We stood, as the helmeted horsemen
Formed up in the light of the sun;
We knelt, stretching bayonets towards them
As they charged, ere the battle was won.
I marked their young leader apparelled
As daintily as for parade,
A cigarette smoking, advancing
He laughed, as he pointed his blade.
He played with his yellow moustaches,
And looked on our ranks, with a scorn
Such as mantles 'gainst mist and night-vapour
On the brow of the Son of the morn.
He led a bright host where the glitter
Of armour illumined the vale;
As a flood rises slowly, so, coming,
They rode with the sun on their mail.
Thus he steadied his men, and none wavered.
As the steeds settled down to their stride,
And we heard the first rush of the squadrons,
Like the gathering roar of the tide.
Their order was perfect and splendid,
And his voice, that at first held them in,
Had rung down their ranks for the onset,
As though it were fate they should win.
I felt I half liked him as onward
The lines of his cuirassiers came,
Like breakers wind-driven from seaward,
Dark tossed in a whirlwind of flame.
I hated the shot that must enter
That steel-girt and confident breast,
And quench that brave spirit for ever,
That light on the cataract's crest
But I gave forth the word, and our volley
Rang clear o'er the thunder of feet
That rolled not to us, for Destruction
Rejoiced their proud splendour to greet.
And the leader who laughed at our columns,
At the ranks that bid gaiety die,
On his red bed of honour at even
Lay smiling his scorn at the sky.