The Last Salute

In a far field, away from England, liesA boy I friended with a care like love;

All day the wide earth aches, the keen wind cries,

The melancholy clouds drive on above.

There, separate from him by a little

Two eagle cousins, generous, reckless, free,

Two Grenfells, lie, and my boy is made man,

One with these elder knights of chivalry.

Boy, who expected not this dreadful day,

Yet leaped, a soldier, at the sudden call,

Drank as your fathers, deeper though than they,

The soldier's cup of anguish, blood, and gall.

Not now as friend, but as a soldier,

Salute you fallen.

For the soldier's

Our greatest honour is, if

These wayward hearts assume and bear the

The Soldier's is a name none

Saving his fellows.

Deeds are all his flower.

He lives, he toils, he suffers, and he dies,

And if not vainly spent, this is his dower.

The Soldier is the Martyr of a nation,

Expresses but is subject to its will,

His is the Pride ennobles

As his the rebel Spirit-to-fulfil.

Anonymous, he takes his country's name,

Becomes its blindest vassal - though its

By force of arms-its shame is called his shame,

As its the glory gathered by his sword.

Lonely he is: he has nor friend nor lover,

Sith in his body he is dedicate…His comrades only share his life and

Their further deeds to one more heart oblate.

Living, lie's made an "Argument Beyond"For others' peace; but when hot wars have birth,

For all his brothers' safety he is

To Fate or Whatsoever sways this Earth.

Dying, his mangled body, to inter it,

He doth bequeath him into comrade hands,

His soul he renders to some Captain

That knows, admires, pities, and understands!

All this you knew by that which doth

Deeper than learning; by

Of ancient, dark, and melancholy pride;

You were a Soldier true and died as one!…All day the long wind cries, the clouds unroll,

But to the cloud and wind I cry, "Be still!"What need of comfort has the heroic soul?

What soldier finds a soldier's grave is chill?(H.

S.

G.,

Ypres, 1916)