HE FELL AMONG THIEVES
by: Henry Newbolt (1862-1938)
- 'E have robb'd,'
said he, 'ye have slaughter'd and made end,
- Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead:
- What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?'
- 'Blood for our blood,' they said.
-
- He laugh'd: 'If one may settle the score for five,
- I am ready; but let the reckoning stand till day:
- I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive.'
- 'You shall die at dawn,' said they.
-
- He flung his empty revolver down the slope,
- He climb'd alone to the Eastward edge of the trees;
- All night long in a dream untroubled of hope
- He brooded, clasping his knees.
-
- He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills
- The ravine where the Yassîn river sullenly flows;
- He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills,
- Or the far Afghan snows.
-
- He saw the April noon on his books aglow,
- The wistaria trailing in at the window wide;
- He heard his father's voice from the terrace below
- Calling him down to ride.
-
- He saw the gray little church across the park,
- The mounds that hid the loved and honour'd dead;
- The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark,
- The brasses black and red.
-
- He saw the School Close, sunny and green,
- The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall,
- The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between,
- His own name over all.
-
- He saw the dark wainscot and timber'd roof,
- The long tables, and the faces merry and keen;
- The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof,
- The Dons on the daïs serene.
-
- He watch'd the liner's stem ploughing the foam,
- He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw;
- He heard the passengers' voices talking of home,
- He saw the flag she flew.
-
- And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet,
- And strode to his ruin'd camp below the wood;
- He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet:
- His murderers round him stood.
-
- Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast,
- The blood-red snow-peaks chill'd to a dazzling white;
- He turn'd, and saw the golden circle at last,
- Cut by the Eastern height.
-
- 'O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun,
- I have lived, I praise and adore Thee.'
- A sword swept.
- Over the pass the voices one by one
- Faded, and the hill slept.
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POEMS BY HENRY NEWBOLT |
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