What say the Plains--the Plains that stretch along From hamlet and from field, from fold and byre? ‘Here once toiled one who sang his peasant song And now reaps harvest ’mid the tribesmen’s fire! The Spirit of a mightier world than springs From his poor village led him on To glory! Yea--to glory!’--Ever sings The Spirit of the Plains when he is gone! What say the Hills whence come the Gurkha breed-- The bull-dogs of the East? From crest and vale Reverberate the echoes, swift they speed On falling waters or the mountain gale! ‘Our Hillmen brave as lions have gone forth; They were our sons; we bred them--even we-- To face thy foemen, Islands of the North, We know their worth and sing it thus to thee!’ What say the Passes? There the requiem Of battle lingers o’er the undying dead-- ‘Our Soldiers of the Sun, whose diadem Of honour glitters in the nullah bed, Or by the hillside drear, or dark ravine, Or on the _sangared_ steep--a solemn ray That touches thus the thing that once hath been, With glory--glory!’--So the Passes say! And so the great world hears and men’s eyes blaze As each one to his neighbour cries ‘Well done!’ A little thing this speech--this flower of praise, Yet let it crown our Soldiers of the Sun! Not here alone--for here we know them well; But tell our English, waiting on the shore To welcome back _their_ heroes: ‘Lo! these fell Even as ours--as brave--for evermore!’ I hear the roar amid the London street:-- The earth hath not its equal, whether it be For ignorance or knowledge, and the feet That press therein and eyes that turn to see Know nothing of our sepoys--let them know That here be men beneath whose dark skin runs A battle-virtue kindred with the glow That fires the leaping pulses of their sons! ’Tis worth proclaiming. Yea, it seems to me This loyalty--to death--lies close akin To all the noblest human traits that be, Engendered whence we know not--yet within Choice spirits nobly gathered. Lo! we stand, Needs must, against the world, Yet war’s alarms Are nothing to our mightiest Motherland, While Nation circles Nation in her arms! _John Renton Denning._ CCXI SARANSAR What are the bugles saying With a strain so long and so loud? They say that a soldier’s blanket Is meet for a soldier’s shroud! They say that their hill-tossed music, Blown forth of the living breath, Is full of the victor’s triumph And sad with the wail of death! _Bugles of Talavera!_ What are the bugles saying? They tell of the falling night, When a section of dog-tired English Drew close for a rear-guard fight; With an officer-boy to lead them, A lost and an outflanked squad, By the grace of a half-learned drill book, And a prayer to the unseen God! _Bugles of Talavera!_