now, Land of my birth, As I went out to serve thee years ago.
A MUTINY VETERAN.
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