I THERE is a race in an island place which rose in the morning gleam And made its sword of an olden song, its armour out of a dream; Its warriors died with a stubborn pride that recked no price of tears But followed the call of the singing sword that rang athwart the years. And early a nation's sword was forged, and a nation's soul was born——— Made of the magic of hills and seas, of the splendour of dew and dawn: But the fangs of the terrible legions tore red wounds in Mona's side; And the Saxons came in a storm of flame; and mighty Arthur died. Then rose a host from out of the foam, and a tyrant out of the sea, And harried the race of the singing sword with the hounds of Normandy, Till the quarry turned, their arrows burned, their lances thrust and leapt At Evesham grey in the bitter day when the soul of Montfort slept. The men of the sword went far abroad when France was a blaze of spears, And their shafts sped true—to the Frenchmen's rue — at Crécy and Poitiers: But long was the weary road they trod when Glyndwr brake his shield, Till the song of the sword rang shrill and clear in the crash of Bosworth Field. Then lo! afar, from Corsica, the ravening eagles sped From the Midland sea to Muscovy where the trampled snows were red, And the song of the sword came calling loud and Picton's kinsmen flew From Badajos through Quatre Bras to the crown of Waterloo. II And then through the plains that the nations spoil there burst a bitter horde ... Down through a débris of broken men their grim, grey legions poured, But the men of the sword had heard the call and stood within the spate, Stemming the way by the Marne's red clay and sealing Ypres' gate. They followed the sword that gleamed and sang; they held, they fought, they stood Where rivers of doom roared black with gloom through raging Mametz Wood: They held, they fought, they stood, they won ... and the skies were molten fire As they crossed death's bridge on Pilkem Ridge lest freedom should expire. And out on the plains of the burning East in the noon heat and the night They made their stand in the desert sand—and won in hero-fight The City of God that crowns the world, and they looked on the Dolorous Way Where the star of Richard the Lion-heart had set and had burned away. III @3Their sword is made of an olden song, their armour out of a dream, They have seen in the rills of a thousand hills the word of the lightning gleam, Their dream is the soul of man unbound from birth to eternity, And the song of the sword is a sounding chant of the psalm of liberty. And the land they love and the land they made and the place men know them by Is a land where a tree is a singing thing and the wind is a lullaby, Where the mists are white in the morning light as a maiden's bridal veil— In a home that is ever the harp of song and legend and fairy tale.@1 |