The 

 Human 

 Harvest 



The spears of crimson-suited war, 



The long white-crested waves of light, 



And all the deadly fires which are 

 The torches of the lords of Night. 



The yellow leopards, strained and lean, 

 The treacherous Russian knows so well. 



With gaping, blackened jaws are seen 

 Leap through the hail of screaming shell. 



The strong sea-lion of England's wars 

 Hath left his sapphire cave of sea, 



To battle with the storm that mars 

 The star of England's chivalry. 



The brazen-throated clarion blows 

 Across the Pathan's reedy fen. 



And the high steeps of Indian snows 

 Shake to the tread of armed men. 



And many an Afghan chief, who lies 

 Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees. 



Clutches his sword in fierce surmise 

 When on the mountain-side he sees 



[94] 



The fleet-footed Marri scout, who comes 

 To tell how he hath heard afar 



The measured roll of English drums 

 Beat at the gates of Kandahar. 



