Poems by George Essex Evans

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Dark purple, chased with sudden gloom and glory,

Like waves in wild unrest,

Low-wooded billows and steep summits hoary,

Ridge, slope, and mountain crest,

Cease at her feet with faces turned to meet her,

Enthroned, apart, serene

Above her vassal hills whose voices greet her

The Mountain Queen.

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There is scarlet on his forehead,

There are scars across his face,

’Tis the bloody dew of battle dripping down, dripping down,

But the war-heart of the Lion

Turns to iron in its place

When he halts to face disaster, when he turns to meet disgrace,

Stung and keen and mettled with the life-blood of his own.

Let the hunters ’ware who flout him,

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