The war-worn and the weary leaped up ready, fresh, and
true! No weak blood curdled white i' the face, no valour turned to
dew.
Majestic as a God defied, arose our little host--
All for the peak of peril pushed--each for the fieriest post!
Thorough mist, and thorough mire, and o'er the hill brow scowling
grim,
As is the frown of Slaughter when he dreams his dreadful dream.
No sun! but none is needed,--men can feel their way to fight,
The lust of battle in their face--eyes filled with fiery light;
And long ere dawn was red in heaven, upon the dark earth lay
The prophesying morning-red of a great and glorious day.
As bridegroom leaves his wedded bride in gentle slumbers sealed,
Our England slumbered in the West, when her warriors went afield.
We thought of her, and swore that day to strike immortal blows,
As all along our leagured line the roar of battle rose.
Her banners waved like blessing hands, and we felt it was the hour
For a glorious grip till fingers met in the throat of Russian power,
And at a bound, and with a sound that madly cried to kill,
The lion of Old England leapt in lightnings from the hill.
And there he stood superb, through all that Sabbath of the Sword,
And there he slew, with a terrible scorn, his hunters, horde on
horde.
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