POETRY.
4.■•••■••4111.-..••••
TO THE LINGERERS: OCTOBER, 1915."
HIGH on the battlements of Fame
In the place your fathers won Blazoned in flame there stands a name Peerless, supreme, alone.
From loom and plough, from field and mart, At War's dread call they came; With mighty hand and valiant heart They graved that glorious name.
And if ye dare not grasp their sword Who wrought your England's name, Then shall ye wear as your reward
A crown of deathless shame.
Empires and thrones have crumbled down, Their realms forgotten lie, In silence grim their cities frown Beneath a silent sky.
They mocked the warnings of the wise, The counsels of the great, They bound themselves for sacrifice On the altar-stone of Fate.
Nor is it long since in your ears A warrior prophet spake : You scorned him then and heard with jeers His call to you to wake.
Do ye still scoff at him who stands Armed at his ruler's word? Or pity still the loyal bands That bear the soldier's sword?
And can ye wait in this great day Where the babes and old men ? Content to stay at home and pray For your brethren's victory ?
No. Even now though war's alarms Your steel-shed doorways shake, Still may ye heed the call to arms, Still there is time to wake.
Shame not the fathers, Englishmen,. Who won your liberty, Up ! arm for battle. Only then
WiLl you indeed be free,IL IL G.
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