The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse
The Two TroopersArthur Weir (18641902)
S
Throughout life’s long campaign.
They make a jest of all man’s pride,
And oh, the havoc! As they ride
They cannot count their slain.
And laughing swings his blade!
The Zephyrs toss his golden hair,
His eyes are blue; he is so fair
He seems a masking maid.
Dark as a midnight storm;
There is no man can cope with him,
We shrink and tremble in each limb
Before his awful form.
More than the gold-tressed youth,
The boy with every careless blow
More than the trooper grim lays low,
And causes earth more ruth.
Than flame or winter’s breath:
Men bear his wounds to the realm above,
For the little trooper’s name is Love,
His comrade ’s only Death.