Of martial music, History’s cherished tune;
     And they, the saintliest labourers that aye
     Dropped sweat on soil for bread, took arms and tramped;
     High-breasted to match men or elements,
     Or Fortune, harsh schoolmistress with the undrilled: 
     War’s ragged pupils; many a wavering line,
     Torn from the dear fat soil of champaigns hopefully tilled,
     Torn from the motherly bowl, the homely spoon,
     To jest at famine, ply
     The novel scythe, and stand to it on the field;
     Lie in the furrows, rain-clouds for their tents;
     Fronting the red artillery straighten spine;
     Buckle the shiver at sight of comrades strewn;
     Over an empty platter affect the merrily filled;
     Die, if the multiple hazards around said die;
     Downward measure a foeman mightily sized;
     Laugh at the legs that would run for a life despised;
     Lyrical on into death’s red roaring jaw-gape, steeled
     Gaily to take of the foe his lesson, and give reply. 
     Cheerful apprentices, they shall be masters soon!

     X

Lo, where hurricane flocks of the North-wind rattle their thunder Loud through a night, and at dawn comes change to the great South- west, Hounds are the hounded in clouds, waves, forests, inverted the race:  Lo, in the day’s young beams the colossal invading pursuers Burst upon rocks and were foam; Ridged up a torrent crest; Crumbled to ruin, still gazing a glacial wonder; Turned shamed feet toe to heel on their track at a panic pace.  Yesterday’s clarion cock scudded hen of the invalid comb; They, the triumphant tonant towering upper, were under; They, violators of home, dared hope an inviolate home; They that had stood for the stroke were the vigorous hewers; Quick as the trick of the wrist with the rapier, they the pursuers.  Heavens and men amazed heard the arrogant crying for grace; Saw the once hearth-reek rabble the scourge of an army dispieced; Saw such a shift of the hunt as when Titan Olympus clomb.  Fly! was the sportsman’s word; and the note of the quarry rang, Chase!

     XI

     Banners from South, from East,
     Sheaves of pale banners drooping hole and shred;
     The captive brides of valour, Sabine Wives
     Plucked from the foeman’s blushful bed,
     For glorious muted battle-tongues
     Of deeds along the horizon’s red,
     At cost of unreluctant lives;
     Her toilful heroes homeward poured,
     To give their fevered mother air of the lungs. 
     She breathed, and in the breathing craved. 
     Environed as she was, at bay,
     Safety she kissed on her drawn sword,
     And waved for victory, for fresh victory waved: 
     She craved for victory as her daily bread;
     For victory as her daily banquet raved.

     XII