Yet spoke--distasteful task!--against his will; Death he had dared, but dared not silent be-- That were to England blackest treachery-- Wherefore he spoke: _his voice is sounding still!_
Even the while he spoke, the while they mocked (With silent dignity their taunts were borne), Europe, that laughing rose, as ’twere at morn, At night, distraught, and in delirium rocked.
As the hung avalanche is suddenly hurled Down the abyss, though but a pebble stirred, So a crowned monster’s will, a Kaiser’s word, Plunged into Armageddon half a world,
And Chaos was again. Crashed the blue skies Above, as if to splinters. Was God dead? Or deaf? or dumb? or reigned there, in His stead, Only a devil in a God’s disguise?
Staggered and stunned, our England backward reeled A moment. Then, magnificent, erect, Flashed forth her sword, her ally to protect, And over prostrate Belgium cast her shield.
Above the babel of voices, mists of doubt, Rang forth his stern “To arms!” England to nerve; Too old to fight, but not too old to serve, Again he hears the call--is “ordered out.”
“Roberts!” the voice was Duty’s, arm’d and helm’d, “To France! where India, greatly loyal, lands Her stalwarts, and the bestial horde withstands That raped and ravaged, burned and overwhelmed
“Heroic Belgium. Roberts, ’gainst the foe No voice like thine can the swart Indians fire To valour, and to loyalty inspire; Roberts! to France!” Came answer calm: “I go.”
Nor once reproached: “I warned. You gave no heed,” Nor pleaded fourscore years--“Ah, that I could!” He who had England saved, an England would, Only of England thought, in England’s need.
Then, where, on high, God captains legions bright (On earth is Armageddon, and in hell-- May it not be?--Satan leads forth his fell And fallen hosts, the heavens to storm and smite?)
Yea, from on high, from heaven’s supreme redoubt, Came the last call of all, far-sounding, clear; God spoke his name; he answered: “I am here.” Stood to salute; again was “ordered out.”
From Camp to Camp he passed--beyond the sun’s Red track, to where the immortal armies are, Honoured of God, Hero of peace and war, Amid the thunder-requiem of the guns.
It was a score or more years ago, and at the Old Vagabond Club (now merged into the Playgoers) that I first met Lord Roberts. When he became the President of the Club, we celebrated the event by a dinner at which he was the guest of honour and Jerome K. Jerome was the Chairman. As one of the original members of the Club and as a member of the Executive Committee, I was introduced to the great soldier. All I expected was a bow, a handshake, and a “How-do-you-do,” but Lord Roberts was as good as to be more gracious and cordial than any great soldier, even if an Irishman, ever was before--so at least it seemed to me--to a scribbler of sorts, whom he was meeting for the first time. He was, in fact, so very kind that I was emboldened to ask a favour. Among the guests was a young officer in what was then the Artillery Volunteers. I knew it would immensely gratify him to meet the Field-Marshal, so towards the close of the conversation I ventured to say: