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Poetry.

THE WARRIOR. 'David slew Goliath, But I slew twenty men ; And their blood was red, and ’tis on my head, But ne’er a man can condemn. For I killed them right In the thick of a fignt, And I laid them low With but blow on blow. And to-day alone I can hear them moan ; I can feel their blood . In a heated flood ; I can see them lie ’Neath the quiet sky— The stars were low and the night was dim, But my soul was the soul of the seraphim. David slew Goliath, He slew him with a stone. But with Ig’g of wood And British blood I laid them low in a hideous row — 1A dusky score of Maori men. And I counted them over—ten and ten — They laughed me nigh With a demon eye, They peered at my angel-bride, But my life was wild with native pride. And my love was dear, And the new spring-year So green with hope of better things. I said, ‘‘Dear love, take wings, For it were little was I alone.” And her glance, ’twould have softened a heart o’ stone. And tho’ night was cold, and the ■ stars were dim, I gained the Soul of the seraphim. The deeds that are done beneath the sun Are strange as the thoughts o’ men. But there's never a joy like a battle won, There’s never a place like a lion’s den, Where the king o’ beasts in a crimson bed Lies benign with the dreams o’ the dead. Sol spoke the warriors leering there In the voice of an uttermost despair: ‘‘You may tear my flesh to crimson strips. And salt my parching lips ; You may smash this skull to atoms like a trampled cockle-shell ; You may hang me high or bury me low. But ever know That this faith will remain without a stain — For my heart is in the heart of Michael As lie stormed the hosts of hell.” So my love is mine, And bright stars thine ; And I know too well That in Heaven or Hell Soul is greater than blood, and nerve is better than bone : You can sell my hands to an Eastern king - , You can weigh me down with a load of stone. But my heart will sing And remain my own. My thoughts take wing, ‘And though I groan The day shall come when face to face I will crush the,tyrant and save my race. And tho’ the night he dark and th’ stars are dim, I will claim the soul of the seraphim. -LAVENGEO.

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Permanent link to this item

https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/SOCR19071019.2.17

Bibliographic details

Poetry., Southern Cross, Volume 15, Issue 26, 19 October 1907

Word Count
431

Poetry. Southern Cross, Volume 15, Issue 26, 19 October 1907

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