The Broken Column
Young they were then, with their heads held high:
Sun shone on steel as the troops swung by.
Little they recked of the darkening sky,
Or the holocaust yet to come.
The rhythmical tramp of marching feet (A stirring sound in a crowded street)
Was echoing through the town.
Out of the battle the remnant came, Smoke-grimed and weary. The searing flame
Of war had left them immortal fame.
But had taken their youth and hope.
The rumble of guns and marching feet (A sinister sound in an empty street)
Were stilled in a foreign town.
Old they are now, but a bugle's note
Summons the past from its brazen throat.
Weather-worn medal on faded coat
Is all that is left of fame.
And to-day we hear in the crowded street
But a ghostly echo of tramping feet
Of the column that marched to war.

—C. W. Vennell.

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