Grass of Parnassus. Lang Andrew

      Vain is the dream!  However Hope may rave,

      He perished with the folk he could not save,

      And though none surely told us he is dead,

      And though perchance another in his stead,

      Another, not less brave, when all was done,

      Had fled unto the southward and the sun,

      Had urged a way by force, or won by guile

      To streams remotest of the secret Nile,

      Had raised an army of the Desert men,

      And, waiting for his hour, had turned again

      And fallen on that False Prophet, yet we know

      Gordon is dead, and these things are not so!

      Nay, not for England’s cause, nor to restore

      Her trampled flag – for he loved Honour more —

      Nay, not for Life, Revenge, or Victory,

      Would he have fled, whose hour had dawned to die.

      He will not come again, whate’er our need,

      He will not come, who is happy, being freed

      From the deathly flesh and perishable things,

      And lies of statesmen and rewards of kings.

      Nay, somewhere by the sacred River’s shore

      He sleeps like those who shall return no more,

      No more return for all the prayers of men —

      Arthur and Charles – they never come again!

      They shall not wake, though fair the vision seem:

      Whate’er sick Hope may whisper, vain the dream!

      To-morrow is a year since Gordon died!

         A year ago to-night, the Desert still

         Crouched on the spring, and panted for its fill

      Of lust and blood.  Their old art statesmen plied,

      And paltered, and evaded, and denied;

         Guiltless as yet, except for feeble will,

         And craven heart, and calculated skill

      In long delays, of their great homicide.

      A year ago to-night ’twas not too late.

         The thought comes through our mirth, again, again;

      Methinks I hear the halting foot of Fate

         Approaching and approaching us; and then

      Comes cackle of the House, and the Debate!

         Enough; he is forgotten amongst men.

      Sons of the giant Ocean isle

         In sport our friendly foes for long,

      Well England loves you, and we smile

      When you outmatch us many a while,

         So fleet you are, so keen and strong.

      You, like that fairy people set

         Of old in their enchanted sea

      Far off from men, might well forget

      An elder nation’s toil and fret,

         Might heed not aught but game and glee.

      But what your fathers were you are

         In lands the fathers never knew,

      ’Neath skies of alien sign and star

      You rally to the English war;

         Your hearts are English, kind and true.

      And now, when first on England falls

         The shadow of a darkening fate,

      You hear the Mother ere she calls,

      You leave your ocean-girdled walls,

         And face her foemen in the gate.

      Thou that on every field of earth and sky

         Didst hunt for Death, who seemed to flee and fear,

      How great and greatly fallen dost thou lie

         Slain in the Desert by some wandering spear:

      ‘Not here, alas!’ may England say, ‘not here

         Nor in this quarrel was it meet to die,

         But in that dreadful battle drawing nigh

      To thunder through the Afghan passes sheer:

      Like Aias by the ships shouldst thou have stood,

         And in some glen have stayed the stream of flight,

         The bulwark of thy people and their shield,

      When Indus or when Helmund ran with blood,

         Till back into the Northland and the Night

         The smitten Eagles scattered from the field.’

      Dead, with their eyes to the foe,

         Dead, with the foe at their feet,

      Under the sky laid low

         Truly their slumber is sweet,

      Though the wind from the Camp of the Slain Men blow,

         And the rain on the wilderness beat.

      Dead, for they chose to die

         When that wild race was run;

      Dead, for they would not fly,

         Deeming their work undone,

      Nor cared to look on the face of the sky,

         Nor loved the light of the sun.

      Honour we give them and tears,

         And the flag they died to save,

      Rent from the rain of the spears,

         Wet from the war and the wave,

      Shall