A Soldier of the Last Legion by A. W. SPAULDING

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jan 25, 1912

A Soldier of the Last Legion

By A. W. SPAULDING

A. W. SPAULDING

THE tread of marching feet is stilled, Our banners for a moment stand, While, for the last, we touch the hand, And breathe the farewell God has willed.

Not again shall the trumpet’s ring Call thee, comrade, into the fray; Thy service ends with the ending day; The morn shall disclose thy guerdoning King.

Just as the rim of the red sun dips, Just as the black night’s terrors fall, Thou hearest the voice of another call, And the blade from thy hand reluctant slips.

Just as the sun goes down in the west, And the bugles blare for ordered rank, With girded loins, in the trenches dank We leave thee, comrade, awhile to rest.

For the lines are arrayed, and the great trump’s voice Is sounding the grand charge o’er and o’er, And Christ’s last legion is faced to the fore; Our place is with them; we have no choice.

This night shall see on the field of time The final struggle, the victor-stroke; And the far-stretched pall of the battle-smoke Shall dispel to the music of heaven’s chime.

God rest thee, comrade; grief is o’er: Thou fellest o’erwhelmed in the heavy fight. But, victory-bound through the last fierce night, Christ’s last legion is faced to the fore.