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ODE FOR TRAFALGAR DAY, 1905
13
What place is this? What under-world of painAll shadow-barred with glare of swinging fires?What writhing phantoms of the newly slain?What cries? What thirst consuming all desires?This is the field of battle: not for life,Not for the deeper life that dwells in love,Not for the savour of strifeOr the far call of fame,Not for all these the fight: all these aboveThe soul of this man cherished Duty's name.
His steadfast hope from self has turned away,For the Cause only must he still contend:"How goes the day with us? How goes the day?"He craves not victory, but to make an end.Therefore not yet thine hour, O Death: but whenThe weapons forged against his country's peaceLie broken round him-thenGive him the kiss supreme;Then let the tumult of his warfare ceaseAnd the last dawn dispel his anguished dream.
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