Chapter VII: Cherry-Blossom at Dagshai

Far down below this range to-day
A waft of morning pureness fills
The blue ravines that stretch away
To lose themselves among the hills.

And, like a shrouded diadem,
Beyond the peaks set row on row,
Looms northern India’s mystic gem,
The crown of Himalayan snow.

These lower heights which close us in
A more ethereal jewel wear,
There seems, where sheer descents begin,
A radiant mirage in the air,

For, with its veil of rose and foam
A-quiver like transparent wings,
To the stern ramparts of its home
The wild hill cherry-blossom clings.

Own sister to the clouds of dawn,
Each magic tree o’erhangs the brink,
Its slender stems like lattice drawn,
Dark, on a fairyland of pink.

Three days agone no sign was ours,
No voice to cry the coming hope
That autumn’s wave would break in flowers
And roll in torrents down the slope;

But as, when darkness rends apart,
A shaft of glory pierces through,
Joy’s hand has pierced the mountain’s heart
And all the barren world is new.

❦

VIII. ‘WITH MILITARY HONOURS’

Take down the helmet from its dusty board,
Lay down his sword
Upon the flag that drapes his narrow bed;
Pace, horses, with your load,
Down the white road,
Beneath the glare by Eastern sunlight shed.

And you, ye passing men of other race,
Make way, give place
Before a freight more sacred than the gun;
Dark eyes of each degree
Look up and see
That well-known pageant passing in the sun.

With clank of chain and wheels the carriage goes,
But his repose
Nor sound of arms nor tramp of horse can dim;
Forward; the dead-march rolls,
Keep we our souls
Strong for the last that love can do for him.

Flowers, lie soft upon his weary breast,
He is at rest,
The fight he could but lose is over now;
Lie light, ye heartsease bands,
Like parting hands
Laying a last caress upon his brow.

Asters, twine purple like a velvet pall,
Cry out to all,
Ye heavy grave-flowers, of a new-made grief;
A body striving sore
That strives no more;
His night was long but daylight brought relief.

O trumpet voice of flaming marigold!
Tell out with bold
And certain tongue how great a heart lies here,
Until the Trumpet’s tone
Shall drown your own
And that dear head upon its time-worn bier
Shall wake and hear.

❦