EARL KITCHENER.

Digger (Invercargill RSA), Issue 15, 25 June 1920, Page 1

EARL KITCHENER.

Where art thou sleeping now, Where, in thy wandering hed? What laurels wreathe thy brow, What pillow props thy head? Nor cloak nor sculptured pile Shall wrap thy warrior clay, Nor vast cathedral aisle O'er-arch the pilgrim-way. Where England in her need Might draw beside thy bier, And say, "in very deed, A Lionheart lies here!" Give us, 0 stealthy wave, Give us our stalwart son, Give him who to us gave The means of victory won ; That we may hold his diist, Precious, and pure as fire, In venerable trust, To crown his soul's desire. "Wherefore would ye complain?" The Ocean makes reply : "Have I no wide domain Fit for the great who die? , "Nor mantling mists to shroud, Nor caves of awful gloom, Nor continents of cloud To span a hero's tomb? "H,ear ye the writhing surge, Hear ye, the tempest's roar? Nor grief is there nor dirge For him ye'see no more. "Grant him his boundless shrine, Hear his swift fate bemoan ; What mortal was is mine, His spirit be your own. "And let your sons fulfil His timely task, and make A wider England still, And worthier, for his sake. "Yea, England, would ye praise? Would y,e his memory bless ? Add Freedom to your days, And peace, and Righteousness. "Suns soax ahove his grave, And stars shine o'er his head; The impulse of the brave Dies not: be comforted."