At Dawn in France

Night on the plains, and the stars unfold
The cycle of night in splendour old ;
The winds are hushed, on the fire-swept hill
All is silent, shadowy, still—
Silent, yet tense as a harp high-strung
By a master hand for deeds unsung.
Slowly across the shadowy night
Tremble the shimmering wings of light,
And men with vigil in their eyes
And a fever light that never dies—
Men from the city, hamlet, town,
Once white faces tanned to brown,—
Stand to the watch of the parapet
And watch, with rifles, bayonets set,
For the great unknown that comes to men
Swift as the light : sudden, then

Dawn ! the light from its shimmering wings
Lights up their faces with strange, strange things :
Strange thoughts of love, of death and life,
Serenity 'mid sanguine strife :

Dreams of life where the feet of youth
Rush to the pinnacles of Truth ;
Where early dreams with pinions fleet
Rush to find a love complete ;
Of Love and Youth 'neath rosy bowers
Sensuous, mad with the wine-filled hours,
Flushed with hope and joy's delight,
Weaving rapture from the night :
Visions of death where the harp is still
And the sun sets swiftly behind youth's hill ;
Where the song is hushed and the light is dead
And the man lies with the remembered ;
Where Memory weaves a paradise,
A mother's face, her tender eyes,
Her suffering for the child she gave,
Her love unbroken by the grave ;
Where shadows gather o'er the bliss,
The rapture of a bridal kiss :
Yet dreams where Youth (sublimity !)
Doth thrill to give for Liberty
Its love, its hope, its radiant morn,
Doth thrill to die for the yet unborn,
To die, and pay the utmost price
And save its ideals thro' the sacrifice.

Thus at dawn do the watchers dream,
Of life and death, of love supreme :

Flushed with the dawn, hope in, each breast
Their faces turn to the starless west :
Thus at dawn do the watchers think
Resolute-hearted upon death's brink
With a strange, proud look on every face—
The SCORN of Death, the pride of race.