Purchased our wreaths of harvest and ripe ears;
Whose empty hands, whose empty hearts, whose tears
In this Gethsemane
Ransomed the days to be.
We leave them to Thee, Saviour. We've no price,
No utmost treasure of the seas or lands,
No words, no deeds, to pay their sacrifice.
Only while England stands,
Their pearl, their pride, their altar,—not their grave,—
Bid us remember in what hours they gave
All that mankind may give
That we might live.
REVEILLÉ
ENDED the watches of the dark; oh hear the bugles blow—
The bugles blow Reveillé at the golden gates of morn;
A shudder moves the living East; the stars are burning low
Above the crystal cradle of a day that's newly born.
Arise ye slumbering legions; wake for honour and for right;
Awake, arise, ye myriad men, to faith and justice sworn;
High heaven's fires are flashing on the valley and the height,
And the bugles blow Reveillé at the golden gates of morn.
Within the holy of your hearts, oh hear the bugles blow—
The bugles blow Reveillé at the golden gates of morn,
And welcome with their clarion ineffable foreglow
Of a sunrise where the souls of men are being newly born.
Awake, arise, ye legions, to the challenge of the dead;
Arise, awake and follow in the footsteps they have worn;
For their spirits are the glory of the dayspring overhead,
And their bugles blow Reveillé at the golden gates of morn.
[From Plain Song, 1914-1916. Reprinted by permission of William Heinemann, London.]
