Poet's Corner.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume VII, Issue 335, 19 September 1879, Page 9

Poet's Corner.

IN MEMORIAM.

BY JOAQUIN MILLER.

"Soldiers, from yonder Pyramids 1 wo thousand years behold your deeds ! " 1 he red-mouthed orators of war Make answer, and the battle car Shakes Pharaoh's dust-heaped coffin lids. While tawny Egypt bows and bleeds, And sees her babes hid as of old Along the river reeds .** * * * Rides retribution like a ghost lo point the Sphynx where Libya bled ? <J weep fair maidens of fair France I A. boy, and in his breast a lance Lies dead in mail on God's outpost. And thus to die— die so, alone, In that same land where he once led Through legions to a throne 1 Dead ! Stark dead in the tall, rank grass ! O moir? lo fJ n the great ' land !' 0 mother not Empress now, mother, ' And a nobler name, too, than all other, 1 he laurel leaf fades from the hand, "mother that waited, a mass ! Masses and chants must be said, And cypress instead. X' the lon °< stron g passes ( He died with his sword in his hand. Who say S it j h0 saw ifc ? Qod gaw .t. t J 1 hough they swooped down in masses Kight on h im and darkened the land ! iben the seventeen wounds in bis breast 1 An i these witness best. Fighting alone, single handed, AH heathendom 1 Falling alone ! PiWul God 1 The black creatures, with fierce, savage, cannibal features, Cursed from the first and Cain-branded, gash on where he lies overthrown : tv! \ T dead ! Stri P th « dead ! -l hen back, as in dread. Doing the thing he was born to. vv &at may mortal else than this ? i ca=ant born or boru a lord, £c a man at plow or sword. u\gh or low, let no man scorn to Make his heritage all his ; Vjr, lailinjr j n this nob]est aim Grandly die the same. Content you so, for Heaven willed it, Hear a white tombstone with pride Where this boy crusader died, oo to mark the utmost limit k SodS 0d s^ aw aad matl ' s domain, Prince's blood, he spilled it generous as heaven's white rain, And would again. Bravest, fairest boy ! Oh, never France a knightlier son than thou. And Pans, changeful, woman Paris, w oen she knows what her despair is, She shall kindlier speak than now : ■Naming thee her own forever She shall beg thy dust some day