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diff --git a/13900-0.txt b/13900-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dae5cc1 --- /dev/null +++ b/13900-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3264 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13900 *** + +Processed by Tom Harris. In memory of my mother, Elizabeth Harris, +who loved poetry, and scanned from her own copy of the book. + + + + + +Collected Poems 1897 - 1907 +by +Henry Newbolt + +To Thomas Hardy + + + + + +Drake's Drum + +Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away, + (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) +Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, + An' dreamin' arl the time O' Plymouth Hoe. +Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships, + Wi' sailor lads a-dancing' heel-an'-toe, +An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin', + He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago. + +Drake he was a Devon man, an' rüled the Devon seas, + (Capten, art tha' sleepin' there below?) +Roving' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease, + An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. +"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore, + Strike et when your powder's runnin' low; +If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, + An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago." + +Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, + (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) +Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, + An' dreamin arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. +Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, + Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; +Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin' + They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago! + + + + + +The Fighting Téméraire + +It was eight bells ringing, + For the morning watch was done, +And the gunner's lads were singing + As they polished every gun. +It was eight bells ringing, +And the gunner's lads were singing, +For the ship she rode a-swinging, + As they polished every gun. + + Oh! to see the linstock lighting, + Téméraire! Téméraire! + Oh! to hear the round shot biting, + Téméraire! Téméraire! + + Oh! to see the linstock lighting, + And to hear the round shot biting, + For we're all in love with fighting + On the fighting Téméraire. + +It was noontide ringing, + And the battle just begun, +When the ship her way was winging, + As they loaded every gun. +It was noontide ringing, +When the ship her way was winging, +And the gunner's lads were singing + As they loaded every gun. + + There'll be many grim and gory, + Téméraire! Téméraire! + There'll be few to tell the story, + Téméraire! Téméraire! + + There'll be many grim and gory, + There'll be few to tell the story, + But we'll all be one in glory + With the Fighting Téméraire. + +There's a far bell ringing + At the setting of the sun, +And a phantom voice is singing + Of the great days done. +There's a far bell ringing, +And a phantom voice is singing +Of renown for ever clinging + To the great days done. + + Now the sunset breezes shiver, + Téméraire! Téméraire! + And she's fading down the river, + Téméraire! Téméraire! + + Now the sunset's breezes shiver, + And she's fading down the river, + But in England's song for ever + She's the Fighting Téméraire. + + + + + +Admirals All + +Effingham, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake, + Here's to the bold and free! +Benbow, Collingwood, Byron, Blake, + Hail to the Kings of the Sea! +Admirals all, for England's sake, + Honour be yours and fame! +And honour, as long as waves shall break, + To Nelson's peerless name! + + Admirals all, for England's sake, + Honour be yours and fame! + And honour, as long as waves shall break, + To Nelson's peerless name! + +Essex was fretting in Cadiz Bay + With the galleons fair in sight; +Howard at last must give him his way, + And the word was passed to fight. +Never was schoolboy gayer than he, + Since holidays first began: +He tossed his bonnet to wind and sea, + And under the guns he ran. + +Drake nor devil nor Spaniard feared, + Their cities he put to the sack; +He singed his Catholic Majesty's beard, + And harried his ships to wrack. +He was playing at Plymouth a rubber of bowls + When the great Armada came; +But he said, "They must wait their turn, good souls," + And he stooped and finished the game. + +Fifteen sail were the Dutchmen bold, + Duncan he had but two; +But he anchored them fast where the Texel shoaled, + And his colours aloft he flew. +"I've taken the depth to a fathom," he cried, + "And I'll sink with a right good will: +For I know when we're all of us under the tide + My flag will be fluttering still." + +Splinters were flying above, below, + When Nelson sailed the Sound: +"Mark you, I wouldn't be elsewhere now," + Said he, "for a thousand pound!" +The Admiral's signal bade him fly + But he wickedly wagged his head: +He clapped the glass to his sightless eye, + And "I'm damned if I see it!" he said. + +Admirals all, they said their say + (The echoes are ringing still). +Admirals all, they went their way + To the haven under the hill. +But they left us a kingdom none can take, + The realm of the circling sea, +To be ruled by the rightful sons of Blake, + And the Rodneys yet to be. + + Admirals all, for England's sake, + Honour be yours and fame! + And honour, as long as waves shall break, + To Nelson's peerless name! + + + + + +San Stefano + +(A Ballad of the Bold Menelaus) + +It was morning at St. Helen's, in the great and gallant days, + And the sea beneath the sun glittered wide, +When the frigate set her courses, all a-shimmer in the haze + And she hauled her cable home and took the tide. +She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more, + Nine and forty guns in tackle running free; +And they cheered her from the shore for her colours at the fore, + When the bold _Menelaus_ put to sea. + + She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more, + Nine and forty guns in tackle running free; + And they cheered her from the shore for her colours at the fore, + When the bold _Menelaus_ put to sea. + +She was clear of Monte Cristo, she was heading for the land, + When she spied a pennant red and white and blue; +They were foemen, and they knew it, and they'd half a league in hand, + But she flung aloft her royals, and she flew. +She was nearer, nearer, nearer, they were caught beyond a doubt, + But they slipped her into Orbetello Bay, +And the lubbers gave a shout as they paid their cables out, + With the guns grinning round them where they lay. + +Now, Sir Peter was a captain of a famous fighting race, + Son and grandson of an admiral was he; +And he looked upon the batteries, he looked upon the chase, + And he heard the shout that echoed out to sea. +And he called across the decks, "Ay! the cheering might be late + If they kept it till the _Menelaus_ runs; +Bid the master and his mate heave the lead and lay her straight + For the prize lying yonder by the guns!" + +When the summer moon was setting, into Orbetello Bay + Came the _Menelaus_ gliding like a ghost; +And her boats were manned in silence, and in silence pulled away, + And in silence every gunner took his post. +With a volley from her broadside the citadel she woke, + And they hammered back like heroes all the night; +But before the morning broke she had vanished through the smoke + With her prize upon her quarter grappled tight. + +It was evening at St. Helen's in the great and gallant time, + And the sky behind the down was flushing far; +And the flags were all a-flutter, and the bells were all a-chime, + When the frigate cast her anchor off the bar. +She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more, + Nine and forty guns in tackle running free; +And they cheered her from the shore for the colours at the fore, + When the bold _Menelaus_ came from the sea. + + She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more, + Nine and forty guns in tackle running free; + And they cheered her from the shore for her colours at the fore, + When the bold _Menelaus_ came from the sea. + + + + + +Hawke + +In seventeen hundred and fifty-nine, + When Hawke came swooping from the West, +The French King's Admiral with twenty of the line, + Was sailing forth to sack us, out of Brest. +The ports of France were crowded, the quays of France a-hum +With thirty thousand soldiers marching to the drum, +For bragging time was over and fighting time was come + When Hawke came swooping from the West. + +'Twas long past noon of a wild November day + When Hawke came swooping from the West; +He heard the breakers thundering in Quiberon Bay, + But he flew the flag for battle, line abreast. +Down upon the quicksands roaring out of sight +Fiercely beat the storm-wind, darkly fell the night, +But they took the foe for pilot and the cannon's glare for light + When Hawke came swooping from the West. + +The Frenchmen turned like a covey down the wind + When Hawke came swooping from the West; +One he sank with all hands, one he caught and pinned, + And the shallows and the storm took the rest. +The guns that should have conquered us they rusted on the shore, +The men that would have mastered us they drummed and marched no more, +For England was England, and a mighty brood she bore + When Hawke came swooping from the West. + + + + + +The Bright Medusa + +(1807) + +She's the daughter of the breeze, +She's the darling of the seas, + And we call her, if you please, the bright _Medu--sa_; +From beneath her bosom bare +To the snakes among her hair + She's a flash o' golden light, the bright _Medu--sa_. + +When the ensign dips above +And the guns are all for love, + She's as gentle as a dove, the bright _Medu--sa_; +But when the shot's in rack +And her forestay flies the Jack, + He's a merry man would slight the bright _Medu--sa_. + +When she got the word to go +Up to Monte Video, + There she found the river low, the bright _Medu--sa_; +So she tumbled out her guns +And a hundred of her sons, + And she taught the Dons to fight the bright _Medu--sa_. + +When the foeman can be found +With the pluck to cross her ground, + First she walks him round and round, the bright _Medu--sa_; +Then she rakes him fore and aft +Till he's just a jolly raft, + And she grabs him like a kite, the bright _Medu--sa_. + +She's the daughter of the breeze, +She's the darling of the seas, + And you'll call her, if you please, the bright _Medu--sa_; +For till England's sun be set-- +And it's not for setting yet-- + She shall bear her name by right, the bright _Medu--sa_. + + + + + +The Old Superb + +The wind was rising easterly, the morning sky was blue, + The Straits before us opened wide and free; +We looked towards the Admiral, where high the Peter flew, + And all our hearts were dancing like the sea. +"The French are gone to Martinique with four and twenty sail! + The Old _Superb_ is old and foul and slow, +But the French are gone to Martinique, and Nelson's on the trail. + And where he goes the Old _Superb_ must go!" + + So Westward ho! for Trinidad, and Eastward ho! for Spain, + And "Ship ahoy!" a hundred times a day; + Round the world if need be, and round the world again, + With a lame duck lagging all the way. + +The Old _Superb_ was barnacled and green as grass below, + Her sticks were only fit for stirring grog; +The pride of all her midshipmen was silent long ago, + And long ago they ceased to heave the log. +Four year out from home she was, and ne'er a week in port, + And nothing save the guns aboard her bright; +But Captain Keats he knew the game, and swore to share the sport, + For he never yet came in too late to fight. + + So Westward ho! for Trinidad, and Eastward ho! for Spain, + And "Ship ahoy!" a hundred times a day; + Round the world if need be, and round the world again, + With a lame duck lagging all the way. + +"Now up, my lads," the Captain cried, "for sure the case were hard + If longest out were first to fall behind; +Aloft, aloft with studding sails, and lash them on the yard, + For night and day the Trades are driving blind!" +So all day long and all day long behind the fleet we crept, + And how we fretted none but Nelson guessed; +But every night the Old _Superb_ she sailed when others slept, + Till we ran the French to earth with all the rest. + + Oh, 'twas Westward ho! for Trinidad, and Eastward ho! for Spain, + And "Ship ahoy!" a hundred times a day; + Round the world if need be, and round the world again, + With a lame duck lagging all the way. + + + + + +The Quarter-Gunner's Yarn + +We lay at St. Helen's, and easy she rode +With one anchor catted and fresh-water stowed; +When the barge came alongside like bullocks we roared, +For we knew what we carried with Nelson aboard. + +Our Captain was Hardy, the pride of us all, +I'll ask for none better when danger shall call; +He was hardy by nature and Hardy by name, +And soon by his conduct to honour he came. + +The third day the Lizard was under our lee, +Where the _Ajax_ and _Thunderer_ joined us at sea, +But what with foul weather and tacking about, +When we sighted the Fleet we were thirteen days out. + +The Captains they all came aboard quick enough, +But the news that they brought was as heavy as duff; +So backward an enemy never was seen, +They were harder to come at than Cheeks the Marine. + +The lubbers had hare's lugs where seamen have ears, +So we stowed all saluting and smothered our cheers, +And to humour their stomachs and tempt them to dine, +In the offing we showed them but six of the line. + +One morning the topmen reported below +The old _Agamemnon_ escaped from the foe. +Says Nelson: "My lads, there'll be honour for some, +For we're sure of a battle now Berry has come." + +"Up hammocks!" at last cried the bo'sun at dawn; +The guns were cast loose and the tompions drawn; +The gunner was bustling the shot racks to fill, +And "All hands to quarters!" was piped with a will. + +We now saw the enemy bearing ahead, +And to East of them Cape Traflagar it was said, +'Tis a name we remember from father to son, +That the days of old England may never be done. + +The _Victory_ led, to her flag it was due, +Tho' the _Téméraires_ thought themselves Admirals too; +But Lord Nelson he hailed them with masterful grace: +"Cap'n Harvey, I'll thank you to keep in your place." + +To begin with we closed the _Bucentaure_ alone, +An eighty-gun ship and their Admiral's own; +We raked her but once, and the rest of the day +Like a hospital hulk on the water she lay. + +To our battering next the _Redoutable_ struck, +But her sharpshooters gave us the worst of the luck: +Lord Nelson was wounded, most cruel to tell. +"They've done for me; Hardy!" he cried as he fell. + +To the cockpit in silence they carried him past, +And sad were the looks that were after him cast; +His face with a kerchief he tried to conceal, +But we knew him too well from the truck to the keel. + +When the Captain reported a victory won, +"Thank God!" he kept saying, "my duty I've done." +At last came the moment to kiss him good-bye, +And the Captain for once had the salt in his eye. + +"Now anchor, dear Hardy," the Admiral cried; +But before we could make it he fainted and died. +All night in the trough of the sea we were tossed, +And for want of ground-tackle good prizes were lost. + +Then we hauled down the flag, at the fore it was red, +And blue at the mizzen was hoisted instead +By Nelson's famed Captain, the pride of each tar, +Who fought in the _Victory_ off Cape Traflagar. + + + + + +Northumberland + +"The Old and Bold" + +When England sets her banner forth + And bids her armour shine, +She'll not forget the famous North, + The lads of moor and Tyne; +And when the loving-cup's in hand, + And Honour leads the cry, +They know not old Northumberland + Who'll pass her memory by. + +When Nelson sailed for Trafalgar + With all his country's best, +He held them dear as brothers are, + But one beyond the rest. +For when the fleet with heroes manned + To clear the decks began, +The boast of old Northumberland + He sent to lead the van. + + +Himself by _Victory's_ bulwarks stood + And cheered to see the sight; +"That noble fellow Collingwood, + How bold he goes to fight!" +Love, that the league of Ocean spanned, + Heard him as face to face; +"What would he give, Northumberland, + To share our pride of place?" + +The flag that goes the world around + And flaps on every breeze +Has never gladdened fairer ground + Or kinder hearts than these. +So when the loving-cup's in hand + And Honour leads the cry, +They know not old Northumberland + Who'll pass her memory by. + + + + + +For A Trafalgar Cenotaph + +Lover of England, stand awhile and gaze +With thankful heart, and lips refrained from praise; +They rest beyond the speech of human pride +Who served with Nelson and with Nelson died. + + + + + +Craven + +(Mobile Bay, 1864) + +Over the turret, shut in his iron-clad tower, + Craven was conning his ship through smoke and flame; +Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour, + Now was the time for a charge to end the game. + +There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim, + A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign; +There lay the enemy's ships, and sink or swim + The flag was flying, and he was head of the line. + +The fleet behind was jamming; the monitor hung + Beating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed, +Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung; + Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushed. + +Into the narrowing channel, between the shore + And the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank; +She turned but a yard too short; a muffled roar, + A mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank. + +Over the manhole, up in the iron-clad tower, + Pilot and Captain met as they turned to fly: +The hundredth part of a moment seemed an hour, + For one could pass to be saved, and one must die. + +They stood like men in a dream: Craven spoke, + Spoke as he lived and fought, with a Captain's pride, +"After you, Pilot." The pilot woke, + Down the ladder he went, and Craven died. + + All men praise the deed and the manner, but we--- + We set it apart from the pride that stoops to the proud, + The strength that is supple to serve the strong and free, + The grace of the empty hands and promises loud: + + Sidney thirsting, a humbler need to slake, + Nelson waiting his turn for the surgeon's hand, + Lucas crushed with chains for a comrade's sake, + Outram coveting right before command: + + These were paladins, these were Craven's peers, + These with him shall be crowned in story and song, + Crowned with the glitter of steel and the glimmer of tears, + Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud, and strong. + + + + + +Messmates + +He gave us all a good-bye cheerily + At the first dawn of day; +We dropped him down the side full drearily + When the light died away. +It's a dead dark watch that he's a-keeping there, +And a long, long night that lags a-creeping there, +Where the Trades and the tides roll over him + And the great ships go by. + +He's there alone with green seas rocking him + For a thousand miles round; +He's there alone with dumb things mocking him, + And we're homeward bound. +It's a long, lone watch that he's a-keeping there, +And a dead cold night that lags a-creeping there, +While the months and the years roll over him + And the great ships go by. + +I wonder if the tramps come near enough + As they thrash to and fro, +And the battle-ships' bells ring clear enough + To be heard down below; +If through all the lone watch that he's a-keeping there, +And the long, cold night that lags a-creeping there, +The voices of the sailor-men shall comfort him + When the great ships go by. + + + + + +The Death Of Admiral Blake + +(August 7th, 1657) + +Laden with spoil of the South, fulfilled with the glory of achievement, + And freshly crowned with never-dying fame, +Sweeping by shores where the names are the names of the victories of England, + Across the Bay the squadron homeward came. + +Proudly they came, but their pride was the pomp of a funeral at midnight, + When dreader yet the lonely morrow looms; +Few are the words that are spoken, and faces are gaunt beneath the torchlight + That does but darken more the nodding plumes. + +Low on the field of his fame, past hope lay the Admiral triumphant, + And fain to rest him after all his pain; +Yet for the love that he bore to his own land, ever unforgotten, + He prayed to see the western hills again. + +Fainter than stars in a sky long gray with the coming of the daybreak, + Or sounds of night that fade when night is done, +So in the death-dawn faded the splendour and loud renown of warfare, + And life of all its longings kept but one. + +"Oh! to be there for an hour when the shade draws in beside the hedgerows, + And falling apples wake the drowsy noon: +Oh! for the hour when the elms grow sombre and human in the twilight, + And gardens dream beneath the rising moon. + +"Only to look once more on the land of the memories of childhood, + Forgetting weary winds and barren foam: +Only to bid farewell to the combe and the orchard and the moorland, + And sleep at last among the fields of home!" + +So he was silently praying, till now, when his strength was ebbing faster, + The Lizard lay before them faintly blue; +Now on the gleaming horizon the white cliffs laughed along the coast-line, + And now the forelands took the shapes they knew. + +There lay the Sound and the Island with green leaves down beside the water, + The town, the Hoe, the masts with sunset fired---- +Dreams! ay, dreams of the dead! for the great heart faltered on the threshold, + And darkness took the land his soul desired. + + + + + +Væ Victis + +Beside the placid sea that mirrored her + With the old glory of dawn that cannot die, +The sleeping city began to moan and stir, + As one that fain from an ill dream would fly; + Yet more she feared the daylight bringing nigh +Such dreams as know not sunrise, soon or late,--- + Visions of honour lost and power gone by, + Of loyal valour betrayed by factious hate, +And craven sloth that shrank from the labour of forging fate. + +They knew and knew not, this bewildered crowd, + That up her streets in silence hurrying passed, +What manner of death should make their anguish loud, + What corpse across the funeral pyre be cast, + For none had spoken it; only, gathering fast +As darkness gathers at noon in the sun's eclipse, + A shadow of doom enfolded them, vague and vast, + And a cry was heard, unfathered of earthly lips, +"What of the ships, O Carthage? Carthage, what of the ships?" + +They reached the wall, and nowise strange it seemed + To find the gates unguarded and open wide; +They climbed the shoulder, and meet enough they deemed + The black that shrouded the seaward rampart's side + And veiled in drooping gloom the turrets' pride; +But this was nought, for suddenly down the slope + They saw the harbour, and sense within them died; + Keel nor mast was there, rudder nor rope; +It lay like a sea-hawk's eyry spoiled of life and hope. + +Beyond, where dawn was a glittering carpet, rolled + From sky to shore on level and endless seas, +Hardly their eyes discerned in a dazzle of gold + That here in fifties, yonder in twos and threes, + The ships they sought, like a swarm of drowning bees +By a wanton gust on the pool of a mill-dam hurled, + Floated forsaken of life-giving tide and breeze, + Their oars broken, their sails for ever furled, +For ever deserted the bulwarks that guarded the wealth of the world. + +A moment yet, with breathing quickly drawn + And hands agrip, the Carthaginian folk +Stared in the bright untroubled face of dawn, + And strove with vehement heaped denial to choke + Their sure surmise of fate's impending stroke; +Vainly--for even now beneath their gaze + A thousand delicate spires of distant smoke + Reddened the disc of the sun with a stealthy haze, +And the smouldering grief of a nation burst with the kindling blaze. + +"O dying Carthage!" so their passion raved, + "Would nought but these the conqueror's hate assuage? +If these be taken, how may the land be saved + Whose meat and drink was empire, age by age?" + And bitter memory cursed with idle rage +The greed that coveted gold beyond renown, + The feeble hearts that feared their heritage, + The hands that cast the sea-kings' sceptre down +And left to alien brows their famed ancestral crown. + +The endless noon, the endless evening through, + All other needs forgetting, great or small, +They drank despair with thirst whose torment grew + As the hours died beneath that stifling pall. + At last they saw the fires to blackness fall +One after one, and slowly turned them home, + A little longer yet their own to call + A city enslaved, and wear the bonds of Rome, +With weary hearts foreboding all the woe to come. + + + + + +Minora Sidera + +(The Dictionary Of National Biography) + +Sitting at times over a hearth that burns + With dull domestic glow, +My thought, leaving the book, gratefully turns + To you who planned it so. + +Not of the great only you deigned to tell--- + The stars by which we steer--- +But lights out of the night that flashed, and fell + Tonight again, are here. + +Such as were those, dogs of an elder day, + Who sacked the golden ports, +And those later who dared grapple their prey + Beneath the harbour forts: + +Some with flag at the fore, sweeping the world + To find an equal fight, +And some who joined war to their trade, and hurled + Ships of the line in flight. + +Whether their fame centuries long should ring + They cared not over-much, +But cared greatly to serve God and the king, + And keep the Nelson touch; + +And fought to build Britain above the tide + Of wars and windy fate; +And passed content, leaving to us the pride + Of lives obscurely great. + + + + + +Laudabunt Alii + +(After Horace) + +Let others praise, as fancy wills, + Berlin beneath her trees, +Or Rome upon her seven hills, + Or Venice by her seas; +Stamboul by double tides embraced, +Or green Damascus in the waste. + +For me there's nought I would not leave + For the good Devon land, +Whose orchards down the echoing cleeve + Bedewed with spray-drift stand, +And hardly bear the red fruit up +That shall be next year's cider-cup. + +You too, my friend, may wisely mark + How clear skies follow rain, +And, lingering in your own green park + Or drilled on Laffan's Plain, +Forget not with the festal bowl +To soothe at times your weary soul. + +When Drake must bid to Plymouth Hoe + Good-bye for many a day, +And some were sad and feared to go, + And some that dared not stay, +Be sure he bade them broach the best, +And raised his tankard with the rest. + +"Drake's luck to all that sail with Drake + For promised lands of gold! +Brave lads, whatever storms may break, + We've weathered worse of old! +To-night the loving-cup we'll drain, +To-morrow for the Spanish Main!" + + + + + +Admiral Death + +Boys, are ye calling a toast to-night? + (Hear what the sea-wind saith) +Fill for a bumper strong and bright, + And here's to Admiral Death! +He's sailed in a hundred builds o' boat, +He's fought in a thousand kinds o' coat, +He's the senior flag of all that float, + And his name's Admiral Death! + +Which of you looks for a service free? + (Hear what the sea-wind saith) +The rules o' the service are but three + When ye sail with Admiral Death. +Steady your hand in time o' squalls, +Stand to the last by him that falls, +And answer clear to the voice that calls, + "Ay, Ay! Admiral Death!" + +How will ye know him among the rest? + (Hear what the sea-wind saith) +By the glint o' the stars that cover his breast + Ye may find Admiral Death. +By the forehead grim with an ancient scar, +By the voice that rolls like thunder far, +By the tenderest eyes of all that are, + Ye may know Admiral Death. + +Where are the lads that sailed before? + (Hear what the sea-wind saith) +Their bones are white by many a shore, + They sleep with Admiral Death. +Oh! but they loved him, young and old, +For he left the laggard, and took the bold, +And the fight was fought, and the story's told, + And they sleep with Admiral Death. + + + + + +Homeward Bound + +After long labouring in the windy ways, + On smooth and shining tides + Swiftly the great ship glides, + Her storms forgot, her weary watches past; +Northward she glides, and through the enchanted haze + Faint on the verge her far hope dawns at last. + +The phantom sky-line of a shadowy down, + Whose pale white cliffs below + Through sunny mist aglow, + Like noon-day ghosts of summer moonshine gleam--- +Soft as old sorrow, bright as old renown, + There lies the home, of all our mortal dream. + + + + + +Gillespie. + +Riding at dawn, riding alone, + Gillespie left the town behind; +Before he turned by the Westward road + A horseman crossed him, staggering blind. + +"The Devil's abroad in false Vellore, + The Devil that stabs by night," he said, +"Women and children, rank and file, + Dying and dead, dying and dead." + +Without a word, without a groan, + Sudden and swift Gillespie turned, +The blood roared in his ears like fire, + Like fire the road beneath him burned. + +He thundered back to Arcot gate, + He thundered up through Arcot town, +Before he thought a second thought + In the barrack yard he lighted down. + +"Trumpeter, sound for the Light Dragoons, + Sound to saddle and spur," he said; +"He that is ready may ride with me, + And he that can may ride ahead." + +Fierce and fain, fierce and fain, + Behind him went the troopers grim, +They rode as ride the Light Dragoons + But never a man could ride with him. + +Their rowels ripped their horses' sides, + Their hearts were red with a deeper goad, +But ever alone before them all + Gillespie rode, Gillespie rode. + +Alone he came to false Vellore, + The walls were lined, the gates were barred; +Alone he walked where the bullets bit, + And called above to the Sergeant's Guard. + +"Sergeant, Sergeant, over the gate, + Where are your officers all?" he said; +Heavily came the Sergeant's voice, + "There are two living and forty dead." + +"A rope, a rope," Gillespie cried : + They bound their belts to serve his need. +There was not a rebel behind the wall + But laid his barrel and drew his bead. + +There was not a rebel among them all + But pulled his trigger and cursed his aim, +For lightly swung and rightly swung + Over the gate Gillespie came. + +He dressed the line, he led the charge, + They swept the wall like a stream in spate, +And roaring over the roar they heard + The galloper guns that burst the gate. + +Fierce and fain, fierce and fain, + The troopers rode the reeking flight: +The very stones remember still + The end of them that stab by night. + +They've kept the tale a hundred years, + They'll keep the tale a hundred more: +Riding at dawn, riding alone, + Gillespie came to false Vellore. + + + + + +Seringapatam + +"The sleep that Tippoo Sahib sleeps + Heeds not the cry of man; +The faith that Tippoo Sahib keeps + No judge on earth may scan; +He is the lord of whom ye hold + Spirit and sense and limb, +Fetter and chain are all ye gain + Who dared to plead with him." + +Baird was bonny and Baird was young, + His heart was strong as steel, +But life and death in the balance hung, + For his wounds were ill to heal. +"Of fifty chains the Sultan gave + We have filled but forty-nine: +We dare not fail of the perfect tale + For all Golconda's mine." + +That was the hour when Lucas first + Leapt to his long renown; +Like summer rains his anger burst, + And swept their scruples down. +"Tell ye the lord to whom ye crouch, + His fetters bite their fill: +To save your oath I'll wear them both, + And step the lighter still." + +The seasons came, the seasons passed, + They watched their fellows die; +But still their thought was forward cast, + Their courage still was high. +Through tortured days and fevered nights + Their limbs alone were weak, +And year by year they kept their cheer, + And spoke as freemen speak. + +But once a year, on the fourth of June, + Their speech to silence died, +And the silence beat to a soundless tune + And sang with a wordless pride; +Till when the Indian stars were bright, + And bells at home would ring, +To the fetters' clank they rose and drank + "England! God save the King!" + +The years came, and the years went, + The wheel full-circle rolled; +The tyrant's neck must yet be bent, + The price of blood be told: +The city yet must hear the roar + Of Baird's avenging guns, +And see him stand with lifted hand + By Tippoo Sahib's sons. + +The lads were bonny, the lads were young, + But he claimed a pitiless debt; +Life and death in the balance hung, + They watched it swing and set. +They saw him search with sombre eyes, + They knew the place he sought; +They saw him feel for the hilted steel, + They bowed before his thought. + +But he--he saw the prison there + In the old quivering heat, +Where merry hearts had met despair + And died without defeat; +Where feeble hands had raised the cup + For feebler lips to drain, +And one had worn with smiling scorn + His double load of pain. + +"The sleep that Tippoo Sahib sleeps + Hears not the voice of man; +The faith that Tippoo Sahib keeps + No earthly judge may scan; +For all the wrong your father wrought + Your father's sons are free; +Where Lucas lay no tongue shall say + That Mercy bound not me." + + + + + +A Ballad of John Nicholson + +It fell in the year of Mutiny, + At darkest of the night, +John Nicholson by Jalándhar came, + On his way to Delhi fight. + +And as he by Jalándhar came, + He thought what he must do, +And he sent to the Rajah fair greeting, + To try if he were true. + +"God grant your Highness length of days, + And friends when need shall be; +And I pray you send your Captains hither, + That they may speak with me." + +On the morrow through Jalándhar town + The Captains rode in state; +They came to the house of John Nicholson, + And stood before the gate. + +The chief of them was Mehtab Singh, + He was both proud and sly; +His turban gleamed with rubies red, + He held his chin full high. + +He marked his fellows how they put + Their shoes from off their feet; +"Now wherefore make ye such ado + These fallen lords to greet? + +"They have ruled us for a hundred years, + In truth I know not how, +But though they be fain of mastery + They dare not claim it now." + +Right haughtily before them all + The durbar hall he trod, +With rubies red his turban gleamed, + His feet with pride were shod. + +They had not been an hour together, + A scanty hour or so, +When Mehtab Singh rose in his place + And turned about to go. + +Then swiftly came John Nicholson + Between the door and him, +With anger smouldering in his eyes, + That made the rubies dim. + +"You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh,"--- + Oh, but his voice was low! +He held his wrath with a curb of iron + That furrowed cheek and brow. + +"You are overhasty, Mehtab Singh, + When that the rest are gone, +I have a word that may not wait + To speak with you alone." + +The Captains passed in silence forth + And stood the door behind; +To go before the game was played + Be sure they had no mind. + +But there within John Nicholson + Turned him on Mehtab Singh, +"So long as the soul is in my body + You shall not do this thing. + +"Have ye served us for a hundred years + And yet ye know not why? +We brook no doubt of our mastery, + We rule until we die. + +"Were I the one last Englishman + Drawing the breath of life, +And you the master-rebel of all + That stir this land to strife--- + +"Were I," he said, "but a Corporal, + And you a Rajput King, +So long as the soul was in my body + You should not do this thing. + +"Take off, take off, those shoes of pride, + Carry them whence they came; +Your Captains saw your insolence, + And they shall see your shame." + +When Mehtab Singh came to the door + His shoes they burned his hand, +For there in long and silent lines + He saw the Captains stand. + +When Mehtab Singh rode from the gate + His chin was on his breast: +The Captains said, "When the strong command + Obedience is best." + + + + + +The Guides at Cabul + +(1879) + +Sons of the Island race, wherever ye dwell, + Who speak of your fathers' battles with lips that burn, +The deed of an alien legion hear me tell, + And think not shame from the hearts ye tamed to learn, + When succour shall fail and the tide for a season turn, +To fight with joyful courage, a passionate pride, +To die at last as the Guides of Cabul died. + +For a handful of seventy men in a barrack of mud, + Foodless, waterless, dwindling one by one, +Answered a thousand yelling for English blood + With stormy volleys that swept them gunner from gun, + And charge on charge in the glare of the Afghan sun, +Till the walls were shattered wherein they couched at bay, +And dead or dying half of the seventy lay. + +Twice they had taken the cannon that wrecked their hold, + Twice toiled in vain to drag it back, +Thrice they toiled, and alone, wary and bold, + Whirling a hurricane sword to scatter the rack, + Hamilton, last of the English, covered their track. +"Never give in!" he cried, and he heard them shout, +And grappled with death as a man that knows not doubt. + +And the Guides looked down from their smouldering barrack again, + And behold, a banner of truce, and a voice that spoke: +"Come, for we know that the English all are slain, + We keep no feud with men of a kindred folk; + Rejoice with us to be free of the conqueror's yolk." +Silence fell for a moment, then was heard +A sound of laughter and scorn, and an answering word. + +"Is it we or the lords we serve who have earned this wrong, + That ye call us to flinch from the battle they bade us fight? +We that live--do ye doubt that our hands are strong? + They that are fallen--ye know that their blood was bright! + Think ye the Guides will barter for lust of the light +The pride of an ancient people in warfare bred, +Honour of comrades living, and faith to the dead?" + +Then the joy that spurs the warrior's heart + To the last thundering gallop and sheer leap +Came on the men of the Guides: they flung apart + The doors not all their valour could longer keep; + They dressed their slender line; they breathed deep, +And with never a foot lagging or head bent +To the clash and clamour and dust of death they went. + + + + + + +The Gay Gordons + +(Dargai, October 20, 1897) + +Whos for the Gathering, who's for the Fair? + (Gay goes the Gordon to a fight) +The bravest of the brave are at deadlock there, + (Highlanders! march! by the right!) +There are bullets by the hundred buzzing in the air, +There are bonny lads lying on the hillside bare; +But the Gordons know what the Gordons dare + When they hear the pipers playing! + +The happiest English heart today + (Gay goes the Gordon to a fight) +Is the heart of the Colonel, hide it as he may; + (Steady there! steady on the right!) +He sees his work and he sees his way, +He knows his time and the word to say, +And he's thinking of the tune that the Gordons play + When he sets the pipers playing. + +Rising, roaring, rushing like the tide, + (Gay goes the Gordon to a fight) +They're up through the fire-zone, not be be denied; + (Bayonets! and charge! by the right!) +Thirty bullets straight where the rest went wide, +And thirty lads are lying on the bare hillside; +But they passed in the hour of the Gordons' pride, + To the skirl of the pipers' playing. + + + + + +He Fell Among Thieves + +"Ye have robbed," said he, "ye have slaughtered and made an end, + Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead: +What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?" + "Blood for our blood," they said. + +He laughed: "If one may settle the score for five, + I am ready; but let the reckoning stand til day: +I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive." + "You shall die at dawn," said they. + +He flung his empty revolver down the slope, + He climbed alone to the Eastward edge of the trees; +All night long in a dream untroubled of hope + He brooded, clasping his knees. + +He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills + The ravine where the Yassin river sullenly flows; +He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills, + Or the far Afghan snows. + +He saw the April noon on his books aglow, + The wistaria trailing in at the window wide; +He heard his father's voice from the terrace below + Calling him down to ride. + +He saw the gray little church across the park, + The mounds that hid the loved and honoured dead; +The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark, + The brasses black and red. + +He saw the School Close, sunny and green, + The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall, +The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between, + His own name over all. + +He saw the dark wainscot and timbered roof, + The long tables, and the faces merry and keen; +The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof, + The Dons on the daïs serene. + +He watched the liner's stem ploughing the foam, + He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; +He heard the passengers' voices talking of home, + He saw the flag she flew. + +And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet, + And strode to his ruined camp below the wood; +He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet: + His murderers round him stood. + +Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast, + The blood-red snow-peaks chilled to dazzling white: +He turned, and saw the golden circle at last, + Cut by the Eastern height. + +"O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun, + I have lived, I praise and adore Thee." + A sword swept. +Over the pass the voices one by one + Faded, and the hill slept. + + + + + +Ionicus + +With failing feet and shoulders bowed + Beneath the weight of happier days, +He lagged among the heedless crowd, + Or crept along suburban ways. +But still through all his heart was young, + His mood a joy that nought could mar, +A courage, a pride, a rapture, sprung + Of the strength and splendour of England's war. + +From ill-requited toil he turned + To ride with Picton and with Pack, +Among his grammars inly burned + To storm the Afghan mountain-track. +When midnight chimed, before Quebec + He watched with Wolfe till the morning star; +At noon he saw from _Victory's_ deck + The sweep and splendour of England's war. + +Beyond the book his teaching sped, + He left on whom he taught the trace +Of kinship with the deathless dead, + And faith in all the Island Race. +He passed: his life a tangle seemed, + His age from fame and power was far; +But his heart was night to the end, and dreamed + Of the sound and splendour of England's war. + + + + + +The Non-Combatant + +Among a race high-handed, strong of heart, +Sea-rovers, conquerors, builders in the waste, +He had his birth; a nature too complete, +Eager and doubtful, no man's soldier sworn +And no man's chosen captain; born to fail, +A name without an echo: yet he too +Within the cloister of his narrow days +Fulfilled the ancestral rites, and kept alive +The eternal fire; it may be, not in vain; +For out of those who dropped a downward glance +Upon the weakling huddled at his prayers, +Perchance some looked beyond him, and then first +Beheld the glory, and what shrine it filled, +And to what Spirit sacred: or perchance +Some heard him chanting, though but to himself, +The old heroic names: and went their way: +And hummed his music on the march to death. + + + + + +Clifton Chapel + +This is the Chapel: here, my son, + Your father thought the thoughts of youth, +And heard the words that one by one + The touch of Life has turned to truth. +Here in a day that is not far, + You too may speak with noble ghosts +Of manhood and the vows of war + You made before the Lord of Hosts. + +To set the cause above renown, + To love the game beyond the prize, +To honour, while you strike him down, + The foe that comes with fearless eyes; +To count the life of battle good, + And dear the land that gave you birth, +And dearer yet the brotherhood + That binds the brave of all the earth--- + +My son, the oath is yours: the end + Is His, Who built the world of strife, +Who gave His children Pain for friend, + And Death for surest hope of life. +To-day and here the fight's begun, + Of the great fellowship you're free; +Henceforth the School and you are one, + And what You are, the race shall be. + +God send you fortune: yet be sure, + Among the lights that gleam and pass, +You'll live to follow none more pure + Than that which glows on yonder brass: +"Qui procul hinc," the legend's writ,--- + The frontier-grave is far away--- +"Qui ante diem periit: + Sed miles, sed pro patriâ." + + + + + +Vitaï Lampada + +There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night--- + Ten to make and the match to win--- +A bumping pitch and a blinding light, + An hour to play and the last man in. +And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat, + Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, +But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote--- + "Play up! play up! and play the game!" + +The sand of the desert is sodden red,--- + Red with the wreck of a square that broke;--- +The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead, + And the regiment blind with dust and smoke. +The river of death has brimmed his banks, + And England's far, and Honour a name, +But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks, + "Play up! play up! and play the game!" + +This is the word that year by year, + While in her place the School is set, +Every one of her sons must hear, + And none that hears it dare forget. +This they all with a joyful mind + Bear through life like a torch in flame, +And falling fling to the host behind--- + "Play up! play up! and play the game!" + + + + + +The Vigil + +England! where the sacred flame + Burns before the inmost shrine, +Where the lips that love thy name + Consecrate their hopes and thine, +Where the banners of thy dead +Weave their shadows overhead, +Watch beside thine arms to-night, +Pray that God defend the Right. + +Think that when to-morrow comes + War shall claim command of all, +Thou must hear the roll of drums, + Thou must hear the trumpet's call. +Now, before they silence ruth, +Commune with the voice of truth; +England! on thy knees to-night +Pray that God defend the Right. + +Hast thou counted up the cost, + What to foeman, what to friend? +Glory sought is Honour lost, + How should this be knighthood's end? +Know'st thou what is Hatred's meed? +What the surest gain of greed? +England! wilt thou dare to-night +Pray that God defend the Right. + +Single-hearted, unafraid, + Hither all thy heroes came, +On this altar's steps were laid + Gordon's life and Outram's fame. +England! if thy will be yet +By their great example set, +Here beside thine arms to-night +Pray that God defend the Right. + +So shalt thou when morning comes + Rise to conquer or to fall, +Joyful hear the rolling drums, + Joyful hear the trumpets call, +Then let Memory tell thy heart: +"England! what thou wert, thou art!" +Gird thee with thine ancient might, +Forth! and God defend the Right! + + + + + +The Sailing Of The Long-Ships + +(October, 1899) + +They saw the cables loosened, they saw the gangways cleared, +They heard the women weeping, they heard the men that cheered; +Far off, far off, the tumult faded and died away, +And all alone the sea-wind came singing up the Bay. + +"I came by Cape St. Vincent, I came by Trafalgar, +I swept from Torres Vedras to golden Vigo Bar, +I saw the beacons blazing that fired the world with light +When down their ancient highway your fathers passed to fight. + +"O race of tireless fighters, flushed with a youth renewed, +Right well the wars of Freedom befit the Sea-kings' brood; +Yet as ye go forget not the fame of yonder shore, +The fame ye owe your fathers and the old time before. + +"Long-suffering were the Sea-kings, they were not swift to kill, +But when the sands had fallen they waited no man's will; +Though all the world forbade them, they counted not nor cared, +They weighed not help or hindrance, they did the thing they dared. + +"The Sea-kings loved not boasting, they cursed not him that cursed, +They honoured all men duly, and him that faced them, first; +They strove and knew not hatred, they smote and toiled to save, +They tended whom they vanquished, they praised the fallen brave. + +"Their fame's on Torres Vedras, their fame's on Vigo Bar, +Far-flashed to Cape St. Vincent it burns from Trafalgar; +Mark as ye go the beacons that woke the world with light +When down their ancient highway your fathers passed to fight." + + + + + +Waggon Hill + +Drake in the North Sea grimly prowling, + Treading his dear _Revenge's_ deck, +Watched, with the sea-dogs round him growling, + Galleons drifting wreck by wreck. + "Fetter and Faith for England's neck, + Faggot and Father, Saint and chain,--- +Yonder the Devil and all go howling, + Devon, O Devon, in wind and rain! + +Drake at the last off Nombre lying, + Knowing the night that toward him crept, +Gave to the sea-dogs round him crying, + This for a sign before he slept:--- + "Pride of the West! What Devon hath kept + Devon shall keep on tide or main; +Call to the storm and drive them flying, + Devon, O Devon, in wind and rain!" + +Valour of England gaunt and whitening, + Far in a South land brought to bay, +Locked in a death-grip all day tightening, + Waited the end in twilight gray. + Battle and storm and the sea-dog's way! + Drake from his long rest turned again, +Victory lit thy steel with lightning, + Devon, o Devon, in wind and rain! + + + + + +The Volunteer + +"He leapt to arms unbidden, + Unneeded, over-bold; +His face by earth is hidden, + His heart in earth is cold. + +"Curse on the reckless daring + That could not wait the call, +The proud fantastic bearing + That would be first to fall!" + +O tears of human passion, + Blur not the image true; +This was not folly's fashion, + This was the man we knew. + + + + + +The Only Son + +O Bitter wind toward the sunset blowing, + What of the dales to-night? +In yonder gray old hall what fires are glowing, + What ring of festal light? + + "In the great window as the day was dwindling + I saw an old man stand; + His head was proudly held and his eyes kindling, + But the list shook in his hand." + +O wind of twilight, was there no word uttered, + No sound of joy or wail? +"'A great fight and a good death,' he muttered; + 'Trust him, he would not fail.'" + +What of the chamber dark where she was lying; + For whom all life is done? +"Within her heart she rocks a dead child, crying + 'My son, my ltttle son.'" + + + + + + +The Grenadier's Good-Bye + +"When Lieutenant Murray fell, the only words he spoke were, +'Forward, Grenadiers!'"---Press Telegram. + +Here they halted, here once more + Hand from hand was rent; +Here his voice above the roar + Rang, and on they went. +Yonder out of sight they crossed, + Yonder died the cheers; +One word lives where all is lost--- + "Forward, Grenadiers!" + +This alone he asked of fame, + This alone of pride; +Still with this he faced the flame, + Answered Death, and died. +Crest of battle sunward tossed, + Song of the marching years, +This shall live though all be lost--- + "Forward, Grenadiers!" + + + + + +The Schoolfellow + +Our game was his but yesteryear; + We wished him back; we could not know +The self-same hour we missed him here + He led the line that broke the foe. + +Blood-red behind our guarded posts + Sank as of old and dying day; +The battle ceased; the mingled hosts + Weary and cheery went their way: + +"To-morrow well may bring," we said, + "As fair a fight, as clear a sun." +Dear lad, before the world was sped, + For evermore thy goal was won. + + + + + +On Spion Kop + +Foremost of all on battle's fiery steep + Here VERTUE fell, and here he sleeps his sleep.* +A fairer name no Roman ever gave + To stand sole monument on Valour's grave. + +* Major N. H. Vertue, of the Buffs, Brigade-Major to General +Woodgate, was buried where he fell, on the edge of Spion Kop, +in front of the British position. + + + + + +The School At War + +All night before the brink of death + In fitful sleep the army lay, +For through the dream that stilled their breath + Too gauntly glared the coming day. + +But we, within whose blood there leaps + The fulness of a life as wide +As Avon's water where he sweeps + Seaward at last with Severn's tide, + +We heard beyond the desert night + The murmur of the fields we knew, +And our swift souls with one delight + Like homing swallows Northward flew. + +We played again the immortal games, + And grappled with the fierce old friends, +And cheered the dead undying names, + And sang the song that never ends; + +Till, when the hard, familiar bell + Told that the summer night was late, +Where long ago we said farewell + We said farewell by the old gate. + +"O Captains unforgot," they cried, + "Come you again or come no more, +Across the world you keep the pride, + Across the world we mark the score." + + + + + +By The Hearth-Stone + +By the hearth-stone +She sits alone, + The long night bearing: +With eyes that gleam +Into the dream + Of the firelight staring. + +Low and more low +The dying glow + Burns in the embers; +She nothing heeds +And nothing needs--- + Only remembers. + + + + + +Peace + +No more to watch by Night's eternal shore, + With England's chivalry at dawn to ride; +No more defeat, faith, victory---O! no more + A cause on earth for which we might have died. + + + + + +April On Waggon Hill + +Lad, and can you rest now, + There beneath your hill! +Your hands are on your breast now, + But is your heart so still? +'Twas the right death to die, lad, + A gift without regret, +But unless truth's a lie, lad, + You dream of Devon yet. + +Ay, ay, the year's awaking, + The fire's among the ling, +The beechen hedge is breaking, + The curlew's on the wing; +Primroses are out, lad, + On the high banks of Lee, +And the sun stirs the trout, lad; + From Brendon to the sea. + +I know what's in your heart, lad,--- + The mare he used to hunt--- +And her blue market-cart, lad, + With posies tied in front--- +We miss them from the moor road, + They're getting old to roam, +The road they're on's a sure road + And nearer, lad, to home. + +Your name, the name they cherish? + 'Twill fade, lad, 'tis true: +But stone and all may perish + With little loss to you. +While fame's fame you're Devon, lad, + The Glory of the West; +Till the roll's called in heaven, lad, + You may well take your rest. + + + + + +Commemoration + +I sat by the granite pillar, and sunlight fell + Where the sunlight fell of old, +And the hour was the hour my heart remembered well, + And the sermon rolled and rolled +As it used to roll when the place was still unhaunted, +And the strangest tale in the world was still untold. + +And I knew that of all this rushing of urgent sound + That I so clearly heard, +The green young forest of saplings clustered round + Was heeding not one word: +Their heads were bowed in a still serried patience +Such as an angel's breath could never have stirred. + +For some were already away to the hazardous pitch, + Or lining the parapet wall, +And some were in glorious battle, or great and rich, + Or throned in a college hall: +And among the rest was one like my own young phantom, +Dreaming for ever beyond my utmost call. + +"O Youth," the preacher was crying, "deem not thou + Thy life is thine alone; +Thou bearest the will of the ages, seeing how + They built thee bone by bone, +And within thy blood the Great Age sleeps sepulchred +Till thou and thine shall roll away the stone. + +"Therefore the days are coming when thou shalt burn + With passion whitely hot; +Rest shall be rest no more; thy feet shall spurn + All that thy hand hath got; +And One that is stronger shall gird thee, and lead thee swiftly +Whither, O heart of Youth, thou wouldest not." + +And the School passed; and I saw the living and dead + Set in their seats again, +And I longed to hear them speak of the word that was said, + But I knew that I longed in vain. +And they stretched forth their hands, and the wind of the spirit took them +Lightly as drifted leaves on an endless plain. + + + + + +The Echo + +Of A Ballad Sung By H. Plunket Greene To His Old School + +Twice three hundred boys were we, + Long ago, long ago, +Where the Downs look out to the Severn Sea. + Clifton for aye! +We held by the game and hailed the team, +For many could play where few could dream. + City of Song shall stand alway. + +Some were for profit and some for pride, + Long ago, long ago, +Some for the flag they lived and died. + Clifton for aye! +The work of the world must still be done, +And minds are many though truth be one. + City of Song shall stand alway. + +But a lad there was to his fellows sang, + Long ago, long ago, +And soon the world to his music rang. + Clifton for aye! +Follow your Captains, crown your Kings, +But what will ye give to the lad that sings? + City of Song shall stand alway. + +For the voice ye hear is the voice of home, + Long ago, long ago, +And the voice of Youth with the world to roam. + Clifton for aye! +The voice of passion and human tears, +And the voice of the vision that lights the years. + City of Song shall stand alway. + + + + + +The Best School of All + +It's good to see the school we knew, + The land of youth and dream. +To greet again the rule we knew + Before we took the stream: +Though long we've missed the sight of her, + Our hearts may not forget; +We've lost the old delight of her, + We keep her honour yet. + + We'll honour yet the school we knew, + The best school of all: + We'll honour yet the rule we knew, + Till the last bell call. + For working days or holidays, + And glad or melancholy days, + They were great days and jolly days + At the best school of all. + +The stars and sounding vanities + That half the crowd bewitch, +What are they but inanities + To him that treads the pitch? +And where's the welth I'm wondering, + Could buy the cheers that roll +When the last charge goes thundering + Towards the twilight goal? + +Then men that tanned the hide of us, + Our daily foes and friends, +They shall not lose their pride of us, + Howe'er the journey ends. +Their voice to us who sing of it, + No more its message bears, +But the round world shall ring of it, + And all we are be theirs. + +To speak of fame a venture is, + There's little here can bide, +But we may face the centuries, + And dare the deepending tide: +for though the dust that's part of us, + To dust again be gone, +Yet here shall beat the heart of us--- + The school we handed on! + + We'll honour yet the school we knew, + The best school of all: + We'll honour yet the rule we knew, + Till the last bell call. + For working days or holidays, + And glad or melancholy days, + They were great days and jolly days + At the best school of all. + + + + + +England + +Praise thou with praise unending, + The Master of the Wine; +To all their portions sending + Himself he mingled thine: + +The sea-born flush of morning, + The sea-born hush of night, +The East wind comfort scorning, + And the North wind driving right: + +The world for gain and giving, + The game for man and boy, +The life that joys in living, + The faith that lives in joy. + + + + + +Victoria Regina + +(June 21st, 1897*) + +A thousand years by sea and land + Our race hath served the island kings, +But not by custom's dull command + To-day with song her Empire rings: + +Not all the glories of her birth, + Her armed renown and ancient throne, +Could make her less the child of earth + Or give her hopes beyond our own: + +But stayed on faith more sternly proved + And pride than ours more pure and deep, +She loves the land our fathers loved + And keeps the fame our sons shall keep. + +* These lines, with music by Dr. Lloyd, formed part of the Cycle of +Song offered to Queen Victoria, of blessed and glorious memory, +in celebration of her second Jubilee. + + + + + +The King Of England + +(June 24th, 1902) + +In that eclipse of noon when joy was hushed + Like the bird's song beneath unnatural night, +And Terror's footfall in the darkness crushed + The rose imperial of our delight, +Then, even then, though no man cried "He comes," + And no man turned to greet him passing there, + With phantom heralds challenging renown + And silent-throbbing drums + I saw the King of England, hale and fair, + Ride out with a great train through London town. + +Unarmed he rode, but in his ruddy shield + The lions bore the dint of many a lance, +And up and down his mantle's azure field + Were strewn the lilies plucked in famous France. +Before him went with banner floating wide + The yeoman breed that served his honour best, + And mixed with these his knights of noble blood; + But in the place of pride + His admirals in billowy lines abreast + Convoyed him close like galleons on the flood. + +Full of a strength unbroken showed his face + And his brow calm with youth's unclouded dawn, +But round his lips were lines of tenderer grace + Such as no hand but Time's hath ever drawn. +Surely he knew his glory had no part + In dull decay, nor unto Death must bend, + Yet surely too of lengthening shadows dreamed + With sunset in his heart, + So brief his beauty now, so near the end, + And now so old and so immortal seemed. + +O King among the living, these shall hail + Sons of thy dust that shall inherit thee: +O King of men that die, though we must fail + Thy life is breathed from thy triumphant sea. +O man that servest men by right of birth, + Our hearts' content thy heart shall also keep, + Thou too with us shalt one day lay thee down + In our dear native earth, + Full sure the King of England, while we sleep, + For ever rides abroad, through London town. + + + + + +The Nile + +Out of the unknown South, +Through the dark lands of drouth, + Far wanders ancient Nile in slumber gliding: +Clear-mirrored in his dream +The deeds that haunt his stream + Flash out and fade like stars in midnight sliding. +Long since, before the life of man + Rose from among the lives that creep, +With Time's own tide began + That still mysterious sleep, + Only to cease when Time shall reach the eternal deep. + +From out his vision vast +The early gods have passed, + They waned and perished with the faith that made them; +The long phantasmal line +Of Pharaohs crowned divine + Are dust among the dust that once obeyed them. +Their land is one mute burial mound, + Save when across the drifted years +Some chant of hollow sound, + Some triumph blent with tears, + From Memnon's lips at dawn wakens the desert meres. + +O Nile, and can it be +No memory dwells with thee + Of Grecian lore and the sweet Grecian singer? +The legions' iron tramp, +The Goths' wide-wandering camp, + Had these no fame that by thy shore might linger? +Nay, then must all be lost indeed, + Lost too the swift pursuing might +That cleft with passionate speed + Aboukir's tranquil night, + And shattered in mid-swoop the great world-eagle's flight. + +Yet have there been on earth +Spirits of starry birth, + Whose splendour rushed to no eternal setting: +They over all endure, +Their course through all is sure, + The dark world's light is still of their begetting. +Though the long past forgotten lies, + Nile! in thy dream remember him, +Whose like no more shall rise + Above our twilight's rim, + Until the immortal dawn shall make all glories dim. + +For this man was not great +By gold or kingly state, + Or the bright sword, or knowledge of earth's wonder; +But more than all his race +He saw life face to face, + And heard the still small voice above the thunder. +O river, while thy waters roll + By yonder vast deserted tomb, +There, where so clear a soul + So shone through gathering doom, + Thou and thy land shall keep the tale of lost Khartoum. + + + + + +Sráhmandázi* + +Deep embowered beside the forest river, + Where the flame of sunset only falls, +Lapped in silence lies the House of Dying, + House of them to whom the twilight calls. + +There within when day was near to ending, + By her lord a woman young and strong, +By his chief a songman old and stricken + Watched together till the hour of song. + +"O my songman, now the bow is broken, + Now the arrows one by one are sped, +Sing to me the song of Sráhmandázi, + Sráhmandázi, home of all the dead." + +Then the songman, flinging wide his songnet, + On the last token laid his master's hand, +While he sang the song of Sráhmandázi, + None but dying men can understand. + +"Yonder sun that fierce and fiery-hearted + Marches down the sky to vanish soon, +At the self-same hour in Sráhmandázi + Rises pallid like the rainy moon. + +"There he sees the heroes by their river, + Where the great fish daily upward swim; +Yet they are but shadows hunting shadows, + Phantom fish in waters drear and dim. + +"There he sees the kings among their headmen, + Women weaving, children playing games; +Yet they are but shadows ruling shadows, + Phantom folk with dim forgotten names. + +"Bid farewell to all that most thou lovest, + Tell thy heart thy living life is done; +All the days and deeds of Sráhmandázi + Are not worth an hour of yonder sun. + +Dreamily the chief from out the songnet + Drew his hand and touched the woman's head: +"Know they not, then, love in Sráhmandázi? + Has a king no bride among the dead?" + +Then the songman answered, "O my master, + Love they know, but none may learn it there; +Only souls that reach that land together + Keep their troth and find the twilight fair. + +"Thou art still a king, and at thy passing + By thy latest word must all abide: +If thou willest, here am I, thy songman; + If thou lovest, here is she, thy bride." + +Hushed and dreamy lay the House of Dying, + Dreamily the sunlight upward failed, +Dreamily the chief on eyes that loved him + Looked with eyes the coming twilight veiled. + +Then he cried, "My songman, I am passing; + Let her live, her life is but begun; +All the days and nights of Sráhmandázi + Are not worth an hour of yonder sun." + +Yet, when there within the House of Dying + The last silence held the sunset air, +Not alone he came to Sráhmandázi, + Not alone she found the twilight fair: + +While the songman, far beneath the forest + Sang of Srahmandazi all night through, +"Lovely be thy name, O Land of shadows, + Land of meeting, Land of all the true!" + +* This ballad is founded on materials given to the author by the +late Miss Mary Kingsley on her return from her last visit to the +Bantu peoples of West Africa. + + + + + +Outward Bound + +Dear Earth, near Earth, the clay that made us men, + The land we sowed, + The hearth that glowed--- + O Mother, must we bid farewell to thee? +Fast dawns the last dawn, and what shall comfort then + The lonely hearts that roam the outer sea? + +Gray wakes the daybreak, the shivering sails are set, + To misty deeps + The channel sweeps--- + O Mother, think on us who think on thee! +Earth-home, birth-home, with love remember yet + The sons in exile on the eternal sea. + + + + + +Hope The Hornblower + +"Hark ye, hark to the winding horn; +Sluggards, awake, and front the morn! +Hark ye, hark to the winding horn; + The sun's on meadow and mill. +Follow me, hearts that love the chase; +Follow me, feet that keep the pace: +Stirrup to stirrup we ride, we ride, + We ride by moor and hill." + +Huntsman, huntsman, whither away? +What is the quarry afoot to-day? +Huntsman, huntsman, whither away, + And what the game ye kill? +Is it the deer, that men may dine? +Is it the wolf that tears the kine? +What is the race ye ride, ye ride, + Ye ride by moor and hill? + +"Ask not yet till the day be dead +What is the game that's forward fled, +Ask not yet till the day be dead + The game we follow still. +An echo it may be, floating past; +A shadow it may be, fading fast: +Shadow or echo, we ride, we ride, + We ride by moor and hill" + + + + + +O Pulchritudo + +O Saint whose thousand shrines our feet have trod + And our eyes loved thy lamp's eternal beam, +Dim earthly radiance of the Unknown God, + Hope of the darkness, light of them that dream, +Far off, far off and faint, O glimmer on +Till we thy pilgrims from the road are gone. + +O Word whose meaning every sense hath sought, + Voice of the teeming field and grassy mound, +Deep-whispering fountain of the wells of thought, + Will of the wind and soul of all sweet sound, +Far off, far off and faint, O murmur on +Till we thy pilgrims from the road are gone. + + + + + +In July + +His beauty bore no token, + No sign our gladness shook; +With tender strength unbroken + The hand of Life he took: +But the summer flowers were falling, + Falling and fading away, +And mother birds were calling, + Crying and calling + For their loves that would not stay. + +He knew not Autumn's chillness, + Nor Winter's wind nor Spring's. +He lived with Summer's stillness + And sun and sunlit things: +But when the dusk was falling + He went the shadowy way, +And one more heart is calling, + Crying and calling + For the love that would not stay. + + + + + +From Generation To Generation + +O Son of mine, when dusk shall find thee bending + Between a gravestone and a cradle's head--- +Between the love whose name is loss unending + And the young love whose thoughts are liker dread,--- +Thou too shalt groan at heart that all thy spending + Cannot repay the dead, the hungry dead. + + + + + +When I Remember + +When I remember that the day will come + For this our love to quit his land of birth, + And bid farewell to all the ways of earth +With lips that must for evermore be dumb, + +Then creep I silent from the stirring hum, + And shut away the music and the mirth, + And reckon up what may be left of worth +When hearts are cold and love's own body numb. + +Something there must be that I know not here, +Or know too dimly through the symbol dear; + Some touch, some beauty, only guessed by this--- +If He that made us loves, it shall replace, +Beloved, even the vision of thy face + And deep communion of thine inmost kiss. + + + + + +Rondel* + +Though I wander far-off ways, + Dearest, never doubt thou me: + +Mine is not the love that strays, +Though I wander far-off ways: + +Faithfully for all my days + I have vowed myself to thee: +Though I wander far-off ways, + Dearest, never doubt thou me. + +* This and the two following pieces are from +the French of Wenceslas, Duke of Brabant and +Luxembourg, who died in 1384. + + + + + +Rondel + +Long ago to thee I gave +Body, soul, and all I have--- + Nothing in the world I keep: + +All that in return I crave +Is that thou accept the slave +Long ago to thee I gave--- +Body, soul, and all I have. + +Had I more to share or save, +I would give as give the brave, + Stooping not to part the heap; +Long ago to thee I gave +Body, soul, and all I have--- + Nothing in the world I keep. + + + + + +Balade + +I cannot tell, of twain beneath this bond, +Which one in grief the other goes beyond,--- +Narcissus, who to end the pain he bore +Died of the love that could not help him more; +Or I, that pine because I cannot see +The lady who is queen and love to me. + +Nay--for Narcissus, in the forest pond +Seeing his image, made entreaty fond, +"Beloved, comfort on my longing pour": +So for a while he soothed his passion sore; +So cannot I, for all too far is she--- +The lady who is queen and love to me. + +But since that I have Love's true colours donned, +I in his service will not now despond, +For in extremes Love yet can all restore: +So till her beauty walks the world no more +All day remembered in my hope shall be +The lady who is queen and love to me. + + + + + +The Last Word + +Before the April night was late +A rider came to the castle gate; +A rider breathing human breath, +But the words he spoke were the words of Death. + +"Greet you well from the King our lord, +He marches hot for the eastward ford; +Living or dying, all or one, +Ye must keep the ford till the race be run. + +Sir Alain rose with lips that smiled, +He kissed his wife, he kissed his child: +Before the April night was late +Sir Alain rode from the castle gate. + +He called his men-at-arms by name, +But one there was uncalled that came: +He bade his troop behind him ride, +But there was one that rode beside. + + "Why will you spur so fast to die? + Be wiser ere the night go by. + A message late is a message lost; + For all your haste the foe had crossed. + + "Are men such small unmeaning things + To strew the board of smiling Kings? + With life and death they play their game, + And life or death, the end's the same." + +Softly the April air above +Rustled the woodland homes of love: +Softly the April air below +Carried the dream of buds that blow. + + "Is he that bears a warrior's fame + To shun the pointless stroke of shame? + Will he that propped a trembling throne + Not stand for right when right's his own? + + "Your oath on the four gospels sworn? + What oath can bind resolves unborn? + You lose that far eternal life? + Is it yours to lose? Is it child and wife? + +But now beyond the pathway's bend, +Sir Alain saw the forest end, +And winding wide beneath the hill, +The glassy river lone and still. + +And now he saw with lifted eyes +The East like a great chancel rise, +And deep through all his senses drawn, +Received the sacred wine of dawn. + +He set his face to the stream below, +He drew his axe from the saddle bow: +"Farewell, Messire, the night is sped; +There lies the ford, when all is said" + + + + + +The Viking's Song + +When I thy lover first + Shook out my canvas free +And like a pirate burst + Into that dreaming sea, +The land knew no such thirst + As then tormented me. + +Now when at eve returned + I near that shore divine, +Where once but watch-fires burned + I see thy beacon shine, +And know the land hath learned + Desire that welcomes mine. + + + + + +The Sufi In The City + +I. + +When late I watched the arrows of the sleet +Against the windows of the Tavern beat, + I heard a Rose that murmured from her Pot: +"Why trudge thy fellows yonder in the Street? + +II. + +"Before the phantom of False Morning dies, +Choked in the bitter Net that binds the skies, + Their feet, bemired with Yesterday, set out +For the dark alleys where To-morrow lies. + +III. + +"Think you, when all their petals they have bruised, +And all the fragrances of Life confused, + That Night with sweeter rest will comfort these +Than us, who still within the Garden mused? + +IV. + +"Think you the Gold they fight for all day long +Is worth the frugal Peace their clamours wrong? + Their Titles, and the Name they toil to build--- +Will they outlast the echoes of our Song?" + +V. + +O Sons of Omar, what shall be the close +Seek not to know, for no man living knows: + But while within your hands the Wine is set +Drink ye--to Omar and the Dreaming Rose! + + + + + +Yattendon + +Among the woods and tillage + That fringe the topmost downs, +All lonely lies the village, + Far off from seas and towns. +Yet when her own folk slumbered + I heard within her street +Murmur of men unnumbered + And march of myriad feet. + +For all she lies so lonely, + Far off from towns and seas, +The village holds not only + The roofs beneath her trees: +While Life is sweet and tragic + And Death is veiled and dumb, +Hither, by singer's magic, + The pilgrim world must come. + + + + + +Among The Tombs + +She is a lady fair and wise, + Her heart her counsel keeps, +And well she knows of time that flies + And tide that onward sweeps; +But still she sits with restless eyes + Where Memory sleeps--- + Where Memory sleeps. + +Ye that have heard the whispering dead + In every wind that creeps, +Or felt the stir that strains the lead + Beneath the mounded heaps, +Tread softly, ah! more softly tread + Where Memory sleeps--- + Where Memory sleeps. + + + + + +A Sower + +With sanguine looks + And rolling walk +Among the rooks + He loved to stalk, + +While on the land + With gusty laugh +From a full hand + He scattered chaff. + +Now that within + His spirit sleeps +A harvest thin + The sickle reaps; + +But the dumb fields + Desire his tread, +And no earth yields + A wheat more red. + + + + + +A Song Of Exmoor + +The Forest above and the Combe below, + On a bright September morn! +He's the soul of a clod who thanks not God + That ever his body was born! +So hurry along, the stag's afoot, + The Master's up and away! +Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through +From Bratton to Porlock Bay! + + So hurry along, the stag's afoot, + The Master's up and away! + Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through + From Bratton to Porlock Bay! + +Hark to the tufters' challenge true, + 'Tis a note that the red-deer knows! +His courage awakes, his covert he breaks, + And up for the moor he goes! +He's all his rights and seven on top, + His eye's the eye of a king, +And he'll beggar the pride of some that ride + Before he leaves the ling! + +Here comes Antony bringing the pack, + Steady! he's laying them on! +By the sound of their chime you may tell that it's time + To harden your heart and be gone. +Nightacott, Narracott, Hunnacott's passed, + Right for the North they race: +He's leading them straight for Blackmoor Gate, + And he's setting a pounding pace! + +We're running him now on a breast-high scent, + But he leaves us standing still; +When we swing round by Westland Pound + He's far up Challacombe Hill. +The pack are a string of struggling ants, + The quarry's a dancing midge, +They're trying their reins on the edge of the Chains + While he's on Cheriton Ridge. + +He's gone by Kittuck and Lucott Moor, + He's gone by Woodcock's Ley; +By the little white town he's turned him down, + And he's soiling in open sea. +So hurry along, we'll both be in, + The crowd are a parish away! +We're a field of two, and we've followed it through +From Bratton to Porlock Bay! + + So hurry along, we'll both be in, + The crowd are a parish away! + We're a field of two, and we've followed it through + From Bratton to Porlock Bay! + + + + + +Fidele's Grassy Tomb + +The Squire sat propped in a pillowed chair, +His eyes were alive and clear of care, +But well he knew that the hour was come +To bid good-bye to his ancient home. + +He looked on garden, wood, and hill, +He looked on the lake, sunny and still: +The last of earth that his eyes could see +Was the island church of Orchardleigh. + +The last that his heart could understand +Was the touch of the tongue that licked his hand: +"Bury the dog at my feet," he said, +And his voice dropped, and the Squire was dead. + +Now the dog was a hound of the Danish breed, +Staunch to love and strong at need: +He had dragged his master safe to shore +When the tide was ebbing at Elsinore. + +From that day forth, as reason would, +He was named "Fidele," and made it good: +When the last of the mourners left the door +Fidele was dead on the chantry floor. + +They buried him there at his master's feet, +And all that heard of it deemed it meet: +The story went the round for years, +Till it came at last to the Bishop's ears. + +Bishop of Bath and Wells was he, +Lord of the lords of Orchardleigh; +And he wrote to the Parson the strongest screed +That Bishop may write or Parson read. + +The sum of it was that a soulless hound +Was known to be buried in hallowed ground: +From scandal sore the Church to save +They must take the dog from his masters grave. + +The heir was far in a foreign land, +The Parson was wax to my Lord's command: +He sent for the Sexton and bade him make +A lonely grave by the shore of the lake. + +The Sexton sat by the water's brink +Where he used to sit when he used to think: +He reasoned slow, but he reasoned it out, +And his argument left him free from doubt. + +"A Bishop," he said, "is the top of his trade: +But there's others can give him a start with the spade: +Yon dog, he carried the Squire ashore, +And a Christian couldn't ha' done no more. + +The grave was dug; the mason came +And carved on stone Fidele's name; +But the dog that the Sexton laid inside +Was a dog that never had lived or died. + +So the Parson was praised,and the scandal stayed, +Till, a long time after, the church decayed, +And, laying the floor anew, they found +In the tomb of the Squire the bones of a hound. + +As for the Bishop of Bath and Wells +No more of him the story tells; +Doubtless he lived as a Prelate and Prince, +And died and was buried a century since. + +And whether his view was right or wrong +Has little to do with this my song; +Something we owe him, you must allow; +And perhaps he has changed his mind by now. + +The Squire in the family chantry sleeps, +The marble still his memory keeps: +Remember, when the name you spell, +There rest Fidele's bones as well. + +For the Sexton's grave you need not search, +'Tis a nameless mound by the island church: +An ignorant fellow, of humble lot--- +But. he knew one thing that a Bishop did not. + + + + + +Moonset + +Past seven o'clock: time to be gone; +Twelfth-night's over and dawn shivering up: +A hasty cut of the loaf, a steaming cup, +Down to the door, and there is Coachman John. + +Ruddy of cheek is John and bright of eye; +But John it appears has none of your grins and winks; +Civil enough, but short: perhaps he thinks: +Words come once in a mile, and always dry. + +Has he a mind or not? I wonder; but soon +We turn through a leafless wood, and there to the right, +Like a sun bewitched in alien realms of night, +Mellow and yellow and rounded hangs the moon. + +Strangely near she seems, and terribly great: +The world is dead: why are we travelling still? +Nightmare silence grips my struggling will; +We are driving for ever and ever to find a gate. + +"When you come to consider the moon," says John at last, +And stops, to feel his footing and take his stand; +"And then there's some will say there's never a hand +That made the world!" + A flick, and the gates are passed. + +Out of the dim magical moonlit park, +Out to the workday road and wider skies: +There's a warm flush in the East where day's to rise, +And I'm feeling the better for Coachman John's remark. + + + + + +Master And Man + +Do ye ken hoo to fush for the salmon? + If ye'll listen I'll tell ye. +Dinna trust to the books and their gammon, + They're but trying to sell ye. +Leave professors to read their ain cackle + And fush their ain style; +Come awa', sir, we'll oot wi' oor tackle + And be busy the while. + +'Tis a wee bit ower bright, ye were thinkin'? + Aw, ye'll no be the loser; +'Tis better ten baskin' and blinkin' + Than ane that's a cruiser. +If ye're bent, as I tak it, on slatter, + Ye should pray for the droot, +For the salmon's her ain when there's watter, + But she's oors when it's oot. + +Ye may just put your flee-book behind ye, + Ane hook wull be plenty; +If they'll no come for this, my man, mind ye, + They'll no come for twenty. +Ay, a rod; but the shorter the stranger + And the nearer to strike; +For myself I prefare it nae langer + Than a yard or the like. + +Noo, ye'll stand awa' back while I'm creepin' + Wi' my snoot i' the gowans; +There's a bonny twalve-poonder a-sleepin' + I' the shade o' yon rowans. +Man, man! I was fearin' I'd stirred her, + But I've got her the noo! +Hoot! fushin's as easy as murrder + When ye ken what to do. + +Na, na, sir, I doot na ye're willin' + But I canna permit ye; +For I'm thinkin' that yon kind o' killin' + Wad hardly befit ye. +And some work is deefficult hushin', + There'd be havers and chaff: +'Twull be best, sir, for you to be fushin' + And me wi' the gaff. + + + + + +Gavotte + +(Old French) + +Memories long in music sleeping, + No more sleeping, + No more dumb; +Delicate phantoms softly creeping + Softly back from the old-world come. + +Faintest odours around them straying, + Suddenly straying + In chambers dim; +Whispering silks in order swaying, + Glimmering gems on shoulders slim: + +Courage advancing strong and tender, + Grace untender + Fanning desire; +Suppliant conquest, proud surrender, + Courtesy cold of hearts on fire--- + +Willowy billowy now they're bending, + Low they're bending + Down-dropt eyes; +Stately measure and stately ending, + Music sobbing, and a dream that dies. + + + + + +Imogen + +(A Lady of Tender Age) + +Ladies, where were your bright eyes glancing, + Where were they glancing yester-night? +Saw ye Imogen dancing, dancing, + Imogen dancing all in white? + Laughed she not with a pure delight, + Laughed she not with a joy serene, +Stepped she not with a grace entrancing, + Slenderly girt in silken sheen? + +All through the night from dusk to daytime + Under her feet the hours were swift, +Under her feet the hours of play-time + Rose and fell with a rhythmic lift: + Music set her adrift, adrift, + Music eddying towards the day +Swept her along as brooks in May-time + Carry the freshly falling May. + +Ladies, life is a changing measure, + Youth is a lilt that endeth soon; +Pluck ye never so fast at pleasure + Twilight follows the longest noon. + Nay, but here is a lasting boon, + Life for hearts that are old and chill, +Youth undying for hearts that treasure + Imogen dancing, dancing still. + + + + + +Nel Mezzo Del Cammin + +Whisper it not that late in years +Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter, +Life be freed of tremor and tears, +Heads be wiser and hearts be lighter. +Ah! but the dream that all endears, +The dream we sell for your pottage of truth--- +Give us again the passion of youth, +Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter. + + + + + +The Invasion + +Spring, they say, with his greenery + Northward marches at last, + Mustering thorn and elm; +Breezes rumour him conquering, + Tell how Victory sits + High on his glancing helm. + +Smit with sting of his archery, + Hardest ashes and oaks + Burn at the root below: +Primrose, violet, daffodil, + Start like blood where the shafts + Light from his golden bow. + +Here where winter oppresses us + Still we listen and doubt, + Dreading a hope betrayed: +Sore we long to be greeting him, + Still we linger and doubt + "What if his march be stayed?" + +Folk in thrall to the enemy, + Vanquished, tilling a soil + Hateful and hostile grown; +Always wearily, warily, + Feeding deep in the heart + Passion they dare not own--- + +So we wait the deliverer; + Surely soon shall he come, + Soon shall his hour be due: +Spring shall come with his greenery, + Life be lovely again, + Earth be the home we knew. + + + + + +Pereunt Et Imputantur + +(After Martial) + +Bernard, if to you and me + Fortune all at once should give +Years to spend secure and free, + With the choice of how to live, +Tell me, what should we proclaim +Life deserving of the name? + +Winning some one else's case? + Saving some one else's seat? +Hearing with a solemn face + People of importance bleat? +No, I think we should not still +Waste our time at others' will. + +Summer noons beneath the limes, + Summer rides at evening cool, +Winter's tales and home-made rhymes, + Figures on the frozen pool--- +These would we for labours take, +And of these our business make. + +Ah! but neither you nor I + Dare in earnest venture so; +Still we let the good days die + And to swell the reckoning go. +What are those that know the way, +Yet to walk therein delay? + + + + + +Felix Antonius + +(After Martial) + +To-day, my friend is seventy-five; + He tells his tale with no regret; + His brave old eyes are steadfast yet, +His heart the .lightest heart alive. + +He sees behind him green and wide + The pathway of his pilgrim years; + He sees the shore, and dreadless hears +The whisper of the creeping tide. + +For out of all his days, not one + Has passed and left its unlaid ghost + To seek a light for ever lost, +Or wail a deed for ever done. + +So for reward of life-long truth + He lives again, as good men can, + Redoubling his allotted span +With memories of a stainless youth. + + + + + +Ireland, Ireland + +Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland, + Down thy valleys green and sad, +Still thy spirit wanders wailing, + Wanders wailing, wanders mad. + +Long ago that anguish took thee, + Ireland, Ireland, green and fair, +Spoilers strong in darkness took thee, + Broke thy heart and left thee there. + +Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland, + Still thy spirit wanders mad; +All too late they love that wronged thee, + Ireland, Ireland, green and sad. + + + + + +Hymn + +In The Time Of War And Tumults + +O Lord Almighty, Thou whose hands + Despair and victory give; +In whom, though tyrants tread their lands, + The souls of nations live; + +Thou wilt not turn Thy face away + From those who work Thy will, +But send Thy peace on hearts that pray, + And guard Thy people still. + +Remember not the days of shame, + The hands with rapine dyed, +The wavering will, the baser aim, + The brute material pride: + +Remember, Lord, the years of faith, + The spirits humbly brave, +The strength that died defying death, + The love that loved the slave: + +The race that strove to rule Thine earth + With equal laws unbought: . +Who bore for Truth the pangs of birth, + And brake the bonds of Thought. + +Remember how, since time began, + Thy dark eternal mind +Through lives of men that fear not man + ls light for all mankind. + +Thou wilt not turn Thy face away + From those who work Thy will, +But send Thy strength on hearts that pray + For strength to serve Thee still. + + + + + +The Building Of The Temple + +(An Anthem Heard In Canterbury Cathedral) + +[The Organ] + +O Lord our God, we are strangers before Thee, and sojourners, as were +all our fathers: our days on the earth are as a shadow, and there is +none abiding. + +O Lord God of our fathers, keep this for ever in the imagination of +the thoughts of Thy people, and prepare their heart unto Thee. + +And give unto Solomon my son a perfect heart to keep Thy commandments, +and to build the palace for the which I have made provision. + +[Boys' voices.] + +O come to the Palace of Life, +Let us build it again. +It was founded on terror and strife, +It was laid in the curse of the womb, +And pillared on toil and pain, +And hung with veils of doom, +And vaulted with the darkness of the tomb. + +[Men's voices.] + +O Lord our God, we are sojourners here for a day, + Strangers and sojourners, as all our fathers were: +Our years on the earth are a shadow that fadeth away; + Grant us light for our labour, and a time for prayer. + +[Boys.] + +But now with endless song, +And joy fulfilling the Law; +Of passion as pure as strong +And pleasure undimmed of awe; +With garners of wine and grain +Laid up for the ages long, +Let us build the Palace again +And enter with endless song, +Enter and dwell secure, forgetting the years of wrong. + +[Men.] + +O Lord our God, we are strangers and sojourners here, + Our beginning was night, and our end is hid in Thee: +Our labour on the earth is hope redeeming fear, + In sorrow we build for the days we shall not see. + +[Boys.] + +Great is the name +Of the strong and skilled, +Lasting the fame +Of them that build: +The tongues of many nations +Shall speak of our praise, +And far generations +Be glad for our days. + +[Men.] + +We are sojourners here as all our fathers were, + As all our children shall be, forgetting and forgot: +The fame of man is a murmur that passeth on the air, + We perish indeed if Thou remember not. + +We are sojourners here as all our fathers were, + Strangers travelling down to the land of death: +There is neither work nor device nor knowledge there, + O grant us might for our labour, and to rest in faith. + +[Boys.] + +In joy, in the joy of the light to be, + +[Men.] + + O Father of Lights, unvarying and true, + +[Boys.] + +Let us build the Palace of Life anew. + +[Men.] + + Let us build for the years we shall not see. + +[Boys.] + +Lofty of line and glorious of hue, +With gold and pearl and with the cedar tree, + +[Men.] + + With silence due + And with service free, + +[Boys.] + +Let us build it for ever in splendour new. + +[Men.] + + Let us build in hope and in sorrow, and rest in Thee. + + + + + +NOTES + + +Drake's Drum. + +A state drum, painted with the arms of Sir Francis +Drake, is preserved among other relics at Buckland Abbey, the seat of +the Drake family in Devon. + + +The Fighting Téméraire. + +The two last stanzas have been misunderstood. +It seems, therefore, necessary to state that they are intended to +refer to Turner's picture in the National Gallery of "The Fighting +_Téméraire_ Tugged to her Last Berth." + + +San Stefano. + +Sir Peter Parker was the son of Admiral Christopher +Parker, grandson of Admiral Sir Peter Parker (the life-long friend and +chief mourner of Nelson), and great-grandson of Admiral Sir William +Parker. On his mother's side he was grandson of Admiral Byron, and +first cousin of Lord Byron, the poet. He was killed in action near +Baltimore in 1814, and buried in St. Margaret's, Westminster, +where may be seen the monument erected to his memory by the officers +of the _Menelaus_. + + +The Quarter-Gunner's Yarn. + +This ballad is founded on fragmentary lines +communicated to the author by Admiral Sir Windham Hornby, K.C.B., who +served under Sir Thomas Hardy in 1827. + + +Væ Victis. + +See _Livy_, XXX.,43, _Diodorus Siculus_, XIX., 106. + + +Seringapatam. + +In 1780, while attempting to relieve Arcot, a British +force of three thousand men was cut to pieces by Hyder Ali. Baird, +then a young captain in the 73rd, was left for dead on the field. He +was afterwards, with forty-nine other officers, kept in prison at +Seringapatam, and treated with Oriental barbarity and treachery by +Hyder Ali and his son Tippoo Sahib, Sultans of Mysore. Twenty-three of +the prisoners died by poison, torture, and fever; the rest were +surrendered in 1784. In 1799, at the siege of Seringapatam, +Major-General Baird commanded the first European brigade, and +volunteered to lead the storming column. Tippoo Sahib, with eight +thousand of his men, fell in the assault, but the victor spared the +lives of his sons and forbade a general sack of the city. + + +Clifton Chapel. + +Clifton is one of the schools from which the largest +number of boys pass direct into the R.M.A., Woolwich, and R.M.C., +Sandhurst. Thirty-five Old Cliftonian officers served in the campaign +of 1897 on the Indian Frontier, of whom twenty-two were mentioned in +despatches and six recommended for the Distinguished Service Order. Of +the three hundred Cliftonians who served in the war in South Africa, +thirty were killed in action and fourteen died of wounds or fever. + + Clifton, remember these thy sons who fell + Fighting far oversea; + For they in a dark hour remembered well + Their warfare learned of thee. + + +The Echo. + +The ballad was "The Twa Sisters of Binnorie," as set by +Arthur Somervell. + + + + THE END. + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Collected Poems 1897 - 1907, by Henry Newbolt + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13900 *** |