IT WAS on the fourth of August, as five hundred of us lay
In the camp at Eland’s River, came a shell from De La Rey—
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I have seen the plains lying baked and bare,
When drought and famine hold revel there,
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WIDE are the plains—the plains that stretch to the west
An ocean of trackless waste, untrodden and rude,
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No white cloud sails the lonely sky,
Thro’ the gaunt trees no breezes sigh,
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THE BOY went out from the ranges grim,
And the breath of the mountains went with him;
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Nature feels the touch of noon;
Not a rustle stirs the grass;
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Ebbs and flows the restless river
In the city street
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Free is the wind that lashes into foam
The fortress waves that gird the Sea-King’s home
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Dim in the mist of ages, seeking a resting-place,
Broke on the shores of Britain the wave of an Aryan race.
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The roar and rush of life sweeps on;
Still shines the sun as once it shone:
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The dull earth swung in silence o’er,
A dreamless world, a dreary star,
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Whisper, O wings of the wind! Sing me your song, O sea!
Grey is the weary world, and grey is the heart of me!
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IN the greyness of the dawning we have seen the pilot-star,
In the whisper of the morning we have heard the years afar.
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A sun-flash on his mounting wing,
A wild note soaring high—
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Girl, with the soft grey eyes,
You to the flowers belong:
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I stood in the heart of the city street,
I felt the throb of her pulses beat,
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The pen falls from his nerveless hand,
The light is fading from his eyes,
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Chequered with sunshine and shade—the umbrage of white clouds in motion—
Rearing their summits to Heaven, broken like waves on their strands,
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Darkrose her shore in seas of amethyst
By tropic breezes kissed,
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There is scarlet on his forehead,
There are scars across his face,
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When first the Gods, whose Empire is eternal,
In Time’s deep chalice poured Life’s sacred wine,
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In sea and air, in leaf and stone,
Where’er Truth’s magic words are writ,
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Around and beneath, the dull grey mist and the sullen roar of the sea,
Scant footing-place on the sheer cliffs face—with death for a penalty;
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In an age of Mammon and Greed,
In an age of Humbug and Cant,
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Here in the silence cometh unto me
A song that is not mine,
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Friend, you have wealth and power,
Men go and come at your call,
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There is a magic kingdom of strange powers,
Thought-hidden, lit by other stars than ours;
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When from his place a forest monarch falls,
A thunder shakes the leafy leagues across,
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SPRING
Across the street, across the grass,
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Sing not of Rest
For heart, or brain, or the strong soul’s emotion
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