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Poem by Andrew Lang

Melville and Coghill - The Place of the Little Hand

DEAD, with their eyes to the foe, 
  Dead, with the foe at their feet; 
Under the sky laid low 
  Truly their slumber is sweet, 
Though the wind from the Camp of the 
    Slain Men blow, 
  And the rain on the wilderness beat. 
Dead, for they chose to die 
  When that wild race was run; 
Dead, for they would not fly,
  Deeming their work undone, 
Nor cared to look on the face of the sky, 
  Nor loved the light of the sun. 
Honor we give them and tears, 
  And the flag they died to save,
Rent from the raid of the spears, 
  Wet from the war and the wave, 
Shall waft menТs thoughts through the dust of the years, 
  Back to their lonely grave! 

Andrew Lang

Andrew Lang's other poems:
  1. In Ithaca
  2. Les Roses de Sâdi
  3. Ballade of the Tweed
  4. Ballade of His Books
  5. Dizain

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