Page:In Flanders Fields and Other Poems.djvu/26

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The Warrior

He wrought in poverty, the dull grey days,
  But with the night his little lamp-lit room
Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze
  Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the boom
Of Bluecher's guns; he shared Almeida's scars,
  And from the close-packed deck, about to die,
Looked up and saw the Birkenhead's tall spars
  Weave wavering lines across the Southern sky:

Or in the stifling 'tween decks, row on row,
  At Aboukir, saw how the dead men lay;
Charged with the fiercest in Busaco's strife,
Brave dreams are his—the flick'ring lamp burns low—
Yet couraged for the battles of the day
  He goes to stand full face to face with life.

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