O English mother, in the ruddy glow Hugging your baby closer when outside You see the silent, soft, and cruel snow Falling again, and think what ills betide Unshelter'd creatures,—your sad thoughts may go Where War and Winter now, two spectre-wolves,
Hunt in the freezing vapour that involves Those Asian peaks of ice and gulfs below.
Does this young Soldier heed the snow that fills His mouth and open eyes? or mind, in truth,
To-night, his mother's parting syllables?
Ha! is't a red coat?—Merely blood.
Keep ruth For others; this is but an Afghan youth Shot by the stranger on his native hills.
