Gen George Patton's reincarnation poem "through a glass, and darkly"

Through the travail of the ages,

Midst the pomp and toil of war,
I have fought and strove and perished
Countless times upon this star.

In the form of many people
In all panoplies of time
Have I seen the luring vision
Of the Victory Maid, sublime.

I have battled for fresh mammoth,
I have warred for pastures new,
I have listed to the whispers
When the race trek instinct grew.

I have known the call to battle
In each changeless changing shape
From the high souled voice of conscience
To the beastly lust for rape.

I have sinned and I have suffered,
Played the hero and the knave;
Fought for belly, shame, or country,
And for each have found a grave.

I cannot name my battles
For the visions are not clear,
Yet, I see the twisted faces
And I feel the rending spear.

Perhaps I stabbed our Savior
In His sacred helpless side.
Yet, I've called His name in blessing
When after times I died.

In the dimness of the shadows
 Where we hairy heathens warred,
I can taste in thought the lifeblood;
We used teeth before the sword.

While in later clearer vision
 I can sense the coppery sweat,
Feel the pikes grow wet and slippery
When our Phalanx, Cyrus met.

Hear the rattle of the harness
 Where the Persian darts bounced clear,
 See their chariots wheel in panic
 From the Hoplite's leveled spear.

 See the goal grow monthly longer,
 Reaching for the walls of Tyre.
Hear the crash of tons of granite,
 Smell the quenchless eastern fire.

Still more clearly as a Roman,
 Can I see the Legion close,
As our third rank moved in forward
And the short sword found our foes.

 Once again I feel the anguish
 Of that blistering treeless plain
When the Parthian showered death bolts,
And our discipline was in vain.

 I remember all the suffering
Of those arrows in my neck.
Yet, I stabbed a grinning savage
As I died upon my back.

Once again I smell the heat sparks
When my Flemish plate gave way
And the lance ripped through my entrails
As on Crecy's field I lay.

 In the windless, blinding stillness
Of the glittering tropic sea
I can see the bubbles rising
Where we set the captives free.

Midst the spume of half a tempest
 I have heard the bulwarks go
When the crashing, point blank round shot
 Sent destruction to our foe.

 I have fought with gun and cutlass
 On the red and slippery deck
 With all Hell aflame within me
 And a rope around my neck.

And still later as a General
 Have I galloped with Murat
 When we laughed at death and numbers
Trusting in the Emperor's Star.

 Till at last our star faded,
And we shouted to our doom
 Where the sunken road of Ohein
 Closed us in it's quivering gloom.

So but now with Tanks a'clatter
Have I waddled on the foe
Belching death at twenty paces,
 By the star shell's ghastly glow.

 So as through a glass, and darkly
 The age long strife I see
Where I fought in many guises,
 Many names, but always me.

And I see not in my blindness
 What the objects were I wrought,
 But as God rules o'er our bickerings
It was through His will I fought.

 So forever in the future,
Shall I battle as of yore,
 Dying to be born a fighter,
But to die again, once more.

The Knight's Leap

So the foemen have fired the gate, men of mine,
And the water is spent and gone?
Then bring me a cup of the red Ahr-wine:
I never shall drink but this one:
And reach me my harness, and saddle my horse,
And lead him me round to the door:
He must take such a leap tonight perforce
As horse never took before.

I have fought my fight, I have lived my life,
I have drunk my share of wine;
From Trier to Coin there was never a knight
Led a merrier life than mine.
I have lived by the saddle for years two score;
And if I must die on tree,
Then the old saddle-tree, which has borne me of yore,
Is the properest timber for me.
So now to show Bishop, and burgher, and priest,
How the Altenahr hawk can die;
If they smoke the old falcon out of his nest,
He must take to his wings and fly!

He harnessed himself by the clear moonshine,
And he mounted his horse at the door;
And he drained such a cup of the red Ahr-wine
As man never drained before.
He spurred the old horse, and he held him tight,
And he leapt him out over the wall
Out over the cliff, out into the night,
Three hundred feet of fall.
They found him next morning below in the glen,
With never a bone in him whole.
A mass or a prayer, now, good gentlemen,
For such a bold rider's soul.

CHARLES KINGSLEY

Was Merely Whisperin' Bill

So you're takin' the census, mister?
There's three of us livin' still,
My wife and I, an' our only son,
that folks call Whisperin' Bill;
But Bill couldn't tell ye his name, sir,
an' so it's hardly worth givin' ,
For ye see a bullet killed his mind,
an' left his body livin'.

Set down for a minute, mister;
ye see Bill was only fifteen
At the time O' the war,
an' as likely a boy as ever this world has seen;
An' what with the news of battles lost,
the speeches an' all the noise,
I guess every farm in the neighborhood
lost a part of its crop O' boys.

'Twas the harvest time when Bill left home;
every stalk in the fields of rye
Seemed to stand tip-top to see him off
an' wave a fond good-bye;
His sweetheart was here with some other girls
-the sassy little miss!
An' pretendin' she wanted to whisper
in his ear, she gave him a rousin' kiss.

Oh, he was a handsome feller,
an' tender an' brave an' smart.

An' tho' he was bigger than I was,
the boy had a woman's heart.

I couldn't control my feelin's,
but I tried with all my might.

An' his mother an' me stood a-cryin'
till Bill was out o' sight.

His mother she often told him
 when she knew he was goin' away,

That God would take care o' him,
 maybe, if he didn't forgit to pray;

An' on the bloodiest battle-fields,
when bullets whizzed in the air

An' Bill was a-fightin' desperit,
 he used to whisper a prayer.

Oh, his comrades has often told me
that Bill never flinched a bit,

When every second a gap in the ranks
 told where a ball had hit.

An' one night when the field was covered
 with the awful harvest o' war.

They found my boy 'mongst the martyrs
 o' the cause he was fightin' for.

His fingers were clutched in the dewy grass
 — oh, no, sir, he wasn't dead,

But he lay sort of helpless an' crazy
 with a rifle-ball in his head ;

An' if Bill had really died that night
 I'd give all I've got worth givin';

For ye see the bullet had killed his mind
 an' left his body livin'.

An officer wrote an' told us how
 the boy had been hurt in the fight,

But he said that the doctors reckoned
 they could bring him round all right,

An' then we heard from a neighbor,
 dis- abled at Malvern Hill,

That he thought in the course of a week or so
he'd be comin' home with Bill.

We was that anxious t' see him
we'd set up an' talk o' nights

Till the break o' day had dimmed the stars

an' put out the northern lights;

We waited an' watched for a month or more,
an' the Summer was nearly past.

When a letter came one day that said
 they'd started for home at last.

I'll never forgit the day Bill came
 'twas harvest-time again

An' the air-bloom over the yellow fields
 was sweet with the scent o' the grain;

The door-yard was full o' the neighbors,
 who had come to share our joy,

An' all of us sent up a mighty cheer
 at the sight o' that soldier boy.

An' all of a sudden somebody said:
"My God! don't the boy know his mother?"

An' Bill stood a-whisperin', fearful like,
 an' starin' from one to another:

"Don't be afraid. Bill," said he to himself,
 as he stood in his coat o' blue,

"Why, God'll take care o' you, Bill;
 God'll take care o' you."

He seemed to be loadin' an' firin' a gun,

an' to act like a man who hears
 The awful roar o' the battle-field
a-soundin' in his ears;

I saw that the bullet had touched his brain
 an' somehow made it blind,

With the picture o' war before his eyes
 an' the fear o' death in his mind.

I grasped his hand, an' says I to Bill,
 "Don't ye remember me?

I'm yer father — don't ye know me?
 How frightened ye seem to be!"

But the boy kep' a-whisperin' to himself,
 as if 'twas all he knew,

"God'll take care o' you, Bill;
God'll take care o' you."

He's never known us since that day,

nor his sweetheart, an' never will:

Father an' mother an' sweetheart-
 are all the same to Bill.

An' many's the time his mother

 sets up the whole night through,

An' smooths his head, and says:
"Yes, Bill, God'll take care o' you."

Unfortunit? Yes, but we can't complain.

It's a livin' death more sad
 When the body chngs to a life o' shame
 an' the soul has gone to the bad;

An' Bill is out o' the reach
o'' harm an' danger of every kind.

We only take care of his body,
 but God takes care of his mind.

I Have No Sons

I have no sons
With strong young limbs
To stand straight and tall
And face the guns
At warlords' whims
And rot upon the spot they fall.
I have no sons to lay
At the feet of the lords of war,
Yet I might have had
If on a day
These twenty years ago or more,
They'd spared a lad
They crushed beneath the torch he bore.

CLAUDIA BLAND.

The Spires Of Oxford (seen from the train)

I saw the spires of Oxford
As I was passing by,
The gray spires of Oxford
Against a pearl-gray sky,
My heart was with the Oxford men
Who went abroad to die.
The years go fast in Oxford
The golden years and gay,
The hoary Colleges look down
On careless boys at play.
But when the bugles sounded war
They put their games away.

They left the peaceful river,
The cricket field, the quad,
The shaven lawns of Oxford
To seek a bloody sod
They gave their merry youth away
For country and for God.
God rest you, happy gentlemen,
Who laid your good lives down,
Who took the khaki and the gun
Instead of cap and gown.
God bring you to a fairer place
Than even Oxford town.

Winifred M. Letts

TR on War Veterans

A man who is good enough to shed his blood for his country is good enough to be given a square deal afterward. More than that no man is entitled to, and less than that no man shall have.
Theodore Roosevelt, Springfield, Ill., 1903

General to his soldiers

GENERAL JOFFRE TO HIS SOLDIERS
Soldiers, we are attacking.
Advance as long as you can.
When you can no longer advance, hold your position.
 When you can no longer hold it, die!
 (First Battle of the Marne)

the American flag

When Freedom, from her mountain height,
 Unfurled her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,
And set the stars of glory there!
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure, celestial white
With streakings of the morning light;
 Then, from his mansion in the sun,
She called her eagle-bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand
 The symbol of her chosen land!

Majestic monarch of the cloud!
Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
 To hear the tempest trumping loud,
 And see the lightning lances driven, 
When strive the warriors of the storm,
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven,
 Child of the Sun! to thee 't is given
To guard the banner of the free,
 To hover in the sulphur smoke,
 To ward away the battle-stroke,
 And bid its blendings shine afar,
 Like rainbows on the cloud of war,
The harbingers of victory!

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,
 The sign of hope and triumph high!
 When speaks the signal-trumpet tone,
 And the long line comes gleaming on,
 Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,
 Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,
 Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn
 To where thy sky-born glories burn,
 And, as his springing steps advance,
Catch war and vengeance from the glance.
And when the cannon-mouthings loud
 Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud,
 And gory sabres rise and fall
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall,
 Then shall thy meteor glances glow,
 And cowering foes shall shrink beneath
Each gallant arm that strikes below
 That lovely messenger of death.

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;
 When death, careering on the gale,
 Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
 And frighted waves rush wildly back
 Before the broadside's reeling rack,
 Each dying wanderer of the sea
 Shall look at once to heaven and thee,
 And smile to see thy splendors fly
 In triumph o'er his closing eye.
Flag of the free heart's hope and home,
 By angel hands to valor given!
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,
 And all thy hues were born in heaven.
Forever float that standard sheet!
 Where breathes the foe but falls before us,
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,
 And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us!
 Joseph Rodman Drake

Souce of news

Absolute knowledge I have none,
 But my niece's washerwoman's son
 Heard a policeman on his beat
 Say to a laborer in the street
 That he had a letter last week
 Written in the finest Greek,
 From a Chinese coolie in Timbuctoo,
Who said that the niggers in Cuba knew
 Of a colored man in a Texas town,
 Who got it straight from a circus clown,
 That a man in the Klondike heard the news
 From a gang of South American Jews,
 Who heard of a society female rake,
 Whose mother-in-law will undertake
To prove that her husband's sister knows,
 As stated in a printed piece,
That she has a son, who has a friend
Who knows when the war is going to end

The Seige of Belgrade

An Austrian army, awfully arrayed,
Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade.
Cossack commanders cannonading come,
Dealing destruction's devastating doom.
Every endeavor engineers essay,
For fame, for fortune fighting-furious fray!
Generals 'gainst general grapple-gracious God!
How honors Heaven heroic hardihood!
Infuriate, indiscriminate in ill,
Kindred kill kinsmen, kinsmen kindred kill.
Labor low levels longest, loftiest lines;
Men march 'mid mounds, 'mid moles, 'mid murderous mines;
Now noxious, noisy numbers nothing, naught
Of outward obstacles, opposing ought;
Poor patriots, partly purchased, partly pressed,
Quite quaking, quickly "Quarter! Quarter!" quest.
Reason returns, religious right redounds,
Suwarrow stops such sanguinary sounds.
Truce to thee, Turkey! Triumph to thy train,
Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine!
Vanish, vain victory! vanish, victory vain!
Why wish we warfare? Wherefore welcome were
Xerxes, Ximenes, Xanthus, Xavier?
Yield, yield, ye youths! ye yeomen, yield your yell
Zeus', Zarpater's, Zoroaster's zeal,
Attracting all, arms against acts appeal!

Alaric Alexander Watts

(this is one astonishing poem, the largest poem of alliteration I've ever seen, and in perfect alphabetical order)

Battle slain

He that fights and runs away
May turn and fight another day;
 But he that is in battle slain
Will never rise to fight again.

-Anonymous

Letter from a Yugoslavian guerrilla fighter to his unborn child

(Found on his body sometime in 1942)
 My Child, sleeping now in the dark and gathering strength for the struggle of birth, I wish you well. At present you have no proper shape, and you do not breathe, and you are blind. Yet, when your time comes, your time and the time of your mother, whom I deeply love, there will be something in you that will give you power to fight for air and life. Such is your heritage, such is your destiny as a child born of woman-to fight for light and hold on without knowing why.
 May the flame that tempers the bright steel of your youth never die, but burn always; so that when your work is done and your long day is ended, you may still be like a watchman's fire at the end of a lonely road-loved and cherished for your gracious glow by all good wayfarers who need light in their darkness and warmth for their comfort.
The spirit of wonder and adventure, the token of immortality, will be given to you as a child. May you keep it forever, with that in your heart which always seeks the gold beyond the rainbow, the pasture beyond the desert, the dawn beyond the sea, the light beyond the dark.
 May you seek always and strive in good faith and high courage, in this world where men grow so tired.
 Keep your capacity for faith and belief, but let your judgment watch what you believe.
 Keep your power to receive everything, only learn to select what your instinct tells you is right.
 Keep your love of life, but throwaway your fear of death. Life must be loved or it is lost; but it should never be loved too well.
 Keep your delight in friendship; only learn to know your friends.
 Keep your intolerance-only save it for what your heart tells you is bad.
 Keep your wonder at great and noble things like sunlight and thunder, the rain and the stars, the wind and the sea, the growth of trees and the return of harvests, and the greatness of heroes.
 Keep your heart hungry for new knowledge; keep your hatred of a lie; and keep your power of indignation. Now I know I must die, and you must be born to stand upon the rubbish heap of my errors. Forgive me for this. I am ashamed to leave you an untidy world. But so it must be.
 In thought, as a last benediction, I kiss your forehead.
 Good night to you-and good morning and a clear dawn.

The Last Message From the Alamo

Commandancy of the Alamo, Bexar, February 24, 1836.-

 To the people of Texas and all Americans in the world.
 Fellow citizens and compatriots:
 I am besieged by a thousand or more of the Mexicans under Santa Anna. I have sustained a continual bombardment and cannonade for twenty-four hours and have not lost a man. The enemy has demanded a surrender at discretion; otherwise the garrison are to be put to the sword if the fort is taken. I have answered the demand with a cannon shot, and our flag still waves proudly from the walls. I shall never surrender nor retreat.
Then, I call on you in the name of liberty, of patriotism, and everything dear to the American character, to come to our aid with all dispatch. The enemy is receiving reinforcements daily and will no doubt increase to three or four thousand in four or five days. If this call is neglected, I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible and die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honor and that of our country.

 VICTORY OR DEATH.
WILLIAM BARRET TRAVIS
Lieutenant Colonel Commandant

 P.S. The Lord is on our side. When the enemy appeared in sight we had not three bushels of corn. We have since found in deserted houses eighty or ninety bushels and got into the walls twenty or thirty head of beeves.

the Battle of Santiago, 1898.

Don't cheer, boys; the poor devils are dying.
 -Capt. John W. Philip, U.S.N.,
 at the battle of Santiago, 1898.

Memorial Day

These heroes are dead. They died for liberty-they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadow of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or storm, each in the windowless palace of rest. Earth may run red with other wars - they are at peace. In the midst of battles, in the roar of conflicts, they found the serenity of death.

Robert G. Ingersoll

So Long, Son

There was no band, no flags, no ceremonial. It wasn't even dramatic. A car honked outside and he said, "Well, I guess that's for me." He picked up his little bag, and his mother said, "You haven't forgotten your gloves?"
He kissed his mother, and held out his hand to me. "Well, so long," he said. I took his hand but all I could say was "Good luck!"
The door slammed and that was that - another boy gone to war.
I had advised waiting for the draft-waiting at least until he was required to register. I had pointed out that he was not yet of age. He had smiled at that, and assured me that his mind was made up. He wanted peace, he said without peace, what good was living?
There was finality in the way he said this - a finality at once grim and gentle. I said no more about waiting. After the door closed behind him I went upstairs. I went to what had been his room. It was in worse chaos than usual. His bureau was littered-an incredible collection, of things, letters, keys, invitations to parties he would not attend.
Clothing was scattered about - dancing pumps, a tennis racket, his collection of phonograph records, his trumpet gleaming in its case.
I went then to my room. On the wall was a picture of a little boy, his toothless grin framed in tawny curls-the same boy who had just taken my hand and said, "Well, so long."
Not much time, I thought, between the making of that picture and the slamming of the front door. Not much more than a decade.
Suddenly a queer thing happened. Objects came alive, whispered to me. The house was full of soft voices. They led me up to the attic-to a box of toy soldiers, a broken music rack, a football helmet, a homemade guitar, schoolbooks, class pictures, a stamp album, a penny bank with the lid pried off . . . ancient history, long hidden under dust.
The voices led me on to a filing case and a folder stuffed with pages and report cards, letters, among them the wail of an exasperated teacher: "Though he looks like an angel. . ." telegrams, passports, a, baptismal certificate, a ribbon won in a track meet, faded photographs (one taken on the memorable first day of long pants), a bit of golden hair.
I sat down and thought how time had flown. Why, it was only yesterday when I held him on my arms! That, somehow, made me remember all the scoldings I had given him, the preachments, the exhortations to virtue and wisdom I did not myself possess. . . .
I thought, too, of that last inarticulate "good luck," that last perfunctory handclasp; and I wished that I had somehow been able to tell him how much I really loved him. Had he perhaps penetrated my brusque reserve? Had he perhaps guessed what was in my heart?
And then I thought, what fools we are with our children-always plotting what we shall make of them, always planning for a future that never comes, always intent on what they may be, never accepting what they are! Well, curlyhead, you're a man now, bearing your bright new shield and spear. I hated to see you go out of my house and close the door behind you, but I think I would not have halted you if I could.
 I salute you, sir. I cannot pretend that I am not sad; but I am proud, too. So long.

(Some months later the son of the author of the above was killed in combat)

Howard Vincent O'Brien
January 8, 1942.

Soldier Rest

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
 Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking:
Dream of battled fields no more,
 Days of danger, nights of waking.
 In our isle's enchanted hall,
 Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
 Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more:
 Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
 Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
 No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
 Armor's clang or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
 Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
 Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
 At the daybreak from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
 Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,
 Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
 Shouting clans or squadron's stamping.

Sir Walter Scott

Break the news to mother

While the shot and shell were screaming on the battlefield,
The boys in blue were fighting their noble flag to shield;
 Came a cry from their brave captain, "Look, boys! our flag is down;
 Who'll volunteer to save it from disgrace?"
 "I will," a young voice shouted, "I'll bring it back or die,"
 Then sprang into the thickest of the fray,
 Saved the flag but gave his Young life; all for his country's sake.
 They brought him back and softly heard him say:"

 Chorus:
"Just break the news to mother, She knows how dear I love her,
 And tell her not to wait for me, For I'm not coming home;
 Just say there is no other, Can take the place of mother;
 Then kiss her dear, sweet lips for me, And break the news to her."

 From. afar a noted general had witnessed this brave deed.
 "Who' saved our flag? Speak up, lads; 'twas noble, brave, indeed!"
 "There he lies, sir," said the captain, "he's sinking very fast,"
 Then! slowly turned away to hide a tear.
The general, in a moment; knelt down beside the boy;
Then gave a cry that touch'd all hearts that day.
"It's my son, my brave, young hero; I thought you safe at home."

 "Forgive me, Father, for I ran away."

Charles K. Harris¬

Logan's speech

I appeal to any white man to say if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat; if he ever came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said, "Logan is the friend of the white men." I had even thought to live with you, but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, last spring, in cold blood, and unprovoked, murdered all the relatives of Logan, not sparing even my women and children. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it. I have killed many. I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my country, I rejoice at the beam of peace: but do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one.

(Logan, a Mingo chief, to Lord Dunmore, Governor of Virginia, in 1774. Colonial forces had defeated several Indian tribes. Logan refused to join the pleas for peace, but sent this speech to be read to the Governor lest his absence harm the negotiations.)

Lepanto

White founts falling in the Courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
 It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard,
 It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips,
 For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.
 They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,
They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,
And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,
And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross.
 The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;
The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;
 From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,
And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.
Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,
Where only on a nameless 'throne a crownless prince has stirred,
 Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half-attainted stall,
 The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
 The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
 That once went singing southward when all the world was young.
 In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,
 Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.
Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
 Don John of Austria is going to the war,
 Stiff flags straining the night-blast cold
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
 Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, comes.
 Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,
Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world, 
Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.
 Love-light of Spain-hurrah!
Death-light of Africa!
Don John of Austria
 Is riding to the sea.

Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri's knees,
 His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas.
He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,
 And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees,
 And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring
 Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.
Giants and the Genii,
Multiplex of wing and eye,
Whose strong obedience broke the sky
 When Solomon was king.

 They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,
 From temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;
 They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea
 Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be;
 On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,
 Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;
 They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,
 They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.
 And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,
And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,
And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,
 For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.
 We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,
Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done,
But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
 The voice that shook our palaces-four hundred years ago:
 It is he that saith not 'Kismet'; it is he that knows not Fate;
 It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey in the gate!
It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,
 Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth:
 For he heard drums groaning and heard guns jar,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
Sudden and still-hurrah!
 Bolt from Iberia!
Don John of Austria
Is gone by Alcalar.

St. Michael's on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north
 (Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)
Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift
 And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.
 He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;
 The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;
 The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes
 And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,
 And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,
 And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,
But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.
 Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse
 Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet to his lips,
 Trumpet that sayeth ha!
Domino gloria!
Don John of Austria
Is shouting to the ships.

 King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck
 (Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)
The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,
 And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.
 He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,
 He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,
 And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey
Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,
 And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,
But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.
Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed
Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid.
 Gun upon gun, hat hat
Gun upon gun, hurrah!
Don John o~ Austria
 Has loosed the cannonade.

 The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,
(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)
The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year,
 The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.
 He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea
The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;
They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,
 They veil the plumed lions in the galleys of St. Mark;
And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,
 And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,
 Christian captives, sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines
 Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung
 The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.
 They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on
 Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon.
 And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell
Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,
 And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign
 (But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)
Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,
Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,
Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
 Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.
 Vivat Hispania!
Domino Gloria!
Don John of Austria
 Has set his people free!

 Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath
(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)
And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,
Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain,
And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settle back the blade. . .
 (But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)

G. K. Chesterton