“I’ve flown there before you,” he said then:

            “Your households are well;

            But – your kin linger less

         On your glory arid war-mightiness

      Than on dearer things.” – “Dearer?” cried these from the dead then,

            “Of what do they tell?”

         “Some mothers muse sadly, and murmur

            Your doings as boys —

            Recall the quaint ways

         Of your babyhood’s innocent days.

      Some pray that, ere dying, your faith had grown firmer,

            And higher your joys.

         “A father broods: ‘Would I had set him

            To some humble trade,

            And so slacked his high fire,

         And his passionate martial desire;

      Had told him no stories to woo him and whet him

            To this due crusade!”

         “And, General, how hold out our sweethearts,

            Sworn loyal as doves?”

            – “Many mourn; many think

         It is not unattractive to prink

      Them in sables for heroes.   Some fickle and fleet hearts

            Have found them new loves.”

         “And our wives?” quoth another resignedly,

            “Dwell they on our deeds?”

            – “Deeds of home; that live yet

         Fresh as new – deeds of fondness or fret;

      Ancient words that were kindly expressed or unkindly,

            These, these have their heeds.”

         – “Alas! then it seems that our glory

            Weighs less in their thought

            Than our old homely acts,

         And the long-ago commonplace facts

      Of our lives – held by us as scarce part of our story,

            And rated as nought!”

         Then bitterly some: “Was it wise now

            To raise the tomb-door

            For such knowledge?  Away!”

         But the rest: “Fame we prized till to-day;

      Yet that hearts keep us green for old kindness we prize now

            A thousand times more!”

         Thus speaking, the trooped apparitions

            Began to disband

            And resolve them in two:

         Those whose record was lovely and true

      Bore to northward for home: those of bitter traditions

            Again left the land,

         And, towering to seaward in legions,

            They paused at a spot

            Overbending the Race —

         That engulphing, ghast, sinister place —

      Whither headlong they plunged, to the fathomless regions

            Of myriads forgot.

         And the spirits of those who were homing

            Passed on, rushingly,

            Like the Pentecost Wind;

         And the whirr of their wayfaring thinned

      And surceased on the sky, and but left in the gloaming

            Sea-mutterings and me.

      At last!  In sight of home again,

            Of home again;

      No more to range and roam again

         As at that bygone time?

      No more to go away from us

            And stay from us? —

      Dawn, hold not long the day from us,

         But quicken it to prime!

      Now all the town shall ring to them,

            Shall ring to them,

      And we who love them cling to them

         And clasp them joyfully;

      And cry, “O much we’ll do for you

            Anew for you,

      Dear Loves! – aye, draw and hew for you,

         Come back from oversea.”

      Some told us we should meet no more,

            Should meet no more;

      Should wait, and wish, but greet no more

         Your faces round our fires;

      That, in a while, uncharily

            And drearily

      Men gave their lives – even wearily,

         Like those whom living tires.

      And now you are nearing home again,

            Dears, home again;

      No more, may be, to roam again

         As at that bygone time,

      Which took you far away from us

            To stay from us;

      Dawn, hold not long the day from us,

         But quicken it to prime!

         In days when men had joy of war,

      A God of Battles sped each mortal jar;

         The peoples pledged him heart and hand,

         From Israel’s land to isles afar.

         His crimson form, with clang and chime,

      Flashed on each murk and murderous meeting-time,

         And kings invoked, for rape and raid,

         His fearsome aid in rune and rhyme.

         On bruise and