THE VINDICTIVE
HOW should we praise those lads of the old Vindictive
Who looked Death straight in the eyes,
Till his gaze fell,
In those red gates of hell?
England, in her proud history, proudly enrolls them,
And the deep night in her remembering skies
With purer glory
Shall blazon their grim story.
There were no throngs to applaud that hushed adventure.
They were one to a thousand on that fierce emprise.
The shores they sought
Were armoured, past all thought.
Oh, they knew fear, be assured, as the brave must know it,
With youth and its happiness bidding their last goodbyes;
Till thoughts, more dear
Than life, cast out all fear.
For if, as we think, they remembered the brown-roof homesteads,
And the scent of the hawthorn hedges when daylight dies,
Old happy places,
Young eyes and fading faces;
One dream was dearer that night than the best of their boyhood,
One hope more radiant than any their hearts could prize—
The touch of your hand,
The light of your face, England!
