On Wheel Tower parapets night-bugles are blowing,
Though the flag at the northern end hangs limp.
Scouts, in the darkness, are passing Ch'ü-li,
Where, west of the Hill of Gold, the Tartar chieftain has halted. . . .
We can see, from the look-out, the dust and black smoke
Where Chinese troops are camping, north of Wheel Tower.
. . . Our flags now beckon the General farther west—
With bugles in the dawn he rouses his Grand Army;
Drums like a tempest pound on four sides
And the Yin Mountains shake with the shouts of ten thousand;
Clouds and the war-wind whirl up in a point
Over fields where grass-roots will tighten around white bones;
In the Dagger River mist, through a biting wind,
Horseshoes, at the Sand Mouth line, break on icy boulders.
Our General endures every pain, every hardship,
Commanded to settle the dust along the border.
We have read, in the Green Books, tales of old days—
But here we behold a living man, mightier than the dead.