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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/24405-8.txt b/24405-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d036916 --- /dev/null +++ b/24405-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6580 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems: New and Old, by Henry Newbolt + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems: New and Old + +Author: Henry Newbolt + +Release Date: January 22, 2008 [EBook #24405] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS: NEW AND OLD *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +[Transcriber's note: Page numbers in this book are indicated by numbers +enclosed in curly braces, e.g. {99}. They have been located where page +breaks occurred in the original book, in accordance with Project +Gutenberg's FAQ-V-99.] + + + + + + +POEMS: NEW AND OLD + + +BY HENRY NEWBOLT + + + + + +LONDON + +JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W. + +1912 + + + + +TO + +ADMIRAL SIR REGINALD CUSTANCE + + + + +{vi} + +AUTHOR'S NOTE + +This volume forms a complete collection of all my published work in +verse from 1897 to 1912. It includes the contents of four previous +volumes: _Admirals All_ (1897), _The Island Race_ (1898), _The Sailing +of the Long-Ships_ (1902), and _Songs of Memory and Hope_ (1909), +together with a number of pieces added to the later editions of the +first two of these, and ten poems which have not hitherto appeared in +book form--namely, _Sailing at Dawn, The Song of the Sou' Wester, The +Middle Watch, The Little Admiral, The Song of the Guns at Sea, +Farewell, Mors Janua, Gold, The Faun_, and _Rilloby-Rill_. + +The volumes above mentioned were dedicated respectively to ANDREW LANG, +to ROBERT BRIDGES, to SIR EDWARD GREY, and to LAURENCE BINYON; and I +delight to repeat these names once more, in a volume which commemorates +also the inspiration of a later friendship. + +H. N. + + + + +{vii} + + CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + SONGS OF THE FLEET: + I. SAILING AT DAWN . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 + II. THE SONG OF THE SOU' WESTER . . . . . . . 3 + III. THE MIDDLE WATCH . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 + IV. THE LITTLE ADMIRAL . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 + V. THE SONG OF THE GUNS AT SEA . . . . . . . 9 + VI. FAREWELL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 + ODE FOR TRAFALGAR DAY, 1905 . . . . . . . . . . 12 + THE HUNDREDTH YEAR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 + DRAKE'S DRUM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 + THE FIGHTING TÉMÉRAIRE . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 + ADMIRALS ALL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 + SAN STEFANO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 + HAWKE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 + THE BRIGHT "MEDUSA" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 + THE OLD "SUPERB" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 + THE QUARTER-GUNNER'S YARN . . . . . . . . . . . 32 + NORTHUMBERLAND . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 + FOR A TRAFALGAR CENOTAPH . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 + CRAVEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 + MESSMATES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 + THE DEATH OF ADMIRAL BLAKE . . . . . . . . . . . 42 + +{viii} + + PAGE + + VAE VICTIS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 + MINORA SIDERA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 + LAUDABUNT ALII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 + ADMIRAL DEATH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 + HOMEWARD BOUND . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 + GILLESPIE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 + SERINGAPATAM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 + A BALLAD OF JOHN NICHOLSON . . . . . . . . . . . 61 + THE GUIDES AT CABUL, 1879 . . . . . . . . . . . 65 + THE GAY GORDONS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 + HE FELL AMONG THIEVES . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 + IONICUS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 + THE NON-COMBATANT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 + SACRAMENTUM SUPREMUM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 + CLIFTON CHAPEL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 + VITAĎ LAMPADA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 + THE VIGIL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 + THE SAILING OF THE LONG-SHIPS . . . . . . . . . 82 + WAGGON HILL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 + THE VOLUNTEER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86 + THE ONLY SON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 + THE GRENADIER'S GOOD-BYE . . . . . . . . . . . . 88 + THE SCHOOLFELLOW . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 + ON SPION KOP . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 + THE SCHOOL AT WAR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 + BY THE HEARTH-STONE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 + PEACE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94 + APRIL ON WAGGON HILL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95 + COMMEMORATION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 + +{ix} + + PAGE + + THE ECHO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 + THE BEST SCHOOL OF ALL . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 + ENGLAND . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103 + VICTORIA REGINA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104 + THE KING OF ENGLAND . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 + THE NILE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107 + SRÁHMANDÁZI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110 + OUTWARD BOUND . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 + HOPE THE HORNBLOWER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114 + O PULCHRITUDO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116 + THE FINAL MYSTERY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 + IL SANTO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121 + IN JULY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122 + FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION . . . . . . . . . 123 + WHEN I REMEMBER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124 + MORS JANUA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 + RONDEL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126 + RONDEL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 + BALADE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128 + THE LAST WORD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131 + THE VIKING'S SONG . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132 + THE SUFI IN THE CITY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134 + TO EDWARD FITZGERALD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135 + YATTENDON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136 + DEVON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137 + AMONG THE TOMBS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138 + GOLD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139 + A SOWER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140 + THE MOSSROSE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 + +{x} + + PAGE + + AVE, SOROR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143 + TO A RIVER IN THE SOUTH . . . . . . . . . . . . 144 + ON THE DEATH OF A NOBLE LADY . . . . . . . . . . 145 + MIDWAY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146 + AD MATREM DOLOROSAM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147 + VRAIS AMANTS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148 + THE SANGREAL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149 + SIR HUGH THE PALMER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150 + THE PRESENTATION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 + THE INHERITANCE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154 + AMORE ALTIERO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156 + THE PEDLAR'S SONG . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158 + BENEDICK'S SONG . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159 + LOVE AND GRIEF . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160 + EGERIA'S SILENCE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161 + AGAINST OBLIVION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162 + FOND COUNSEL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163 + YOUTH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164 + THE WANDERER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165 + THE ADVENTURERS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166 + TO CLARE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168 + THE RETURN OF SUMMER: AN ECLOGUE . . . . . . . . 169 + DREAM-MARKET . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173 + THE CICALAS: AN IDYLL . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180 + THE FAUN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 186 + FIDELE'S GRASSY TOMB . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189 + MOONSET . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192 + A SONG OF EXMOOR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194 + MASTER AND MAN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196 + +{xi} + + PAGE + + GAVOTTE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198 + IMOGEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199 + NEL MEZZO DEL CAMMĚN . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201 + THE INVASION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 202 + RILLOBY-RILL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204 + PEREUNT ET IMPUTANTUR . . . . . . . . . . . . 206 + FELIX ANTONIUS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 208 + IRELAND, IRELAND . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 209 + HYMN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 210 + THE BUILDING OF THE TEMPLE . . . . . . . . . . 212 + EPISTLE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 216 + AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM . . . . . . . . . . . . 220 + LE BYRON DE NOS JOURS . . . . . . . . . . . . 225 + NOTES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231 + + + + + O strength divine of Roman days, + O spirit of the age of faith, + Go with our sons on all their ways, + When we long since are dust and wraith. + + + + +{1} + +POEMS: NEW AND OLD + + + +_Songs of the Fleet_ + +I + +_Sailing at Dawn_ + + One by one the pale stars die before the day now, + One by one the great ships are stirring from their sleep, + Cables all are rumbling, anchors all a-weigh now, + Now the fleet's a fleet again, gliding towards the deep. + + _Now the fleet's a fleet again, bound upon the old ways, + Splendour of the past comes shining in the spray; + Admirals of old time, bring us on the bold ways! + Souls of all the sea-dogs, lead the line to-day!_ + + Far away behind us town and tower are dwindling, + Home becomes a fair dream faded long ago; + Infinitely glorious the height of heaven is kindling, + Infinitely desolate the shoreless sea below. + + _Now the fleet's a fleet again, bound upon the old ways, + Splendour of the past comes shining in the spray; + Admirals of old time, bring us on the bold ways! + Souls of all the sea-dogs, lead the line to-day!_ + +{2} + + Once again with proud hearts we make the old surrender, + Once again with high hearts serve the age to be, + Not for us the warm life of Earth, secure and tender, + Ours the eternal wandering and warfare of the sea. + + _Now the fleet's a fleet again, bound upon the old ways, + Splendour of the past comes shining in the spray; + Admirals of old time, bring us on the bold ways! + Souls of all the sea-dogs, lead the line to-day!_ + + + + +{3} + +II + +_The Song of the Sou' Wester_ + + The sun was lost in a leaden sky, + And the shore lay under our lee; + When a great Sou' Wester hurricane high + Came rollicking up the sea. + He played with the fleet as a boy with boats + Till out for the Downs we ran, + And he laugh'd with the roar of a thousand throats + At the militant ways of man: + + _Oh! I am the enemy most of might, + The other be who you please! + Gunner and guns may all be right, + Flags a-flying and armour tight, + But I am the fellow you've first to fight-- + The giant that swings the seas._ + + A dozen of middies were down below + Chasing the X they love, + While the table curtseyed long and slow + And the lamps were giddy above. + +{4} + + The lesson was all of a ship and a shot, + And some of it may have been true, + But the word they heard and never forgot + Was the word of the wind that blew: + + _Oh! I am the enemy most of might, + The other be who you please! + Gunner and guns may all be right, + Flags a-flying and armour tight, + But I am the fellow you've first to fight-- + The giant that swings the seas._ + + The Middy with luck is a Captain soon, + With luck he may hear one day + His own big guns a-humming the tune + "'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay." + But wherever he goes, with friends or foes, + And whatever may there befall, + He'll hear for ever a voice he knows + For ever defying them all: + + _Oh! I am the enemy most of might, + The other be who you please! + Gunner and guns may all be right, + Flags a-flying and armour tight, + But I am the fellow you've first to fight-- + The giant that swings the seas._ + + + + +{5} + +III + +_The Middle Watch_ + + In a blue dusk the ship astern + Uplifts her slender spars, + With golden lights that seem to burn + Among the silver stars. + Like fleets along a cloudy shore + The constellations creep, + Like planets on the ocean floor + Our silent course we keep. + + _And over the endless plain, + Out of the night forlorn + Rises a faint refrain, + A song of the day to be born-- + Watch, oh watch till ye find again + Life and the land of morn._ + + From a dim West to a dark East + Our lines unwavering head, + As if their motion long had ceased + And Time itself were dead. + +{6} + + Vainly we watch the deep below, + Vainly the void above, + They died a thousand years ago-- + Life and the land we love. + + _But over the endless plain, + Out of the night forlorn + Rises a faint refrain, + A song of the day to be born-- + Watch, oh watch till ye find again + Life and the land of morn._ + + + + +{7} + +IV + +_The Little Admiral_ + + Stand by to reckon up your battleships + Ten, twenty, thirty, there they go. + Brag about your cruisers like Leviathans-- + A thousand men a-piece down below. + But here's just one little Admiral + We're all of us his brothers and his sons, + And he's worth, O he's worth at the very least + Double all your tons and all your guns. + + _Stand by, etc._ + + + See them on the forebridge signalling-- + A score of men a-hauling hand to hand, + And the whole fleet flying like the wild geese + Moved by some mysterious command. + Where's the mighty will that shows the way to them, + The mind that sees ahead so quick and clear? + He's there, Sir, walking all alone there-- + The little man whose voice you never hear. + + _Stand by, etc._ + + +{8} + + There are queer things that only come to sailormen; + They're true, but they're never understood; + And I know one thing about the Admiral, + That I can't tell rightly as I should. + I've been with him when hope sank under us-- + He hardly seemed a mortal like the rest, + I could swear that he had stars upon his uniform, + And one sleeve pinned across his breast. + + _Stand by, etc._ + + + Some day we're bound to sight the enemy, + He's coming, tho' he hasn't yet a name. + Keel to keel and gun to gun he'll challenge us + To meet him at the Great Armada game. + None knows what may be the end of it, + But we'll all give our bodies and our souls + To see the little Admiral a-playing him + A rubber of the old Long Bowls! + + _Stand by, etc._ + + + + +{9} + +V + +_The Song of the Guns at Sea_ + + Oh hear! Oh hear! + Across the sullen tide + Across the echoing dome horizon-wide + What pulse of fear + Beats with tremendous boom! + What call of instant doom, + With thunderstroke of terror and of pride, + With urgency that may not be denied, + Reverberates upon the heart's own drum + Come! . . . Come! . . . for thou must come! + + Come forth, O Soul! + This is thy day of power. + This is the day and this the glorious hour + That was the goal + Of thy self-conquering strife. + The love of child and wife, + The fields of Earth and the wide ways of Thought-- + Did not thy purpose count them all as nought + That in this moment thou thyself mayst give + And in thy country's life for ever live? + +{10} + + Therefore rejoice + That in thy passionate prime + Youth's nobler hope disdained the spoils of Time + And thine own choice + Fore-earned for thee this day. + Rejoice! rejoice to obey + In the great hour of life that men call Death + The beat that bids thee draw heroic breath, + Deep-throbbing till thy mortal heart be dumb + Come! . . . Come! . . . the time is come! + + + + +{11} + +VI + +_Farewell_ + + Mother, with unbowed head + Hear thou across the sea + The farewell of the dead, + The dead who died for thee. + Greet them again with tender words and grave, + For, saving thee, themselves they could not save. + + To keep the house unharmed + Their fathers built so fair, + Deeming endurance armed + Better than brute despair, + They found the secret of the word that saith, + "Service is sweet, for all true life is death." + + So greet thou well thy dead + Across the homeless sea, + And be thou comforted + Because they died for thee. + Far off they served, but now their deed is done + For evermore their life and thine are one. + + + + +{12} + +_Ode for Trafalgar Day, 1905_ + +"Partial firing continued until 4.30, when a victory having been +reported to the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Nelson, K.B., and +Commander-in-Chief, he then died of his wound."--Log of the _Victory_, +October 21, 1805. + + + England! to-day let fire be in thine eyes + And in thy heart the throb of leaping guns; + Crown in thy streets the deed that never dies, + And tell their fathers' fame to all thy sons! + Behold! behold! on that unchanging sea + Where day behind Trafalgar rises pale, + How dread the storm to be + Drifts up with ominous breath + Cloud after towering cloud of billowy sail + Full charged with thunder and the bolts of death. + + Yet when the noon is past, and thy delight, + More delicate for these good hundred years, + Has drunk the splendour and the sound of fight + And the sweet sting of long-since vanished fears, + Then, England, come thou down with sterner lips + From the bright world of thy substantial power, + Forget thy seas, thy ships, + And that wide echoing dome + To watch the soul of man in his dark hour + Redeeming yet his dear lost land of home. + +{13} + + What place is this? What under-world of pain + All shadow-barred with glare of swinging fires? + What writhing phantoms of the newly slain? + What cries? What thirst consuming all desires? + This is the field of battle: not for life, + Not for the deeper life that dwells in love, + Not for the savour of strife + Or the far call of fame, + Not for all these the fight: all these above + The soul of this man cherished Duty's name. + + His steadfast hope from self has turned away, + For the Cause only must he still contend: + "How goes the day with us? How goes the day?" + He craves not victory, but to make an end. + Therefore not yet thine hour, O Death: but when + The weapons forged against his country's peace + Lie broken round him--then + Give him the kiss supreme; + Then let the tumult of his warfare cease + And the last dawn dispel his anguished dream. + + + + +{14} + +_The Hundredth Year_ + +"Drake, and Blake, and Nelson's mighty name." + + + The stars were faint in heaven + That saw the Old Year die, + The dream-white mist of Devon + Shut in the seaward sky: + Before the dawn's unveiling + I heard three voices hailing, + I saw three ships come sailing + With lanterns gleaming high. + + The first he cried defiance-- + A full-mouthed voice and bold-- + "On God be our reliance, + Our hope the Spaniard's gold! + With a still, stern ambuscado, + With a roaring escalado, + We'll sack their Eldorado + And storm their dungeon hold!" + + Then slowly spake the second-- + A great sad voice and deep-- + "When all your gold is reckoned, + There is but this to keep: + +{15} + + To stay the foe from fooling, + To learn the heathen schooling, + To live and die sea-ruling, + And home at last to sleep." + + But the third matched in beauty + The dawn that flushed afar; + "O sons of England, Duty + Is England's morning star: + Then Fame's eternal splendour + Be theirs who well defend her, + And theirs who fain would bend her + The night of Trafalgar!" + + + + +{16} + +_Drake's Drum_ + + Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile 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 dancin' 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' ruled the Devon seas, + (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?), + Rovin' 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. + +{17} + + 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! + + + + +{18} + +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! til 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. + +{19} + + 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 breezes shiver, + And she's fading down the river, + But in England's song for ever + She's the Fighting Téméraire. + + + + +{20} + +_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. + +{21} + + 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. + +{22} + + 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!_ + + + + +{23} + +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 fire, + 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. + +{24} + + 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. + +{25} + + 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 her colours at the fore, + When the bold _Menelaus_ came from 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 sea._ + + + + +{26} + +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. + +{27} + + 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. + + + + +{28} + +_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_. + + {29} + + 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_. + + + + +{30} + +_The Old _Suberb__ + + 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 _Suberb_ 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 _Suberb_ 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 _Suberb_ 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. + +{31} + + 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!_ + + + + +{32} + +_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. + +{33} + + 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 Trafalgar 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. + +{34} + + 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 Hag, 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 Trafalgar. + + + + +{35} + +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!" + +{36} + + 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. + + + + +{37} + +_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. + + + + +{38} + +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. + +{39} + + 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._ + + + + +{40} + +_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; + +{41} + + 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. + + + + +{42} + +_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. + +{43} + + 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. + +{44} + + 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. + + + + +{45} + +_Vae 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?" + +{46} + + 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; + +{47} + + 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 above 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. + + + + +{48} + +_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 + To-night 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. + +{49} + + 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. + + + + +{50} + +_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 Lafian's Plain, + Forget not with the festal bowl + To soothe at times your weary soul. + +{51} + + When Drake must bid to Plymouth Hoe + Good-bye for many a day, + And some were sad that 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!" + + + + +{52} + +_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. + +{53} + + 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. + + + + +{54} + +_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. + + + + +{55} + +_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." + +{56} + + 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 hit, + 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. + +{57} + + 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. + + + + +{58} + +_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. + +{59} + + "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. + +{60} + + 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." + + + + +{61} + +_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 Jaláandhar 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. + +{62} + + 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 overhasty, Mehtab Singh,"-- + Oh, but his voice was low! + He held his wrath with a curb of iron, + That furrowed cheek and brow. + +{63} + + "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. + +{64} + + "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." + + + + +{65} + +_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 a joyful courage, a passionate pride, + To die at the last as the Guides at 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 crouched 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. + +{66} + + 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 yoke," + 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 have 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 or 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. + + + + +{67} + +_The Gay Gordons_ + +(DARGAI, OCTOBER 20TH, 1897) + + Who's for the Gathering, who's for the Fair? + (_Gay goes the Gordon to a fight_) + The bravest of the brave are at dead-lock 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 to-day + (_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 the 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 to be denied; + (_Bayonets! and charge! by the right!_) + +{68} + + 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. + + + + +{69} + +_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 till 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. + +{70} + + 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 hide 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 daďs serene. + + He watched the liner's stem ploughing the foam, + He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; + He heard her 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. + +{71} + + Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast, + The blood-red snow-peaks chilled to a 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. + + + + +{72} + +_Ionicus_ + + I live--I am old--I return to the ground-- + Blow trumpets! and still I can dream to the sound. + WILLIAM CORY. + + + 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. + +{73} + + 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 high to the end, and dreamed + Of the sound and splendour of England's war. + + + + +{74} + +_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. + + + + +{75} + +_Sacramentum Supremum_ + +MUKDEN, MARCH 6TH, 1905 + + Ye that with me have fought and failed and fought + To the last desperate trench of battle's crest, + Not yet to sleep, not yet; our work is nought; + On that last trench the fate of all may rest, + Draw near, my friends; and let your thoughts be high; + Great hearts are glad when it is time to give; + Life is no life to him that dares not die, + And death no death to him that dares to live. + + Draw near together; none be last or first; + We are no longer names, but one desire; + With the same burning of the soul we thirst, + And the same wine to-night shall quench our fire. + Drink! to our fathers who begot us men, + To the dead voices that are never dumb; + Then to the land of all our loves, and then + To the long parting, and the age to come. + + + + +{76} + +_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. + + {77} + + 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. + "_Que procul hinc_," the legend's writ,-- + The frontier-grave is far away-- + "_Qui ante diem periit: + Sed miles, sed pro patriâ._" + + + + +{78} + +_Vitaď 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 a 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. + +{79} + + 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!" + + + + +{80} + +_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? + +{81} + + 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! + + + + +{82} + +_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; + +{83} + + 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." + + + + +{84} + +_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, + + {85} + + 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! + + + + +{86} + +_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. + + + + +{87} + +_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 little son.'"_ + + + + +{88} + +_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!" + + + + +{89} + +_The Schoolfellow_ + + Our game was his but yesteryear; + We wished him back; we could not know + The selfsame hour we missed him here + He led the line that broke the foe. + + Blood-red behind our guarded posts + Sank as of old the 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 word was sped, + For evermore thy goal was won. + + + + +{90} + +_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. + + + + +{91} + +_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. + +{92} + + "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." + + + + +{93} + +_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. + + + + +{94} + +_Peace_ + +(1902) + + 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. + + + + +{95} + +_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-- + +{96} + + 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. + + + + +{97} + +_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. + +{98} + + "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. + + + + +{99} + +_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!_ + +{100} + + 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._ + + + + +{101} + +_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? + +{102} + + And where's the wealth, I'm wondering, + Could buy the cheers that roll + When the last charge goes thundering + Beneath the twilight goal? + + The 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 deepening 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._ + + + + +{103} + +_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. + + + + +{104} + +_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. + + + + +{105} + +_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. + +{106} + + 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. + + + + +{107} + +_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. + +{108} + + 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. + +{109} + + 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. + + + + +{110} + +_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. + +{111} + + "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." + +{112} + + 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!" + + + + +{113} + +_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. + + + + +{114} + +_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. + +{115} + + 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." + + + + +{116} + +_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. + + + + +{117} + +_The Final Mystery_ + +This myth, of Egyptian origin, formed part of the instruction given to +those initiated in the Orphic mysteries, and written versions of it +were buried with the dead. + + + Hear now, O Soul, the last command of all-- + When thou hast left thine every mortal mark, + And by the road that lies beyond recall + Won through the desert of the Burning Dark, + Thou shalt behold within a garden bright + A well, beside a cypress ivory-white. + + Still is that well, and in its waters cool + White, white and windless, sleeps that cypress tree: + Who drinks but once from out her shadowy pool + Shall thirst no more to all eternity. + Forgetting all, by all forgotten clean, + His soul shall be with that which hath not been. + + But thou, though thou be trembling with thy dread, + And parched with thy desire more fierce than flame, + Think on the stream wherefrom thy life was fed, + And that diviner fountain whence it came. + Turn thee and cry--behold, it is not far-- + Unto the hills where living waters are. + +{118} + + "Lord, though I lived on earth, the child of earth, + Yet was I fathered by the starry sky: + Thou knowest I came not of the shadows' birth, + Let me not die the death that shadows die. + Give me to drink of the sweet spring that leaps + From Memory's fount, wherein no cypress sleeps." + + Then shalt thou drink, O Soul, and therewith slake + The immortal longing of thy mortal thirst, + So of thy Father's life shalt thou partake, + And be for ever that thou wert at first. + Lost in remembered loves, yet thou more thou + With them shalt reign in never-ending Now. + + + + +{119} + +_Il Santo_ + + Alas! alas! what impious hands are these? + They have cut down my dark mysterious trees, + Defied the brooding spell + That sealed my sacred well, + Broken my fathers' fixed and ancient bars, + And on the mouldering shade + Wherein my dead were laid + Let in the cold clear aspect of the stars. + + Slumber hath held the grove for years untold: + Is there no reverence for a peace so old? + Is there no seemly awe + For bronze-engraven law, + For dust beatified and saintly name? + When they shall see the shrine + Princes have held divine, + Will they not bow before the eternal flame? + + Vain! vain! the wind of heaven for ages long + Hath whispered manhood, "Let thine arm be strong! + Hew down and fling away + The growth that veils decay, + +{120} + + Shatter the shrine that chokes the living spring. + Scorn hatred, scorn regret, + Dig deep and deeper yet, + Leave not the quest for word of saint or king. + + "Dig deeper yet! though the world brand thee now, + The faithful labour of an impious brow + May for thy race redeem + The source of that lost stream + Once given the thirst of all the earth to slake. + Nay, thou too ere the end + Thy weary knee mayst bend + And in thy trembling hands that water take." + + + + +{121} + +_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. + + + + +{122} + +_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. + + + + +{123} + +_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. + + + + +{124} + +_Mors Janua_ + + Pilgrim, no shrine is here, no prison, no inn: + Thy fear and thy belief alike are fond: + Death is a gate, and holds no room within: + Pass--to the road beyond. + + + + +{125} + +_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. + + + + +{126} + +_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. + + + + +{127} + +_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. + + + + +{128} + +_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."_ + +{129} + + _"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. + +{130} + + 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." + + + + +{131} + +_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. + + + + +{132} + +_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? + +{133} + + 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! + + + + +{134} + +_To Edward Fitzgerald_ + +(MARCH 31ST, 1909) + + 'Tis a sad fate + To watch the world fighting, + All that is most fair + Ruthlessly blighting, + Blighting, ah! blighting. + + When such a thought cometh + Let us not pine, + But gather old friends + Round the red wine-- + Oh! pour the red wine! + + And there we'll talk + And warm our wits + With Eastern fallacies + Out of old Fitz! + British old Fitz! + + See him, half statesman-- + Philosopher too-- + Half ancient mariner + In baggy blue-- + Such baggy blue! + +{135} + + Whimsical, wistful, + Haughty, forsooth: + Indolent always, yet + Ardent in truth, + But indolent, indolent! + + There at the table + With us sits he, + Charming us subtly + To reverie, + Magic reverie. + + "How sweet is summer's breath, + How sure and swift is death; + Nought wise on earth, save + What the wine whispereth, + Dreamily whispereth. + + "At Naíshapúr beneath the sun, + Or here in misty Babylon, + Drink! for the rose leaves while you linger + Are falling, ever falling, one by one." + + Ah! poet's soul, once more with us conspire + To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire, + Once more with us to-night, old Fitz, once more + Remould it nearer to the heart's desire! + + + + +{136} + +_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. + + + + +{137} + +_Devon_ + + Deep-wooded combes, clear-mounded hills of morn, + Red sunset tides against a red sea-wall, + High lonely barrows where the curlews call, + Far moors that echo to the ringing horn,-- + Devon! thou spirit of all these beauties born, + All these are thine, but thou art more than all: + Speech can but tell thy name, praise can but fall + Beneath the cold white sea-mist of thy scorn. + + Yet, yet, O noble land, forbid us not + Even now to join our faint memorial chime + To the fierce chant wherewith their hearts were hot + Who took the tide in thy Imperial prime; + Whose glory's thine till Glory sleeps forgot + With her ancestral phantoms, Pride and Time. + + + + +{138} + +_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. + + + + +{139} + +_Gold_ + +(AFTER GIOVANNI PASCOLI) + + At bedtime, when the sunset fire was red + One cypress turned to gold beneath its touch. + "Sleep now, my little son," the mother said; + "In God's high garden all the trees are such." + Then did the child in his bright dream behold + Branches of gold, trees, forests all of gold. + + + + +{140} + +_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. + + + + +{141} + +_The Mossrose_ + + Walking to-day in your garden, O gracious lady, + Little you thought as you turned in that alley remote and shady, + And gave me a rose and asked if I knew its savour-- + The old-world scent of the mossrose, flower of a bygone favour-- + + Little you thought as you waited the word of appraisement, + Laughing at first and then amazed at my amazement, + That the rose you gave was a gift already cherished, + And the garden whence you plucked it a garden long perished. + + But I--I saw that garden, with its one treasure + The tiny mossrose, tiny even by childhood's measure, + And the long morning shadow of the dusty laurel, + And a boy and a girl beneath it, flushed with a childish quarrel. + + She wept for her one little bud: but he, outreaching + The hand of brotherly right, would take it for all her beseeching: + +{142} + + And she flung her arms about him, and gave like a sister, + And laughed at her own tears, and wept again when he kissed her. + + So the rose is mine long since, and whenever I find it + And drink again the sharp sweet scent of the moss behind it, + I remember the tears of a child, and her love and her laughter, + And the morning shadows of youth and the night that fell thereafter. + + + + +{143} + +_Ave, Soror_ + + I left behind the ways of care, + The crowded hurrying hours, + I breathed again the woodland air, + I plucked the woodland flowers: + + Bluebells as yet but half awake, + Primroses pale and cool, + Anemones like stars that shake + In a green twilight pool-- + + On these still lay the enchanted shade, + The magic April sun; + With my own child a child I strayed + And thought the years were one. + + As through the copse she went and came + My senses lost their truth; + I called her by the dear dead name + That sweetened all my youth. + + + + +{144} + +_To a River in the South_ + + Call me no more, O gentle stream, + To wander through thy sunny dream, + No more to lean at twilight cool + Above thy weir and glimmering pool. + + Surely I know thy hoary dawns, + The silver crisp on all thy lawns, + The softly swirling undersong + That rocks thy reeds the winter long. + + Surely I know the joys that ring + Through the green deeps of leafy spring; + I know the elfin cups and domes + That are their small and secret homes. + + Yet is the light for ever lost + That daily once thy meadows crossed, + The voice no more by thee is heard + That matched the song of stream and bird. + + Call me no more!--thy waters roll + Here, in the world that is my soul, + And here, though Earth be drowned in night, + Old love shall dwell with old delight. + + + + +{145} + +_On the Death of a Noble Lady_ + + Time, when thou shalt bring again + Pallas from the Trojan plain, + Portia from the Roman's hall, + Brynhild from the fiery wall, + Eleanor, whose fearless breath + Drew the venom'd fangs of Death, + And Philippa doubly brave + Or to conquer or to save-- + + When thou shalt on one bestow + All their grace and all their glow, + All their strength and all their state, + All their passion pure and great, + Some far age may honour then + Such another queen of men. + + + + +{146} + +_Midway_ + + Turn back, my Soul, no longer set + Thy peace upon the years to come + Turn back, the land of thy regret + Holds nothing doubtful, nothing dumb. + + There are the voices, there the scenes + That make thy life in living truth + A tale of heroes and of queens, + Fairer than all the hopes of youth. + + + + +{147} + +_Ad Matrem Dolorosam_ + + Think not thy little fountain's rain + That in the sunlight rose and flashed, + From the bright sky has fallen again, + To cold and shadowy silence dashed. + The Joy that in her radiance leapt + From everlasting hath not slept. + + The hand that to thy hand was dear, + The untroubled eyes that mirrored thine, + The voice that gave thy soul to hear + A whisper of the Love Divine-- + What though the gold was mixed with dust? + The gold is thine and cannot rust. + + Nor fear, because thy darling's heart + No longer beats with mortal life, + That she has missed the ennobling part + Of human growth and human strife. + Only she has the eternal peace + Wherein to reap the soul's increase. + + + + +{148} + +_Vrais Amants_ + +(FOURTEENTH CENTURY) + + "Time mocks thy opening music with a close; + What now he gives long since he gave away. + Thou deemst thy sun hath risen, but ere it rose + It was eclipsed, and dusk shall be thy day." + + Yet has the Dawn gone up: in loveliest light + She walks high heaven beyond the shadow there: + Whom I too veiled from all men's envious sight + With inward eyes adore and silent prayer. + + + + +{149} + +_The Sangreal_ + + Once, when beside me in that sacred place + I saw my lady lift her lovely head, + And saw the Chalice gleam above her face + And her dear lips with life immortal red, + Then, born again beyond the mist of years, + I knelt in Heaven, and drank the wine of tears. + + + + +{150} + +_Sir Hugh the Palmer_ + + I + + He kneeled among a waste of sands + Before the Mother-Maid, + But on the far green forest-lands + His steadfast eyes were stayed, + And like a knight of stone his hands + He straightened while he prayed. + + "Lady, beyond all women fair, + Beyond all saints benign, + Whose living heart through life I bear + In mystery divine, + Hear thou and grant me this my prayer, + Or grant no prayer of mine. + + "The fever of my spirit's pain + Heal thou with heavenly scorn; + The dust that but of dust is fain + Leave thou in dust forlorn; + Yea! bury love to rise again + Meet for eternal morn. + +{151} + + "So by thy grace my inward eyes + Thy beauty still shall see, + And while our life in shadow lies + High dawn shall image thee, + Till with thy soul in Paradise + Thy servant's soul shall be." + + Before the immortal Mother-Maid + Low on the sands he kneeled; + But even while the words he prayed + His lips to patience sealed, + Joy in his eyes a radiance made + Like stars in dusk revealed. + + + II + + It was an idle company-- + Ladies and lordings fine-- + Idly under the wild-wood tree + Their laughter ran like wine. + Yet as they laughed a voice they heard-- + A voice where none was seen,-- + Singing blithe as a hidden bird + Among the forest green. + + "Mark ye, mark ye, a lonely knight + Riding the green forest: + Pardě! for one so poorly dight + He lifts a haughty crest! + +{152} + + Azure and white is all his wear, + He hath no gold, I trow! + Wanderer, thou in the wild-wood there, + Tell us why sing ye so!" + + "Noble ladies and lordings gay, + God have you all in guard: + Since ye are pleased with me to play, + My riddle it is not hard. + I sing because, of all that ride, + I am the least of worth: + I sing because, to match my pride, + Never was pride on earth. + + "But, an ye ask what that may mean, + Thus do I answer then: + I bear with me the heart of a Queen-- + I that am least of men:-- + I bear her heart till the end of all, + Yea! by her own command + I bear the heart of a Queen royal + Unto the Holy Land." + + Humbly there his crest he bent,-- + Azure it waved and white,-- + Haughtily there he turned and went + Singing, out of their sight. + Long, long but his voice they heard,-- + A voice where none was seen,-- + Singing blithe as a hidden bird, + Among the forest green. + + + + +{153} + +_The Presentation_ + + When in the womb of Time our souls' own son + Dear Love lay sleeping till his natal hour, + Long months I knew not that sweet life begun, + Too dimly treasuring thy touch of power; + And wandering all those days + By far-off ways, + Forgot immortal seed must have immortal flower. + + Only, beloved, since my beloved thou art + I do remember, now that memory's vain, + How twice or thrice beneath my beating heart + Life quickened suddenly with proudest pain. + Then dreamed I Love's increase, + Yet held my peace + Till I might render thee thy own great gift again. + + For as with bodies, so with souls it is, + The greater gives, the lesser doth conceive: + That thou hast fathered Love, I tell thee this, + And by my pangs beseech thee to believe. + Look on his hope divine-- + Thy hope and mine-- + Pity his outstretched hands, tenderly him receive! + + + + +{154} + +_The Inheritance_ + + While I within her secret garden walked, + The flowers, that in her presence must be dumb, + With me, their fellow-servant, softly talked, + Attending till the Flower of flowers should come. + Then, since at Court I had arrived but late, + I was by love made bold + To ask that of my lady's high estate + I might be told, + And glories of her blood, perpetuate + In histories old. + + Then they, who know the chronicle of Earth, + Spoke of her loveliness, that like a flame + Far-handed down from noble birth to birth, + Gladdened the world for ages ere she came. + "Yea, yea," they said, "from Summer's royal sun + Comes that immortal line, + And was create not for this age alone + Nor wholly thine, + Being indeed a flower whose root is one + With Life Divine. + +{155} + + "To the sweet buds that of herself are part + Already she this portion hath bequeathed, + As, not less surely, into thy proud heart + Her nobleness, O poet, she hath breathed, + That her inheritance by them and thee + The world may keep alway, + When the still sunlight of her eyes shall be + Lost to the day, + And even the fragrance of her memory + Fading away." + + + + +{156} + +_Amore Altiero_ + + Since thou and I have wandered from the highway + And found with hearts reborn + This swift and unimaginable byway + Unto the hills of morn, + Shall not our love disdain the unworthy uses + Of the old time outworn? + + I'll not entreat thy half unwilling graces + With humbly folded palms, + Nor seek to shake thy proud defended places + With noise of vague alarms, + Nor ask against my fortune's grim pursuing + The refuge of thy arms. + + Thou'lt not withhold for pleasure vain and cruel + That which has long been mine, + Nor overheap with briefly burning fuel + A fire of flame divine, + Nor yield the key for life's profaner voices + To brawl within the shrine. + +{157} + + But thou shalt tell me of thy queenly pleasure + All that I must fulfil, + And I'll receive from out my royal treasure + What golden gifts I will, + So that two realms supreme and undisputed + Shall be one kingdom still. + + And our high hearts shall praise the beauty hidden + In starry-minded scorn + By the same Lord who hath His servants bidden + To seek with eyes new-born + This swift and unimaginable byway + Unto the hills of morn. + + + + +{158} + +_The Pedlar's Song_ + + I tramped among the townward throng + A sultry summer's morn: + They mocked me loud, they mocked me long, + They laughed my pack to scorn. + But a likely pedlar holds his peace + Until the reckoning's told:-- + Merrily I to market went, tho' songs were all my gold. + + At weary noon I left the town, + I left the highway straight, + I climbed the silent, sunlit down + And stood by a castle gate. + Never yet was a house too high + When the pedlar's heart was bold:-- + Merrily I to market went, tho' songs were all my gold. + + A lady leaned from her window there + And asked my wares to see; + Her voice made rich the summer air, + Richer my soul in me. + She gave me only four little words, + Words of a language old:-- + Merrily I from market came, for all my songs were sold. + + + + +{159} + +_Benedick's Song_ + + Though I see within thine eyes + Sudden frown of cloudy skies, + Yet I bid them "merry morn" + For they tell me Love is born. + So ha-há! with há-ha-há! + For they tell me Love is born. + + Storms of mocking from thy lips + Lash me still like airy whips; + But to-day thy scorn I scorn + For I know that Love is born. + So ha-há! with há-ha-há! + For I know that Love is born. + + O the hail that rattles fierce + Through my hodden cloak to pierce! + What care I if rags be torn? + Love and I are beggars born! + So ha-há! with há-ha-há! + Love and I are beggars born. + + + + +{160} + +_Love and Grief._ + + One day, when Love and Summer both were young, + Love in a garden found my lady weeping; + Whereat, when he to kiss her would have sprung, + I stayed his childish leaping. + + "Forbear," said I, "she is not thine to-day; + Subdue thyself in silence to await her; + If thou dare call her from Death's side away + Thou art no Love, but traitor. + + Yet did he run, and she his kiss received, + "She is twice mine," he cried, "since she is troubled; + I knew but half, and now I see her grieved + My part in her is doubled." + + + + +{161} + +_Egeria's Silence_ + + Her thought that, like a brook beside the way, + Sang to my steps through all the wandering year, + Has ceased from melody--O Love, allay + My sudden fear! + + She cannot fail--the beauty of that brow + Could never flower above a desert heart-- + Somewhere beneath, the well-spring even now + Lives, though apart. + + Some day, when winter has renewed her fount + With cold, white-folded snows and quiet rain, + O Love, O Love, her stream again will mount + And sing again! + + + + +{162} + +_Against Oblivion_ + + Cities drowned in olden time + Keep, they say, a magic chime + Rolling up from far below + When the moon-led waters flow. + + So within me, ocean deep, + Lies a sunken world asleep. + Lest its bells forget to ring, + Memory! set the tide a-swing! + + + + +{163} + +_Fond Counsel_ + + O youth, beside thy silver-springing fountain, + In sight and hearing of thy father's cot, + These and the morning woods, the lonely mountain, + These are thy peace, although thou know'st it not. + Wander not yet where noon's unpitying glare + Beats down the toilers in the city bare; + Forsake not yet, not yet, the homely plot, + O Youth, beside thy silver-springing fountain. + + + + +{164} + +_Youth_ + + His song of dawn outsoars the joyful bird, + Swift on the weary road his footfall comes; + The dusty air that by his stride is stirred + Beats with a buoyant march of fairy drums. + "Awake, O Earth! thine ancient slumber break; + To the new day, O slumbrous Earth, awake!" + + Yet long ago that merry march began, + His feet are older than the path they tread; + His music is the morning-song of man, + His stride the stride of all the valiant dead; + His youngest hopes are memories, and his eyes + Deep with the old, old dream that never dies. + + + + +{165} + +_The Wanderer_ + + To Youth there comes a whisper out of the west: + "O loiterer, hasten where there waits for thee + A life to build, a love therein to nest, + And a man's work, serving the age to be." + + Peace, peace awhile! Before his tireless feet + Hill beyond hill the road in sunlight goes; + He breathes the breath of morning, clear and sweet, + And his eyes love the high eternal snows. + + + + +{166} + +_The Adventurers_ + + Over the downs in sunlight clear + Forth we went in the spring of the year: + Plunder of April's gold we sought, + Little of April's anger thought. + + Caught in a copse without defence + Low we crouched to the rain-squall dense: + Sure, if misery man can vex, + There it beat on our bended necks. + + Yet when again we wander on + Suddenly all that gloom is gone: + Under and over through the wood, + Life is astir, and life is good. + + Violets purple, violets white, + Delicate windflowers dancing light, + Primrose, mercury, moscatel, + Shimmer in diamonds round the dell. + + Squirrel is climbing swift and lithe, + Chiff-chaff whetting his airy scythe, + Woodpecker whirrs his rattling rap, + Ringdove flies with a sudden clap. + +{167} + + Rook is summoning rook to build, + Dunnock his beak with moss has filled, + Robin is bowing in coat-tails brown, + Tomtit chattering upside down. + + Well is it seen that every one + Laughs at the rain and loves the sun; + We too laughed with the wildwood crew, + Laughed till the sky once more was blue. + + Homeward over the downs we went + Soaked to the heart with sweet content; + April's anger is swift to fall, + April's wonder is worth it all. + + + + +{168} + +_To Clare_ + +(WITH A VOLUME OF STORIES FROM FROISSART) + + My Clare,-- + These tales were told, you know, + In French, five hundred years ago, + By old Sir John, whose heart's delight + Was lady sweet and valiant knight. + A hundred years went by, and then + A great lord told the tales again, + When bluff King Hal desired his folk + To read them in the tongue they spoke. + Last, I myself among them took + What I loved best and made this book. + Great, lesser, less--these writers three + Worked for the days they could not see, + And certes, in their work they knew + Nothing at all, dear child, of you. + Yet is this book your own in truth, + Because 'tis made for noble youth, + And every word that's living there + Must die when Clares are no more Clare. + + + + +{169} + +_The Return of Summer: An Eclogue_ + +Scene: ASHDOWN FOREST IN MAY + +Persons: H.--A POET; C.--HIS DAUGHTER + + H. Here then, if you insist, my daughter: still, + I must confess that I preferred the hill. + The warm scent of the pinewood seemed to me + The first true breath of summer; did you see + The waxen hurt-bells with their promised fruit + Already purple at the blossom's root, + And thick among the rusty bracken strown + Sunburnt anemones long overblown? + Summer is come at last! + + C. And that is why + Mine is a better place than yours to lie. + This dark old yew tree casts a fuller shade + Than any pine; the stream is simply made + For keeping bottles cool; and when we've dined + I could just wade a bit while you . . . reclined. + + H. Empty the basket then, without more words . . . + But I still wish we had not left the birds. + +{170} + + C. Father! you are perverse! Since when, I beg, + Have forest birds been tethered by the leg? + They're everywhere! What more can you desire? + The cuckoo shouts as though he'd never tire, + The nuthatch, knowing that of noise you're fond, + Keeps chucking stones along a frozen pond, + And busy gold-crest, somewhere out of sight, + Works at his saw with all his tiny might. + I do not count the ring-doves or the rooks, + We hear so much about them in the books + They're hardly real; but from where I sit + I see two chaffinches, a long-tailed tit, + A missel-thrush, a yaffle---- + + H. That will do: + I may have overlooked a bird or two. + Where are the biscuits? Are you getting cramp + Down by the water there--it must be damp? + + C. I'm only watching till your bottle's cool: + It lies so snug beneath this glassy pool, + Like a sunk battleship; and overhead + The water-boatmen get their daily bread + By rowing all day long, and far below + Two little eels go winding, winding slow . . . + Oh! there's a shark! + + H. A what? + + C. A miller's thumb. + Don't move, I'll tempt him with a tiny crumb. + + H. Be quick about it, please, and don't forget + I am at least as dry as he is wet. + + C. Oh, very well then, here's your drink. + +{171} + + H. That's good! + I feel much better now. + + C. I thought you would (_exit quietly_). + + H. How beautiful the world is when it breathes + The news of summer!--when the bronzy sheathes + Still hang about the beech-leaf, and the oaks + Are wearing still their dainty tasselled cloaks, + While on the hillside every hawthorn pale + Has taken now her balmy bridal veil, + And, down below, the drowsy murmuring stream + Lulls the warm noonday in an endless dream. + O little brook, far more thou art to me + Than all the pageantry of field and tree: + _Es singen wohl die Nixen_--ah! 'tis truth-- + _Tief unten ihren Reih'n_--but only Youth + Can hear them joyfully, as once I lay + And heard them singing of the world's highway, + Of wandering ended, and the maiden found, + And golden bread by magic mill-wheel ground. + Lost is the magic now, the wheel is still, + And long ago the maiden left the mill: + Yet once a year, one day, when summer dawns, + The old, old murmur haunts the river-lawns, + The fairies wake, the fairy song is sung, + And for an hour the wanderer's feet are young (_he dozes_). + + C. (returning) Father! I called you twice. + + H. I did not know: + Where have you been? + + C. Oh, down the stream. + +{172} + + H. Just so: + Well, I went _up_. + + C. I wish you'd been with me. + + H. When East is West, my daughter, that may be. + + + + +{173} + +_Dream-Market_ + +A MASQUE PRESENTED AT WILTON HOUSE, + +JULY 28, 1909 + + + _Scene_. A LAWN IN THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA + + _Enter FLORA, Lady of Summer, with her maidens, PHYLLIS + and AMARYLLIS. She takes her seat upon a bank, + playing with a basket of freshly gathered flowers, one + of which she presently holds up in her hand._ + + + FLORA. Ah! how I love a rose! But come, my girls, + Here's for your task: to-day you, Amaryllis, + Shall take the white, and, Phyllis, you the red. + Hold out your kirtles for them. White, red, white, + Red, red, and white again. . . . + Wonder you not + How the same sun can breed such different beauties? + [_She divides all her roses between them._ + Well, take them all, and go--scatter them wide + In gardens where men love me, and be sure + +{174} + + Where even one flower falls, or one soft petal, + Next year shall see a hundred. + [_As they turn to go, enter LUCIA in hunting dress, + with bow in hand and a hound by her side. FLORA + rises to meet her, and recalls her maidens._] + Stay! attend me. + + LUCIA. Greeting, fair ladies; you, I think, must be + Daughters of this green Earth, and one of you + The sweet Dame Flora. + + FLORA. Your true servant, madam. + But if my memory be not newly withered + I have not known the pleasure. . . . + + LUCIA. Yes, you have seen me-- + At least, you might have seen me; I am Lucia, + Lady of Moonlight, and I often hunt + These downs of yours with all my nightly pack + Of questing beams and velvet-footed shadows. + + FLORA. I fear at night. . . . + + LUCIA. Oh, yes! at night you are sleeping! + And I by day am always rather faint; + So we don't meet; but sometimes your good folk + Have torn my nets by raking in the water; + And though their neighbours laughed, there are worse ways + Of spending time, and far worse things to rake for + Than silver lights upon a crystal stream. + But come! My royal Sire, the Man in the Moon-- + _He_ has been here? + + FLORA. So many kings come here, + I can't be sure; I've heard the Man in the Moon + +{175} + + Did once come down and ask his way to Norwich. + But that was years agone--hundreds of years-- + It may not be the same--I do not know + You royal father's age. . . . + + LUCIA. His age? Oh surely! + He never _can_ be more than one month old. + + FLORA. Yet he's your father! + + LUCIA. Well, he is and is not; + [_Proudly_] I am the daughter of a million moons. + They month by month and year by circling year, + From their celestial palace looking down + On your day-wearied Earth, have soothed her sleep, + And rocked her tides, and made a magic world + For all her lovers and her nightingales. + You owe them much, my ancestors. No doubt, + At times they suffered under clouds; at times + They were eclipsed; yet in their brighter hours + They were illustrious! + + FLORA. And may I hope + Your present Sire, his present Serene Highness, + Is in his brighter hours to-day? + + LUCIA. Ah! no. + Be sure he is not--else I had not left + My cool, sweet garden of unfading stars + For the rank meadows of this sun-worn mould. + + FLORA. What _is_ your trouble, then? + + LUCIA. Although my father + Has been but ten days reigning, he is sad + With all the sadness of a phantom realm, + And all the sorrows of ten thousand years. + +{176} + + We in our Moonland have no life like yours, + No birth, no death: we live but in our dreams: + And when they are grown old--these mortal visions + Of an immortal sleep--we seem to lose them. + They are too strong for us, too self-sufficient + To live for us; they go their ways and leave us, + Like shadows grown substantial. + + FLORA. I have heard + Something on earth not unlike this complaint, + But can I help you? + + LUCIA. Lady, if you cannot, + No one can help. In Moonland there is famine, + We are losing all our dreams, and I come hither + To buy a new one for my father's house. + + FLORA. To buy a dream? + + LUCIA. Some little darling dream + That will be always with us, night and day, + Loving and teasing, sailing light of heart + Over our darkest deeps, reminding us + Of our lost childhood, playing our old games, + Singing our old songs, asking our old riddles, + Building our old hopes, and with our old gusto + Rehearsing for us in one endless act + The world past and the world to be. + + FLORA. Oh! now + I see your meaning. Yes, I have indeed + Plenty of such sweet dreams: _we_ call them children. + They are _our_ dreams too, and though they are born of us, + Truly in them we live. But, dearest lady, + We do not sell them. + +{177} + + LUCIA. Do you mean you will not? + Not one? Could you not _lend_ me one--just one? + + FLORA. Ah! but to lend what cannot be returned + Is merely giving--who can bring again + Into the empty nest those wingčd years? + Still, there are children here well worth your hopes, + And you shall venture: if there be among them + One that your heart desires, and she consent, + Take her and welcome--for the will of Love + Is the wind's will, and none may guess his going. + + LUCIA. O dearest Lady Flora! + + FLORA. Stay! they are here, + Mad as a dance of May-flies. + + [_The children run in dancing and singing._ + + Shall we sit + And watch these children? + Phyllis, bid them play, + And let them heed us no more than the trees + That girdle this green lawn with whispering beauty. + [_The children play and sing at their games, till at a + convenient moment the LADY FLORA holds up her hand._] + + FLORA. Now, Amaryllis, stay the rushing stream, + The meadows for this time have drunk enough. + [_To LUCIA._] And you, what think you, lady, of these maids? + Has their sweet foolish singing moved your heart + To choose among them? + + LUCIA. I have heard them gladly, + And if I could, would turn them all to elves, + That if they cannot live with me, at least + +{178} + + I might look down when our great galleon sails + Close over earth, and see them always here + Dancing upon the moonlit shores of night. + But how to choose!--and though they are young and fair + Their every grace foretells the fatal change, + The swift short bloom of girlhood, like a flower + Passing away, for ever passing away. + Have you not one with petals tenderer yet, + More deeply folded, further from the hour + When the bud dies into the mortal rose? + + FLORA [_pointing._] _There_ is my youngest blossom and my fairest, + But my most wilful too--you'll pluck her not + Without some aid of magic. + + LUCIA. Time has been + When I have known even your forest trees + Sway to a song of moonland. I will try it. + + [_She sings and dances a witching measure._] + + + SONG + + (_To an air by HENRY LAWES, published in 1652_) + + The flowers that in thy garden rise, + Fade and are gone when Summer flies, + And as their sweets by time decay, + So shall thy hopes be cast away. + + The Sun that gilds the creeping moss + Stayeth not Earth's eternal loss: + He is the lord of all that live, + Yet there is life he cannot give. + +{179} + + The stir of Morning's eager breath-- + Beautiful Eve's impassioned death-- + Thou lovest these, thou lovest well, + Yet of the Night thou canst not tell. + + In every land thy feet may tread, + Time like a veil is round thy head: + Only the land thou seek'st with me + Never hath been nor yet shall be. + + It is not far, it is not near, + Name it hath none that Earth can hear; + But there thy Soul shall build again + Memories long destroyed of men, + And Joy thereby shall like a river + Wander from deep to deep for ever. + + + [_When she has finished the child runs into her arms._] + + FLORA. Your spell has won her, and I marvel not: + She was but half our own. + [_To the Child_] Farewell, dear child, + 'Tis time to part, you with this lovely lady + To dance in silver halls, and gather stars + And be the dream you are: while we return + To the old toil and harvest of the Earth. + Farewell! and farewell all! + + ALL. Farewell! farewell! + + [_Exeunt omnes._ + + + + +{180} + +_The Cicalas: An Idyll_ + +_Scene_: AN ENGLISH GARDEN BY STARLIGHT + +_Persons_: A LADY AND A POET + + + THE POET + + Dimly I see your face: I hear your breath + Sigh faintly, as a flower might sigh in death + And when you whisper, you but stir the air + With a soft hush like summer's own despair. + + + THE LADY (_aloud_) + + O Night divine, O Darkness ever blest, + Give to our old sad Earth eternal rest. + Since from her heart all beauty ebbs away, + Let her no more endure the shame of day. + + + THE POET + + A thousand ages have not made less bright + The stars that in this fountain shine to-night: + Your eyes in shadow still betray the gleam + That every son of man desires in dream. + + +{181} + + THE LADY + + Yes, hearts will burn when all the stars are cold; + And Beauty lingers--but her tale is told: + Mankind has left her for a game of toys, + And fleets the golden hour with speed and noise. + + + THE POET + + Think you the human heart no longer feels + Because it loves the swift delight of wheels? + And is not Change our one true guide on earth, + The surest hand that leads us from our birth? + + + THE LADY + + Change were not always loss, if we could keep + Beneath all change a clear and windless deep: + But more and more the tides that through us roll + Disturb the very sea-bed of the soul. + + + THE POET + + The foam of transient passions cannot fret + The sea-bed of the race, profounder yet: + And there, where Greece and her foundations are, + Lies Beauty, built below the tide of war. + + + THE LADY + + So--to the desert, once in fifty years-- + Some poor mad poet sings, and no one hears: + But what belated race, in what far clime, + Keeps even a legend of Arcadian time? + + +{182} + + THE POET + + Not ours perhaps: a nation still so young, + So late in Rome's deserted orchard sprung, + Bears not as yet, but strikes a hopeful root + Till the soil yield its old Hesperian fruit. + + + THE LADY + + Is not the hour gone by? The mystic strain, + Degenerate once, may never spring again. + What long-forsaken gods shall we invoke + To grant such increase to our common oak? + + + THE POET + + Yet may the ilex, of more ancient birth, + More deeply planted in that genial earth, + From her Italian wildwood even now + Revert, and bear once more the golden bough. + + + THE LADY + + A poet's dream was never yet less great + Because it issued through the ivory gate! + Show me one leaf from that old wood divine, + And all your ardour, all your hopes are mine. + + + THE POET + + May Venus bend me to no harder task! + For--Pan be praised!--I hold the gift you ask. + The leaf, the legend, that your wish fulfils, + To-day he brought me from the Umbrian hills. + + +{183} + + THE LADY + + Your young Italian--yes! I saw you stand + And point his path across our well-walled land: + A sculptor's model, but alas! no god: + These narrow fields the goat-foot never trod! + + + THE POET + + Yet from his eyes the mirth a moment glanced + To which the streams of old Arcadia danced; + And on his tongue still lay the childish lore + Of that lost world for which you hope no more. + + + THE LADY + + Tell me!--from where I watched I saw his face, + And his hands moving with a rustic grace, + Caught too the alien sweetness of his speech, + But sound alone, not sense, my ears could reach. + + + THE POET + + He asked if we in England ever heard + The tiny beasts, half insect and half bird, + That neither eat nor sleep, but die content + When they in endless song their strength have spent. + + + THE LADY + + Cicalas! how the name enchants me back + To the grey olives and the dust-white track! + Was there a story then?--I have forgot, + Or else by chance my Umbrians told it not. + + +{184} + + THE POET + + Lover of music, you at least should know + That these were men in ages long ago,-- + Ere music was,--and then the Muses came, + And love of song took hold on them like flame. + + + THE LADY + + Yes, I remember now the voice that speaks-- + Most living still of all the deathless Greeks-- + Yet tell me--how they died divinely mad, + And of the Muses what reward they had. + + + THE POET + + They are reborn on earth, and from the first + They know not sleep, they hunger not nor thirst + Summer with glad Cicala's song they fill, + Then die, and go to haunt the Muses' Hill. + + + THE LADY + + They are reborn indeed! and rightly you + The far-heard echo of their music knew! + Pray now to Pan, since you too, it would seem, + Were there with Phaedrus, by Ilissus' stream. + + + THE POET + + Beloved Pan, and all ye gods whose grace + For ever haunts our short life's resting-place, + Outward and inward make me one true whole, + And grant me beauty in the inmost soul! + + +{185} + + THE LADY + + And thou, O Night, O starry Queen of Air, + Remember not my blind and faithless prayer! + Let me too live, let me too sing again, + Since Beauty wanders still the ways of men. + + + + +{186} + +_The Faun_ + + Yesterday I thought to roam + Idly through the fields of home, + And I came at morning's end + To our brook's familiar bend. + There I raised my eyes, and there, + Shining through an ampler air, + Folded in by hills of blue + Such as Wessex never knew, + Changed as in a waking dream + Flowed the well-remembered stream. + + Now a line of wattled pale + Fenced the downland from the vale, + Now the sedge was set with reeds + Fitter for Arcadian meads, + And where I was wont to find + Only things of timid kind, + Now the Genius of the pool + Mocked me from his corner cool. + Eyes he had with malice quick, + Tufted hair and ears a-prick, + And, above a tiny chin, + Lips with laughter wide a-grin. + +{187} + + Therewithal a shaggy flank + In the crystal clear he sank, + And beneath the unruffled tide + A little pair of hooves I spied. + + Yet though plainly there he stood, + Creature of the wave and wood, + Under his satyric grace + Something manlike I could trace, + And the eyes that mocked me there + Like a gleam of memory were. + + "So," said I at last to him, + Frowning from the river's brim, + "This is where you come to play, + Heedless of the time of day." + + "Nay," replied the youthful god, + Leaning on the flowery sod, + "Here there are no clocks, and so + Time can neither come nor go." + + "Little goat," said I, "you're late, + And your dinner will not wait: + If to-day you wish to eat, + Trust me, you must find your feet." + + "Father," said the little goat, + "Do you know that I can float? + +{188} + + Do you know that I can dive + As deep as any duck alive? + Would you like to see me drop + Out of yonder willow's top?" + + Sternly I replied again, + "You may spare your boasting vain; + All that you can do I did + When I was myself a kid." + Laughter followed such as pealed + Through the first unfurrowed field. + "Then what mother says is true, + And your hoof is cloven too!" + + Ah!--but that irreverent mirth, + Learnt of the primeval earth, + Surely was with magic fraught + That upon my pulses wrought: + I too felt the air of June + Humming with a merry tune, + I too reckoned, like a boy, + Less of Time and more of Joy: + Till, as homeward I was wending, + I perceived my back unbending, + And before the mile was done + Ran beside my truant son. + + + + +{189} + +_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. + +{190} + + 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 master's 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." + +{191} + + 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. + + + + +{192} + +_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. + +{193} + + "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. + + + + +{194} + +_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! + +{195} + + 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!_ + + + + +{196} + +_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. + +{197} + + 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. + + + + +{198} + +_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. + + + + +{199} + +_Imogien_ + +(A LADY OF TENDER AGE) + + Ladies, where were your bright eyes glancing, + Where were they glancing yesternight? + 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 playtime + Rose and fell with a rhythmic lift: + Music set her adrift, adrift, + Music eddying towards the day + Swept her along as brooks in Maytime + Carry the freshly falling May. + + Ladies, life is a changing measure, + Youth is a lilt that endeth soon; + +{200} + + 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. + + + + +{201} + +_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. + + + + +{202} + +_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?" + +{203} + + 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. + + + + +{204} + +_Rilloby-Rill_ + + Grasshoppers four a-fiddling went, + Heigh-ho! never be still! + They earned but little towards their rent + But all day long with their elbows bent + They fiddled a tune called Rilloby-rilloby, + Fiddled a tune called Rilloby-rill. + + Grasshoppers soon on Fairies came, + Heigh-ho! never be still! + Fairies asked with a manner of blame, + "Where do you come from, what is your name? + What do you want with your Rilloby-rilloby, + What do you want with your Rilloby-rill?" + + "Madam, you see before you stand, + Heigh-ho! never be still! + The Old Original Favourite Grand + Grasshopper's Green Herbarian Band, + And the tune we play is Rilloby-rilloby, + Madam, the tune is Rilloby-rill." + +{205} + + Fairies hadn't a word to say, + Heigh-ho! never be still! + Fairies seldom are sweet by day, + But the Grasshoppers merrily fiddled away, + O but they played with a willoby-rilloby, + O but they played with a willoby-will! + + Fairies slumber and sulk at noon, + Heigh-ho! never be still! + But at last the kind old motherly moon + Brought them dew in a silver spoon, + And they turned to ask for Rilloby-rilloby, + One more round of Rilloby-rill. + + Ah! but nobody now replied, + Heigh-ho! never be still! + When day went down the music died, + Grasshoppers four lay side by side, + And there was an end of their Rilloby-rilloby, + There was an end of their Rilloby-rill. + + + + +{206} + +_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. + +{207} + + 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? + + + + + + + +{208} + +_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. + + + + +{209} + +_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. + + + + +{210} + +_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; + +{211} + + 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 + Is 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. + + + + +{212} + +_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. + +{213} + +_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: + +{214} + + 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, + +{215} + +_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. + + + + +{216} + +_Epistle_ + +TO COLONEL FRANCIS EDWARD YOUNGHUSBAND + + Across the Western World, the Arabian Sea, + The Hundred Kingdoms and the Rivers Three, + Beyond the rampart of Himalayan snows, + And up the road that only Rumour knows, + Unchecked, old friend, from Devon to Thibet, + Friendship and Memory dog your footsteps yet. + + Let not the scornful ask me what avails + So small a pack to follow mighty trails: + Long since I saw what difference must be + Between a stream like you, a ditch like me. + This drains a garden and a homely field + Which scarce at times a living current yield; + The other from the high lands of his birth + Plunges through rocks and spurns the pastoral earth, + Then settling silent to his deeper course + Draws in his fellows to augment his force, + Becomes a name, and broadening as he goes, + Gives power and purity where'er he flows, + Till, great enough for any commerce grown, + He links all nations while he serves his own. + +{217} + + Soldier, explorer, statesman, what in truth + Have you in common with homekeeping youth? + "Youth" comes your answer like an echo faint; + And youth it was that made us first acquaint. + Do you remember when the Downs were white + With the March dust from highways glaring bright, + How you and I, like yachts that toss the foam, + From Penpole Fields came stride and stride for home? + One grimly leading, one intent to pass, + Mile after mile we measured road and grass, + Twin silent shadows, till the hour was done, + The shadows parted and the stouter won. + Since then I know one thing beyond appeal-- + How runs from stem to stern a trimbuilt keel. + Another day--but that's not mine to tell, + The man in front does not observe so well; + Though, spite of all these five-and-twenty years, + As clear as life our schoolday scene appears. + The guarded course, the barriers and the rope; + The runners, stripped of all but shivering hope; + The starter's good grey head; the sudden hush; + The stern white line; the half-unconscious rush; + The deadly bend, the pivot of our fate; + The rope again; the long green level straight; + The lane of heads, the cheering half unheard; + The dying spurt, the tape, the judge's word. + + You, too, I doubt not, from your Lama's hall + Can see the Stand above the worn old wall, + +{218} + + Where then they clamoured as our race we sped, + Where now they number our heroic dead.* + As clear as life you, too, can hear the sound + Of voices once for all by "lock-up" bound, + And see the flash of eyes still nobly bright + But in the "Bigside scrimmage" lost to sight. + + Old loves, old rivalries, old happy times, + These well may move your memory and my rhymes; + These are the Past; but there is that, my friend, + Between us two, that has nor time nor end. + Though wide apart the lines our fate has traced + Since those far shadows of our boyhood raced, + In the dim region all men must explore-- + The mind's Thibet, where none has gone before-- + Rounding some shoulder of the lonely trail + We met once more, and raised a lusty hail. + + "Forward!" cried one, "for us no beaten track, + No city continuing, no turning back: + The past we love not for its being past, + But for its hope and ardour forward cast: + The victories of our youth we count for gain + Only because they steeled our hearts to pain, + And hold no longer even Clifton great + Save as she schooled our wills to serve the State. + +{219} + + Nay, England's self, whose thousand-year-old name + Burns in our blood like ever-smouldering flame, + Whose Titan shoulders as the world are wide + And her great pulses like the Ocean tide, + Lives but to bear the hopes we shall not see-- + Dear mortal Mother of the race to be." + + Thereto you answered, "Forward! in God's name; + I own no lesser law, no narrower claim. + A freeman's Reason well might think it scorn + To toil for those who may be never born, + But for some Cause not wholly out of ken, + Some all-directing Will that works with men, + Some Universal under which may fall + The minor premiss of our effort small; + In Whose unending purpose, though we cease, + We find our impulse and our only peace." + + So passed our greeting, till we turned once more, + I to my desk and you to rule Indore. + To meet again--ah! when? Yet once we met, + And to one dawn our faces still are set. + + EXETER, + _September_ 10, 1904. + + +* In the school quadrangle at Clifton, the site from which, upon +occasion, the grand stand used to overlook the Close, is now occupied +by the Memorial to those Cliftonians who fell in the South African War. + + + + +{220} + +_An Essay on Criticism_ + + 'Tis hard to say if greater waste of time + Is seen in writing or in reading rhyme; + But, of the two, less dangerous it appears + To tire our own than poison others' ears. + Time was, the owner of a peevish tongue, + The pebble of his wrath unheeding flung, + Saw the faint ripples touch the shore and cease, + And in the duckpond all again was peace. + But since that Science on our eyes hath laid + The wondrous clay from her own spittle made, + We see the widening ripples pass beyond, + The pond becomes the world, the world a pond, + All ether trembles when the pebble falls, + And a light word may ring in starry halls. + When first on earth the swift iambic ran + Men here and there were found but nowhere Man. + From whencesoe'er their origin they drew, + Each on its separate soil the species grew, + And by selection, natural or not, + Evolved a fond belief in one small spot. + The Greek himself, with all his wisdom, took + For the wide world his bright Aegean nook, +{221} + + For fatherland, a town, for public, all + Who at one time could hear the herald bawl: + For him barbarians beyond his gate + Were lower beings, of a different date; + He never thought on such to spend his rhymes, + And if he did, they never read the _Times_. + Now all is changed, on this side and on that, + The Herald's learned to print and pass the hat; + His tone is so much raised that, far or near, + All with a sou to spend his news may hear,-- + And who but, far or near, the sou affords + To learn the worst of foreigners and lords! + So comes the Pressman's heaven on earth, wherein + One touch of hatred proves the whole world kin-- + "Our rulers are the best, and theirs the worst, + Our cause is always just and theirs accurst, + Our troops are heroes, hirelings theirs or slaves, + Our diplomats but children, theirs but knaves, + Our Press for independence justly prized, + Theirs bought or blind, inspired or subsidized. + For the world's progress what was ever made + Like to our tongue, our Empire and our trade?" + So chant the nations, till at last you'd think + Men could no nearer howl to folly's brink; + Yet some in England lately won renown + By howling word for word, but upside down. + + But where, you cry, could poets find a place + (If poets we possessed) in this disgrace? +{222} + + Mails will be mails, Reviews must be reviews, + But why the Critic with the Bard confuse? + Alas! Apollo, it must be confessed + Has lately gone the way of all the rest. + No more alone upon the far-off hills + With song serene the wilderness he fills, + But in the forum now his art employs + And what he lacks in knowledge gives in noise. + At first, ere he began to feel his feet, + He begged a corner in the hindmost sheet, + Concealed with Answers and Acrostics lay, + And held aloof from Questions of the Day. + But now, grown bold, he dashes to the front, + Among the leaders bears the battle's brunt, + Takes steel in hand, and cheaply unafraid + Spurs a lame Pegasus on Jameson's Raid, + Or pipes the fleet in melodrama's tones + To ram the Damned on their Infernal Thrones. + + Sure, Scriblerus himself could scarce have guessed + The Art of Sinking might be further pressed: + But while these errors almost tragic loom + The Indian Drummer has but raised a boom. + "So well I love my country that the man + Who serves her can but serve her on my plan; + Be slim, be stalky, leave your Public Schools + To muffs like Bobs and other flannelled fools; + The lordliest life (since Buller made such hay) + Is killing men two thousand yards away; + +{223} + + You shoot the pheasant, but it costs too much + And does not tend to decimate the Dutch; + Your duty plainly then before you stands, + Conscription is the law for seagirt lands; + Prate not of freedom! Since I learned to shoot + I itch to use my ammunition boot." + + An odd way this, we thought, to criticize-- + This barrackyard "Attention! d---- your eyes!" + But England smiled and lightly pardoned him, + For was he not her Mowgli and her Kim? + But now the neighbourhood remonstrance roars, + He's naughty still, and naughty out of doors. + 'Tis well enough that he should tell Mamma + Her sons are tired of being what they are, + But to give friendly bears, expecting buns, + A paper full of stale unwholesome Huns-- + One might be led to think, from all this work, + That little master's growing quite a Turk. + + O Rudyard, Rudyard, in our hours of ease + (Before the war) you were not hard to please: + You loved a regiment whether fore or aft, + You loved a subaltern, however daft, + You loved the very dregs of barrack life, + The amorous colonel and the sergeant's wife. + You sang the land where dawn across the Bay + Comes up to waken queens in Mandalay, + The land where comrades sleep by Cabul ford, + And Valour, brown or white, is Borderlord, +{224} + + The secret Jungle-life of child and beast, + And all the magic of the dreaming East. + These, these we loved with you, and loved still more + The Seven Seas that break on Britain's shore, + The winds that know her labour and her pride, + And the Long Trail whereon our fathers died. + + In that Day's Work be sure you gained, my friend, + If not the critic's name, at least his end; + Your song and story might have roused a slave + To see life bodily and see it brave. + With voice so genial and so long of reach + To your Own People you the Law could preach, + And even now and then without offence + To Lesser Breeds expose their lack of sense. + Return, return! and let us hear again + The ringing engines and the deep-sea rain, + The roaring chanty of the shore-wind's verse, + Too bluff to bicker and too strong to curse. + Let us again with hearts serene behold + The coastwise beacons that we knew of old; + So shall you guide us when the stars are veiled, + And stand among the Lights that never Failed. + + + + +{225} + +_Le Byron de Nos Jours; or, The + English Bar and Cross Reviewers._ + + Still must I hear?--while Austin prints his verse + And Satan's sorrows fill Corelli's purse, + Must I not write lest haply some K.C. + To flatter Tennyson should sneer at me? + Or must the Angels of the Darker Ink + No longer tell the public what to think-- + Must lectures and reviewing all be stayed + Until they're licensed by the Board of Trade? + Prepare for rhyme--I'll risk it--bite or bark + I'll stop the press for neither Gosse nor Clarke. + + O sport most noble, when two cocks engage + With equal blindness and with equal rage! + When each, intent to pick the other's eye, + Sees not the feathers from himself that fly, + And, fired to scorch his rival's every bone, + Ignores the inward heat that grills his own; + Until self-plucked, self-spitted and self-roast, + Each to the other serves himself on toast. + + But stay, but stay, you've pitched the key, my Muse, + A semi-tone too low for great Reviews; + +{226} + + Such penny whistling suits the cockpit's hum, + But here's a scene deserves the biggest drum. + + Behold where high above the clamorous town + The vast Cathedral-towers in peace look down: + Hark to the entering crowd's incessant tread-- + They bring their homage to the mighty dead. + Who in silk gown and fullest-bottomed wig + Approaches yonder, with emotion big? + Room for Sir Edward! now we shall be told + Which shrines are tin, which silver and which gold. + 'Tis done! and now by life-long habit bound + He turns to prosecute the crowd around; + Indicts and pleads, sums up the _pro_ and _con_, + The verdict finds and puts the black cap on. + + "Prisoners, attend! of Queen Victoria's day + I am the Glory, you are the Decay. + You cannot think like Tennyson deceased, + You do not sing like Browning in the least. + Of Tennyson I sanction every word, + Browning I cut to something like one-third: + Though, mind you this, immoral he is not, + Still quite two-thirds I hope will be forgot. + He was to poetry a Tom Carlyle-- + And that reminds me, Thomas too was vile. + He wrote a life or two, but parts, I'm sure, + Compared with other parts are very poor. + +{227} + + Now Dickens--most extraordinary--dealt + In fiction with what people really felt. + That proves his genius. Thackeray again + Is so unequal as to cause me pain. + And last of all, with History to conclude, + I've read Macaulay and I've heard of Froude. + That list, with all deductions, Gentlemen, + Will show that 'now' is not the same as 'then'. + If you believe the plaintiff you'll declare + That English writers are not what they were." + + Down sits Sir Edward with a glowing breast, + And some applause is instantly suppressed. + Now up the nave of that majestic church + A quick uncertain step is heard to lurch. + Who is it? no one knows; but by his mien + He's the head verger, if he's not the Dean. + + "What fellow's this that dares to treat us so? + This is no place for lawyers, out you go! + He is a brawler, Sir, who here presumes + To move our laurels and arrange our tombs. + Suppose that Meredith or Stephen said + (Or do you think those gentlemen are dead?) + This age has borne no advocates of rank, + Would not your face in turn be rather blank? + Come now, I beg you, go without a fuss, + And leave these high and heavenly things to us; + You may perhaps be some one, at the Bar, + But you are not in Orders, and we are." + +{228} + + Sir Edward turns to go, but as he wends, + One swift irrelevant retort he sends. + "Your logic and your taste I both disdain, + You've quoted wrong from Jonson and Montaigne." + The shaft goes home, and somewhere in the rear + Birrell in smallest print is heard to cheer. + + And yet--and yet--conviction's not complete: + There was a time when Milton walked the street, + And Shakespeare singing in a tavern dark + Would not have much impressed Sir Edward Clarke. + To be alive--ay! there's the damning thing, + For who will buy a bird that's on the wing? + Catch, kill and stuff the creature, once for all, + And he may yet adorn Sir Edward's hall; + But while he's free to go his own wild way + He's not so safe as birds of yesterday. + + In fine, if I must choose--although I see + That both are wrong--Great Gosse! I'd rather be + A critic suckled in an age outworn + Than a blind horse that starves knee-deep in corn. + + +NOTE.--The foregoing parody, which first appeared in _The Monthly +Review_ some years ago, was an attempt to sum up and commemorate a +literary discussion of the day. On Saturday night, November 15, 1902, +at the Working Men's College, Great Ormond Street, Sir Edward Clarke, +K.C., delivered an address on "The Glory and Decay of English +Literature in the Reign of Victoria." 'Sir Edward Clarke, who mentioned +incidentally that he lectured at the college forty years ago, said that +there was a rise from the {229} beginning of that reign to the period +1850-60, and that from the latter date there had been a very strange +and lamentable decline to the end of the reign, would he thought, be +amply demonstrated. A glorious galaxy of talent adorned the years +1850-60. There were two great poets, two great novelists, and two +great historians. The two great poets were Alfred Tennyson and Robert +Browning. The first named would always stand at the head of the +literature of the Victorian period. There was no poet in the whole +course of our history whose works were more likely to live as a +complete whole than he, and there was not a line which his friends +would wish to see blotted out. Robert Browning was a poet of strange +inequality and of extraordinary and fantastic methods in his +composition. However much one could enjoy some of his works, one could +only hope that two-thirds of them would be as promptly as possible +forgotten--not, however, from any moral objection to what he wrote. He +was the Carlyle of poetry. By his Lives of Schiller and Sterling, +Carlyle showed that he _could_ write beautiful and pure English, but +that he should descend to the style of some of his later works was a +melancholy example of misdirected energy. . . . Charles Dickens was +perhaps the most extraordinary genius of those who had endeavoured to +deal with fiction as illustrative of the actual experiences of life. +With Dickens there stood the great figure of Thackeray, who had left a +great collection of books, very unequal in their quality, but +containing amongst them some of the finest things ever written in the +English tongue. The two great historians were Macaulay and Froude. +To-day we had no great novelist. Would anyone suggest we had a poet? +(Laughter.) After the year 1860 there were two great names in +poetry--the two Rossettis. There had been no book produced in the last +ten years which could compete with any one of the books produced from +1850 to 1860.' + +To this Mr. Edmund Gosse replied a week later at the Dinner of the +Encyclopaedia Britannica. He reminded his audience that even the most +perspicuous people in past times had made the grossest blunders when +they judged their own age. Let them remember the insensibility of +Montaigne to the merits of all his contemporaries. In the next age, +and in their own country, Ben Jonson took occasion at the very moment +when Shakespeare was producing his masterpieces, to lament the total +decay of poetry in England. We could not see the trees for the wood +behind them, but we ought to be confident they were growing all the +time. + +{230} + +Mr. Gosse also wrote to the _Times_ on behalf of "the Profession" of +Letters, reminding Sir Edward of the names of Swinburne and William +Morris, Hardy and Stevenson, Creighton and Gardiner, and asking what +would be the feelings of the learned gentleman if Meredith or Leslie +Stephen (of whose existence he was perhaps unaware) should put the +question in public, "Would anyone suggest we have an Advocate?" + +Sir Edward, in his rejoinder, had no difficulty in showing that Mr. +Gosse's citation of Montaigne and Jonson was not verbally exact. Mr. +Birrell added some comments which were distinguished by being printed +in type of a markedly different size. + +To the author of these lines, the controversy appears so typical and so +likely to arise again, that he desires to record, in however slight a +form, his recollection of it, and his own personal bias, which is in no +degree lessened by reconsideration after ten years. + + + + +{231} + +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 last two 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. For an account of Cheeks +the Marine see Marryat's _Peter Simple_. + +_Vae 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. {232} 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_.--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 over sea; + 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. + +_Sráhmandázi_.--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. The song-net, as described by her, +resembles a long piece of fishing-net folded, and is carried by the +Songman over his shoulder. When opened and laid before an audience, it +is seen to contain "tokens"--such as a leopard's paw, a child's hair, a +necklet, or a dried fish--sewn firmly to the meshes of the net. These +form a kind of symbolical index to the Songman's repertory: the +audience make their choice by laying a hand upon any token which +appears desirable. The last of the tokens is that which represents the +Song of Dying or Song of Sráhmandázi. It is a shapeless piece of any +substance, and is recognized only by its position in the net. The +song, being unintelligible to the living, is never asked for until the +moment of death. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems: New and Old, by Henry Newbolt + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS: NEW AND OLD *** + +***** This file should be named 24405-8.txt or 24405-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/4/0/24405/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems: New and Old + +Author: Henry Newbolt + +Release Date: January 22, 2008 [EBook #24405] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS: NEW AND OLD *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +[Transcriber's note: Page numbers in this book are indicated by numbers +enclosed in curly braces, e.g. {99}. They have been located where page +breaks occurred in the original book, in accordance with Project +Gutenberg's FAQ-V-99.] + + + + + + +POEMS: NEW AND OLD + + +BY HENRY NEWBOLT + + + + + +LONDON + +JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W. + +1912 + + + + +TO + +ADMIRAL SIR REGINALD CUSTANCE + + + + +{vi} + +AUTHOR'S NOTE + +This volume forms a complete collection of all my published work in +verse from 1897 to 1912. It includes the contents of four previous +volumes: _Admirals All_ (1897), _The Island Race_ (1898), _The Sailing +of the Long-Ships_ (1902), and _Songs of Memory and Hope_ (1909), +together with a number of pieces added to the later editions of the +first two of these, and ten poems which have not hitherto appeared in +book form--namely, _Sailing at Dawn, The Song of the Sou' Wester, The +Middle Watch, The Little Admiral, The Song of the Guns at Sea, +Farewell, Mors Janua, Gold, The Faun_, and _Rilloby-Rill_. + +The volumes above mentioned were dedicated respectively to ANDREW LANG, +to ROBERT BRIDGES, to SIR EDWARD GREY, and to LAURENCE BINYON; and I +delight to repeat these names once more, in a volume which commemorates +also the inspiration of a later friendship. + +H. N. + + + + +{vii} + + CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + SONGS OF THE FLEET: + I. SAILING AT DAWN . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 + II. THE SONG OF THE SOU' WESTER . . . . . . . 3 + III. THE MIDDLE WATCH . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 + IV. THE LITTLE ADMIRAL . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 + V. THE SONG OF THE GUNS AT SEA . . . . . . . 9 + VI. FAREWELL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 + ODE FOR TRAFALGAR DAY, 1905 . . . . . . . . . . 12 + THE HUNDREDTH YEAR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 + DRAKE'S DRUM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 + THE FIGHTING TEMERAIRE . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 + ADMIRALS ALL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 + SAN STEFANO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 + HAWKE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 + THE BRIGHT "MEDUSA" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 + THE OLD "SUPERB" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 + THE QUARTER-GUNNER'S YARN . . . . . . . . . . . 32 + NORTHUMBERLAND . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 + FOR A TRAFALGAR CENOTAPH . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 + CRAVEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 + MESSMATES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 + THE DEATH OF ADMIRAL BLAKE . . . . . . . . . . . 42 + +{viii} + + PAGE + + VAE VICTIS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 + MINORA SIDERA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 + LAUDABUNT ALII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 + ADMIRAL DEATH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 + HOMEWARD BOUND . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 + GILLESPIE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 + SERINGAPATAM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 + A BALLAD OF JOHN NICHOLSON . . . . . . . . . . . 61 + THE GUIDES AT CABUL, 1879 . . . . . . . . . . . 65 + THE GAY GORDONS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 + HE FELL AMONG THIEVES . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 + IONICUS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 + THE NON-COMBATANT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 + SACRAMENTUM SUPREMUM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 + CLIFTON CHAPEL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 + VITAI LAMPADA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 + THE VIGIL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 + THE SAILING OF THE LONG-SHIPS . . . . . . . . . 82 + WAGGON HILL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 + THE VOLUNTEER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86 + THE ONLY SON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 + THE GRENADIER'S GOOD-BYE . . . . . . . . . . . . 88 + THE SCHOOLFELLOW . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 + ON SPION KOP . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 + THE SCHOOL AT WAR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 + BY THE HEARTH-STONE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 + PEACE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94 + APRIL ON WAGGON HILL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95 + COMMEMORATION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 + +{ix} + + PAGE + + THE ECHO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 + THE BEST SCHOOL OF ALL . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 + ENGLAND . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103 + VICTORIA REGINA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104 + THE KING OF ENGLAND . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 + THE NILE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107 + SRAHMANDAZI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110 + OUTWARD BOUND . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 + HOPE THE HORNBLOWER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114 + O PULCHRITUDO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116 + THE FINAL MYSTERY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 + IL SANTO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121 + IN JULY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122 + FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION . . . . . . . . . 123 + WHEN I REMEMBER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124 + MORS JANUA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 + RONDEL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126 + RONDEL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 + BALADE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128 + THE LAST WORD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131 + THE VIKING'S SONG . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132 + THE SUFI IN THE CITY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134 + TO EDWARD FITZGERALD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135 + YATTENDON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136 + DEVON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137 + AMONG THE TOMBS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138 + GOLD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139 + A SOWER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140 + THE MOSSROSE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 + +{x} + + PAGE + + AVE, SOROR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143 + TO A RIVER IN THE SOUTH . . . . . . . . . . . . 144 + ON THE DEATH OF A NOBLE LADY . . . . . . . . . . 145 + MIDWAY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146 + AD MATREM DOLOROSAM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147 + VRAIS AMANTS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148 + THE SANGREAL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149 + SIR HUGH THE PALMER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150 + THE PRESENTATION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 + THE INHERITANCE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154 + AMORE ALTIERO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156 + THE PEDLAR'S SONG . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158 + BENEDICK'S SONG . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159 + LOVE AND GRIEF . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160 + EGERIA'S SILENCE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161 + AGAINST OBLIVION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162 + FOND COUNSEL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163 + YOUTH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164 + THE WANDERER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165 + THE ADVENTURERS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166 + TO CLARE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168 + THE RETURN OF SUMMER: AN ECLOGUE . . . . . . . . 169 + DREAM-MARKET . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173 + THE CICALAS: AN IDYLL . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180 + THE FAUN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 186 + FIDELE'S GRASSY TOMB . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189 + MOONSET . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192 + A SONG OF EXMOOR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194 + MASTER AND MAN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196 + +{xi} + + PAGE + + GAVOTTE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198 + IMOGEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199 + NEL MEZZO DEL CAMMIN . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201 + THE INVASION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 202 + RILLOBY-RILL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204 + PEREUNT ET IMPUTANTUR . . . . . . . . . . . . 206 + FELIX ANTONIUS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 208 + IRELAND, IRELAND . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 209 + HYMN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 210 + THE BUILDING OF THE TEMPLE . . . . . . . . . . 212 + EPISTLE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 216 + AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM . . . . . . . . . . . . 220 + LE BYRON DE NOS JOURS . . . . . . . . . . . . 225 + NOTES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231 + + + + + O strength divine of Roman days, + O spirit of the age of faith, + Go with our sons on all their ways, + When we long since are dust and wraith. + + + + +{1} + +POEMS: NEW AND OLD + + + +_Songs of the Fleet_ + +I + +_Sailing at Dawn_ + + One by one the pale stars die before the day now, + One by one the great ships are stirring from their sleep, + Cables all are rumbling, anchors all a-weigh now, + Now the fleet's a fleet again, gliding towards the deep. + + _Now the fleet's a fleet again, bound upon the old ways, + Splendour of the past comes shining in the spray; + Admirals of old time, bring us on the bold ways! + Souls of all the sea-dogs, lead the line to-day!_ + + Far away behind us town and tower are dwindling, + Home becomes a fair dream faded long ago; + Infinitely glorious the height of heaven is kindling, + Infinitely desolate the shoreless sea below. + + _Now the fleet's a fleet again, bound upon the old ways, + Splendour of the past comes shining in the spray; + Admirals of old time, bring us on the bold ways! + Souls of all the sea-dogs, lead the line to-day!_ + +{2} + + Once again with proud hearts we make the old surrender, + Once again with high hearts serve the age to be, + Not for us the warm life of Earth, secure and tender, + Ours the eternal wandering and warfare of the sea. + + _Now the fleet's a fleet again, bound upon the old ways, + Splendour of the past comes shining in the spray; + Admirals of old time, bring us on the bold ways! + Souls of all the sea-dogs, lead the line to-day!_ + + + + +{3} + +II + +_The Song of the Sou' Wester_ + + The sun was lost in a leaden sky, + And the shore lay under our lee; + When a great Sou' Wester hurricane high + Came rollicking up the sea. + He played with the fleet as a boy with boats + Till out for the Downs we ran, + And he laugh'd with the roar of a thousand throats + At the militant ways of man: + + _Oh! I am the enemy most of might, + The other be who you please! + Gunner and guns may all be right, + Flags a-flying and armour tight, + But I am the fellow you've first to fight-- + The giant that swings the seas._ + + A dozen of middies were down below + Chasing the X they love, + While the table curtseyed long and slow + And the lamps were giddy above. + +{4} + + The lesson was all of a ship and a shot, + And some of it may have been true, + But the word they heard and never forgot + Was the word of the wind that blew: + + _Oh! I am the enemy most of might, + The other be who you please! + Gunner and guns may all be right, + Flags a-flying and armour tight, + But I am the fellow you've first to fight-- + The giant that swings the seas._ + + The Middy with luck is a Captain soon, + With luck he may hear one day + His own big guns a-humming the tune + "'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay." + But wherever he goes, with friends or foes, + And whatever may there befall, + He'll hear for ever a voice he knows + For ever defying them all: + + _Oh! I am the enemy most of might, + The other be who you please! + Gunner and guns may all be right, + Flags a-flying and armour tight, + But I am the fellow you've first to fight-- + The giant that swings the seas._ + + + + +{5} + +III + +_The Middle Watch_ + + In a blue dusk the ship astern + Uplifts her slender spars, + With golden lights that seem to burn + Among the silver stars. + Like fleets along a cloudy shore + The constellations creep, + Like planets on the ocean floor + Our silent course we keep. + + _And over the endless plain, + Out of the night forlorn + Rises a faint refrain, + A song of the day to be born-- + Watch, oh watch till ye find again + Life and the land of morn._ + + From a dim West to a dark East + Our lines unwavering head, + As if their motion long had ceased + And Time itself were dead. + +{6} + + Vainly we watch the deep below, + Vainly the void above, + They died a thousand years ago-- + Life and the land we love. + + _But over the endless plain, + Out of the night forlorn + Rises a faint refrain, + A song of the day to be born-- + Watch, oh watch till ye find again + Life and the land of morn._ + + + + +{7} + +IV + +_The Little Admiral_ + + Stand by to reckon up your battleships + Ten, twenty, thirty, there they go. + Brag about your cruisers like Leviathans-- + A thousand men a-piece down below. + But here's just one little Admiral + We're all of us his brothers and his sons, + And he's worth, O he's worth at the very least + Double all your tons and all your guns. + + _Stand by, etc._ + + + See them on the forebridge signalling-- + A score of men a-hauling hand to hand, + And the whole fleet flying like the wild geese + Moved by some mysterious command. + Where's the mighty will that shows the way to them, + The mind that sees ahead so quick and clear? + He's there, Sir, walking all alone there-- + The little man whose voice you never hear. + + _Stand by, etc._ + + +{8} + + There are queer things that only come to sailormen; + They're true, but they're never understood; + And I know one thing about the Admiral, + That I can't tell rightly as I should. + I've been with him when hope sank under us-- + He hardly seemed a mortal like the rest, + I could swear that he had stars upon his uniform, + And one sleeve pinned across his breast. + + _Stand by, etc._ + + + Some day we're bound to sight the enemy, + He's coming, tho' he hasn't yet a name. + Keel to keel and gun to gun he'll challenge us + To meet him at the Great Armada game. + None knows what may be the end of it, + But we'll all give our bodies and our souls + To see the little Admiral a-playing him + A rubber of the old Long Bowls! + + _Stand by, etc._ + + + + +{9} + +V + +_The Song of the Guns at Sea_ + + Oh hear! Oh hear! + Across the sullen tide + Across the echoing dome horizon-wide + What pulse of fear + Beats with tremendous boom! + What call of instant doom, + With thunderstroke of terror and of pride, + With urgency that may not be denied, + Reverberates upon the heart's own drum + Come! . . . Come! . . . for thou must come! + + Come forth, O Soul! + This is thy day of power. + This is the day and this the glorious hour + That was the goal + Of thy self-conquering strife. + The love of child and wife, + The fields of Earth and the wide ways of Thought-- + Did not thy purpose count them all as nought + That in this moment thou thyself mayst give + And in thy country's life for ever live? + +{10} + + Therefore rejoice + That in thy passionate prime + Youth's nobler hope disdained the spoils of Time + And thine own choice + Fore-earned for thee this day. + Rejoice! rejoice to obey + In the great hour of life that men call Death + The beat that bids thee draw heroic breath, + Deep-throbbing till thy mortal heart be dumb + Come! . . . Come! . . . the time is come! + + + + +{11} + +VI + +_Farewell_ + + Mother, with unbowed head + Hear thou across the sea + The farewell of the dead, + The dead who died for thee. + Greet them again with tender words and grave, + For, saving thee, themselves they could not save. + + To keep the house unharmed + Their fathers built so fair, + Deeming endurance armed + Better than brute despair, + They found the secret of the word that saith, + "Service is sweet, for all true life is death." + + So greet thou well thy dead + Across the homeless sea, + And be thou comforted + Because they died for thee. + Far off they served, but now their deed is done + For evermore their life and thine are one. + + + + +{12} + +_Ode for Trafalgar Day, 1905_ + +"Partial firing continued until 4.30, when a victory having been +reported to the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Nelson, K.B., and +Commander-in-Chief, he then died of his wound."--Log of the _Victory_, +October 21, 1805. + + + England! to-day let fire be in thine eyes + And in thy heart the throb of leaping guns; + Crown in thy streets the deed that never dies, + And tell their fathers' fame to all thy sons! + Behold! behold! on that unchanging sea + Where day behind Trafalgar rises pale, + How dread the storm to be + Drifts up with ominous breath + Cloud after towering cloud of billowy sail + Full charged with thunder and the bolts of death. + + Yet when the noon is past, and thy delight, + More delicate for these good hundred years, + Has drunk the splendour and the sound of fight + And the sweet sting of long-since vanished fears, + Then, England, come thou down with sterner lips + From the bright world of thy substantial power, + Forget thy seas, thy ships, + And that wide echoing dome + To watch the soul of man in his dark hour + Redeeming yet his dear lost land of home. + +{13} + + What place is this? What under-world of pain + All shadow-barred with glare of swinging fires? + What writhing phantoms of the newly slain? + What cries? What thirst consuming all desires? + This is the field of battle: not for life, + Not for the deeper life that dwells in love, + Not for the savour of strife + Or the far call of fame, + Not for all these the fight: all these above + The soul of this man cherished Duty's name. + + His steadfast hope from self has turned away, + For the Cause only must he still contend: + "How goes the day with us? How goes the day?" + He craves not victory, but to make an end. + Therefore not yet thine hour, O Death: but when + The weapons forged against his country's peace + Lie broken round him--then + Give him the kiss supreme; + Then let the tumult of his warfare cease + And the last dawn dispel his anguished dream. + + + + +{14} + +_The Hundredth Year_ + +"Drake, and Blake, and Nelson's mighty name." + + + The stars were faint in heaven + That saw the Old Year die, + The dream-white mist of Devon + Shut in the seaward sky: + Before the dawn's unveiling + I heard three voices hailing, + I saw three ships come sailing + With lanterns gleaming high. + + The first he cried defiance-- + A full-mouthed voice and bold-- + "On God be our reliance, + Our hope the Spaniard's gold! + With a still, stern ambuscado, + With a roaring escalado, + We'll sack their Eldorado + And storm their dungeon hold!" + + Then slowly spake the second-- + A great sad voice and deep-- + "When all your gold is reckoned, + There is but this to keep: + +{15} + + To stay the foe from fooling, + To learn the heathen schooling, + To live and die sea-ruling, + And home at last to sleep." + + But the third matched in beauty + The dawn that flushed afar; + "O sons of England, Duty + Is England's morning star: + Then Fame's eternal splendour + Be theirs who well defend her, + And theirs who fain would bend her + The night of Trafalgar!" + + + + +{16} + +_Drake's Drum_ + + Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile 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 dancin' 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' ruled the Devon seas, + (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?), + Rovin' 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. + +{17} + + 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! + + + + +{18} + +The Fighting Temeraire + + 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! til see the linstock lighting, + Temeraire! Temeraire! + Oh! to hear the round shot biting, + Temeraire! Temeraire! + Oh! to see the linstock lighting, + And to hear the round shot biting, + For we're all in love with fighting + On the Fighting Temeraire._ + + It was noontide ringing, + And the battle just begun, + When the ship her way was winging + As they loaded every gun. + +{19} + + 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, + Temeraire! Temeraire! + There'll be few to tell the story, + Temeraire! Temeraire! + 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 Temeraire. + + 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, + Temeraire! Temeraire! + And she's fading down the river, + Temeraire! Temeraire! + Now the sunset breezes shiver, + And she's fading down the river, + But in England's song for ever + She's the Fighting Temeraire. + + + + +{20} + +_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. + +{21} + + 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. + +{22} + + 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!_ + + + + +{23} + +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 fire, + 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. + +{24} + + 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. + +{25} + + 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 her colours at the fore, + When the bold _Menelaus_ came from 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 sea._ + + + + +{26} + +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. + +{27} + + 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. + + + + +{28} + +_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_. + + {29} + + 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_. + + + + +{30} + +_The Old _Suberb__ + + 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 _Suberb_ 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 _Suberb_ 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 _Suberb_ 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. + +{31} + + 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!_ + + + + +{32} + +_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. + +{33} + + 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 Trafalgar 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 _Temeraires_ 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. + +{34} + + 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 Hag, 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 Trafalgar. + + + + +{35} + +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!" + +{36} + + 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. + + + + +{37} + +_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. + + + + +{38} + +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. + +{39} + + 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._ + + + + +{40} + +_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; + +{41} + + 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. + + + + +{42} + +_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. + +{43} + + 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. + +{44} + + 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. + + + + +{45} + +_Vae 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?" + +{46} + + 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; + +{47} + + 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 above 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. + + + + +{48} + +_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 + To-night 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. + +{49} + + 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. + + + + +{50} + +_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 Lafian's Plain, + Forget not with the festal bowl + To soothe at times your weary soul. + +{51} + + When Drake must bid to Plymouth Hoe + Good-bye for many a day, + And some were sad that 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!" + + + + +{52} + +_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. + +{53} + + 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. + + + + +{54} + +_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. + + + + +{55} + +_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." + +{56} + + 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 hit, + 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. + +{57} + + 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. + + + + +{58} + +_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. + +{59} + + "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. + +{60} + + 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." + + + + +{61} + +_A Ballad of John Nicholson_ + + It fell in the year of Mutiny, + At darkest of the night, + John Nicholson by Jalandhar came, + On his way to Delhi fight. + + And as he by Jalaandhar 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 Jalandhar 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. + +{62} + + 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 overhasty, Mehtab Singh,"-- + Oh, but his voice was low! + He held his wrath with a curb of iron, + That furrowed cheek and brow. + +{63} + + "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. + +{64} + + "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." + + + + +{65} + +_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 a joyful courage, a passionate pride, + To die at the last as the Guides at 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 crouched 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. + +{66} + + 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 yoke," + 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 have 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 or 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. + + + + +{67} + +_The Gay Gordons_ + +(DARGAI, OCTOBER 20TH, 1897) + + Who's for the Gathering, who's for the Fair? + (_Gay goes the Gordon to a fight_) + The bravest of the brave are at dead-lock 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 to-day + (_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 the 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 to be denied; + (_Bayonets! and charge! by the right!_) + +{68} + + 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. + + + + +{69} + +_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 till 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. + +{70} + + 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 hide 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 dais serene. + + He watched the liner's stem ploughing the foam, + He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; + He heard her 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. + +{71} + + Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast, + The blood-red snow-peaks chilled to a 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. + + + + +{72} + +_Ionicus_ + + I live--I am old--I return to the ground-- + Blow trumpets! and still I can dream to the sound. + WILLIAM CORY. + + + 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. + +{73} + + 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 high to the end, and dreamed + Of the sound and splendour of England's war. + + + + +{74} + +_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. + + + + +{75} + +_Sacramentum Supremum_ + +MUKDEN, MARCH 6TH, 1905 + + Ye that with me have fought and failed and fought + To the last desperate trench of battle's crest, + Not yet to sleep, not yet; our work is nought; + On that last trench the fate of all may rest, + Draw near, my friends; and let your thoughts be high; + Great hearts are glad when it is time to give; + Life is no life to him that dares not die, + And death no death to him that dares to live. + + Draw near together; none be last or first; + We are no longer names, but one desire; + With the same burning of the soul we thirst, + And the same wine to-night shall quench our fire. + Drink! to our fathers who begot us men, + To the dead voices that are never dumb; + Then to the land of all our loves, and then + To the long parting, and the age to come. + + + + +{76} + +_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. + + {77} + + 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. + "_Que procul hinc_," the legend's writ,-- + The frontier-grave is far away-- + "_Qui ante diem periit: + Sed miles, sed pro patria._" + + + + +{78} + +_Vitai 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 a 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. + +{79} + + 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!" + + + + +{80} + +_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? + +{81} + + 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! + + + + +{82} + +_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; + +{83} + + 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." + + + + +{84} + +_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, + + {85} + + 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! + + + + +{86} + +_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. + + + + +{87} + +_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 little son.'"_ + + + + +{88} + +_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!" + + + + +{89} + +_The Schoolfellow_ + + Our game was his but yesteryear; + We wished him back; we could not know + The selfsame hour we missed him here + He led the line that broke the foe. + + Blood-red behind our guarded posts + Sank as of old the 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 word was sped, + For evermore thy goal was won. + + + + +{90} + +_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. + + + + +{91} + +_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. + +{92} + + "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." + + + + +{93} + +_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. + + + + +{94} + +_Peace_ + +(1902) + + 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. + + + + +{95} + +_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-- + +{96} + + 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. + + + + +{97} + +_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. + +{98} + + "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. + + + + +{99} + +_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!_ + +{100} + + 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._ + + + + +{101} + +_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? + +{102} + + And where's the wealth, I'm wondering, + Could buy the cheers that roll + When the last charge goes thundering + Beneath the twilight goal? + + The 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 deepening 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._ + + + + +{103} + +_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. + + + + +{104} + +_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. + + + + +{105} + +_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. + +{106} + + 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. + + + + +{107} + +_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. + +{108} + + 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. + +{109} + + 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. + + + + +{110} + +_Srahmandazi_ + + 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 Srahmandazi, + Srahmandazi, 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 Srahmandazi, + 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 Srahmandazi + Rises pallid like the rainy moon. + +{111} + + "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 Srahmandazi + 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 Srahmandazi? + 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." + +{112} + + 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 Srahmandazi + 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 Srahmandazi, + 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!" + + + + +{113} + +_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. + + + + +{114} + +_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. + +{115} + + 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." + + + + +{116} + +_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. + + + + +{117} + +_The Final Mystery_ + +This myth, of Egyptian origin, formed part of the instruction given to +those initiated in the Orphic mysteries, and written versions of it +were buried with the dead. + + + Hear now, O Soul, the last command of all-- + When thou hast left thine every mortal mark, + And by the road that lies beyond recall + Won through the desert of the Burning Dark, + Thou shalt behold within a garden bright + A well, beside a cypress ivory-white. + + Still is that well, and in its waters cool + White, white and windless, sleeps that cypress tree: + Who drinks but once from out her shadowy pool + Shall thirst no more to all eternity. + Forgetting all, by all forgotten clean, + His soul shall be with that which hath not been. + + But thou, though thou be trembling with thy dread, + And parched with thy desire more fierce than flame, + Think on the stream wherefrom thy life was fed, + And that diviner fountain whence it came. + Turn thee and cry--behold, it is not far-- + Unto the hills where living waters are. + +{118} + + "Lord, though I lived on earth, the child of earth, + Yet was I fathered by the starry sky: + Thou knowest I came not of the shadows' birth, + Let me not die the death that shadows die. + Give me to drink of the sweet spring that leaps + From Memory's fount, wherein no cypress sleeps." + + Then shalt thou drink, O Soul, and therewith slake + The immortal longing of thy mortal thirst, + So of thy Father's life shalt thou partake, + And be for ever that thou wert at first. + Lost in remembered loves, yet thou more thou + With them shalt reign in never-ending Now. + + + + +{119} + +_Il Santo_ + + Alas! alas! what impious hands are these? + They have cut down my dark mysterious trees, + Defied the brooding spell + That sealed my sacred well, + Broken my fathers' fixed and ancient bars, + And on the mouldering shade + Wherein my dead were laid + Let in the cold clear aspect of the stars. + + Slumber hath held the grove for years untold: + Is there no reverence for a peace so old? + Is there no seemly awe + For bronze-engraven law, + For dust beatified and saintly name? + When they shall see the shrine + Princes have held divine, + Will they not bow before the eternal flame? + + Vain! vain! the wind of heaven for ages long + Hath whispered manhood, "Let thine arm be strong! + Hew down and fling away + The growth that veils decay, + +{120} + + Shatter the shrine that chokes the living spring. + Scorn hatred, scorn regret, + Dig deep and deeper yet, + Leave not the quest for word of saint or king. + + "Dig deeper yet! though the world brand thee now, + The faithful labour of an impious brow + May for thy race redeem + The source of that lost stream + Once given the thirst of all the earth to slake. + Nay, thou too ere the end + Thy weary knee mayst bend + And in thy trembling hands that water take." + + + + +{121} + +_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. + + + + +{122} + +_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. + + + + +{123} + +_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. + + + + +{124} + +_Mors Janua_ + + Pilgrim, no shrine is here, no prison, no inn: + Thy fear and thy belief alike are fond: + Death is a gate, and holds no room within: + Pass--to the road beyond. + + + + +{125} + +_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. + + + + +{126} + +_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. + + + + +{127} + +_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. + + + + +{128} + +_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."_ + +{129} + + _"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. + +{130} + + 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." + + + + +{131} + +_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. + + + + +{132} + +_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? + +{133} + + 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! + + + + +{134} + +_To Edward Fitzgerald_ + +(MARCH 31ST, 1909) + + 'Tis a sad fate + To watch the world fighting, + All that is most fair + Ruthlessly blighting, + Blighting, ah! blighting. + + When such a thought cometh + Let us not pine, + But gather old friends + Round the red wine-- + Oh! pour the red wine! + + And there we'll talk + And warm our wits + With Eastern fallacies + Out of old Fitz! + British old Fitz! + + See him, half statesman-- + Philosopher too-- + Half ancient mariner + In baggy blue-- + Such baggy blue! + +{135} + + Whimsical, wistful, + Haughty, forsooth: + Indolent always, yet + Ardent in truth, + But indolent, indolent! + + There at the table + With us sits he, + Charming us subtly + To reverie, + Magic reverie. + + "How sweet is summer's breath, + How sure and swift is death; + Nought wise on earth, save + What the wine whispereth, + Dreamily whispereth. + + "At Naishapur beneath the sun, + Or here in misty Babylon, + Drink! for the rose leaves while you linger + Are falling, ever falling, one by one." + + Ah! poet's soul, once more with us conspire + To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire, + Once more with us to-night, old Fitz, once more + Remould it nearer to the heart's desire! + + + + +{136} + +_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. + + + + +{137} + +_Devon_ + + Deep-wooded combes, clear-mounded hills of morn, + Red sunset tides against a red sea-wall, + High lonely barrows where the curlews call, + Far moors that echo to the ringing horn,-- + Devon! thou spirit of all these beauties born, + All these are thine, but thou art more than all: + Speech can but tell thy name, praise can but fall + Beneath the cold white sea-mist of thy scorn. + + Yet, yet, O noble land, forbid us not + Even now to join our faint memorial chime + To the fierce chant wherewith their hearts were hot + Who took the tide in thy Imperial prime; + Whose glory's thine till Glory sleeps forgot + With her ancestral phantoms, Pride and Time. + + + + +{138} + +_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. + + + + +{139} + +_Gold_ + +(AFTER GIOVANNI PASCOLI) + + At bedtime, when the sunset fire was red + One cypress turned to gold beneath its touch. + "Sleep now, my little son," the mother said; + "In God's high garden all the trees are such." + Then did the child in his bright dream behold + Branches of gold, trees, forests all of gold. + + + + +{140} + +_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. + + + + +{141} + +_The Mossrose_ + + Walking to-day in your garden, O gracious lady, + Little you thought as you turned in that alley remote and shady, + And gave me a rose and asked if I knew its savour-- + The old-world scent of the mossrose, flower of a bygone favour-- + + Little you thought as you waited the word of appraisement, + Laughing at first and then amazed at my amazement, + That the rose you gave was a gift already cherished, + And the garden whence you plucked it a garden long perished. + + But I--I saw that garden, with its one treasure + The tiny mossrose, tiny even by childhood's measure, + And the long morning shadow of the dusty laurel, + And a boy and a girl beneath it, flushed with a childish quarrel. + + She wept for her one little bud: but he, outreaching + The hand of brotherly right, would take it for all her beseeching: + +{142} + + And she flung her arms about him, and gave like a sister, + And laughed at her own tears, and wept again when he kissed her. + + So the rose is mine long since, and whenever I find it + And drink again the sharp sweet scent of the moss behind it, + I remember the tears of a child, and her love and her laughter, + And the morning shadows of youth and the night that fell thereafter. + + + + +{143} + +_Ave, Soror_ + + I left behind the ways of care, + The crowded hurrying hours, + I breathed again the woodland air, + I plucked the woodland flowers: + + Bluebells as yet but half awake, + Primroses pale and cool, + Anemones like stars that shake + In a green twilight pool-- + + On these still lay the enchanted shade, + The magic April sun; + With my own child a child I strayed + And thought the years were one. + + As through the copse she went and came + My senses lost their truth; + I called her by the dear dead name + That sweetened all my youth. + + + + +{144} + +_To a River in the South_ + + Call me no more, O gentle stream, + To wander through thy sunny dream, + No more to lean at twilight cool + Above thy weir and glimmering pool. + + Surely I know thy hoary dawns, + The silver crisp on all thy lawns, + The softly swirling undersong + That rocks thy reeds the winter long. + + Surely I know the joys that ring + Through the green deeps of leafy spring; + I know the elfin cups and domes + That are their small and secret homes. + + Yet is the light for ever lost + That daily once thy meadows crossed, + The voice no more by thee is heard + That matched the song of stream and bird. + + Call me no more!--thy waters roll + Here, in the world that is my soul, + And here, though Earth be drowned in night, + Old love shall dwell with old delight. + + + + +{145} + +_On the Death of a Noble Lady_ + + Time, when thou shalt bring again + Pallas from the Trojan plain, + Portia from the Roman's hall, + Brynhild from the fiery wall, + Eleanor, whose fearless breath + Drew the venom'd fangs of Death, + And Philippa doubly brave + Or to conquer or to save-- + + When thou shalt on one bestow + All their grace and all their glow, + All their strength and all their state, + All their passion pure and great, + Some far age may honour then + Such another queen of men. + + + + +{146} + +_Midway_ + + Turn back, my Soul, no longer set + Thy peace upon the years to come + Turn back, the land of thy regret + Holds nothing doubtful, nothing dumb. + + There are the voices, there the scenes + That make thy life in living truth + A tale of heroes and of queens, + Fairer than all the hopes of youth. + + + + +{147} + +_Ad Matrem Dolorosam_ + + Think not thy little fountain's rain + That in the sunlight rose and flashed, + From the bright sky has fallen again, + To cold and shadowy silence dashed. + The Joy that in her radiance leapt + From everlasting hath not slept. + + The hand that to thy hand was dear, + The untroubled eyes that mirrored thine, + The voice that gave thy soul to hear + A whisper of the Love Divine-- + What though the gold was mixed with dust? + The gold is thine and cannot rust. + + Nor fear, because thy darling's heart + No longer beats with mortal life, + That she has missed the ennobling part + Of human growth and human strife. + Only she has the eternal peace + Wherein to reap the soul's increase. + + + + +{148} + +_Vrais Amants_ + +(FOURTEENTH CENTURY) + + "Time mocks thy opening music with a close; + What now he gives long since he gave away. + Thou deemst thy sun hath risen, but ere it rose + It was eclipsed, and dusk shall be thy day." + + Yet has the Dawn gone up: in loveliest light + She walks high heaven beyond the shadow there: + Whom I too veiled from all men's envious sight + With inward eyes adore and silent prayer. + + + + +{149} + +_The Sangreal_ + + Once, when beside me in that sacred place + I saw my lady lift her lovely head, + And saw the Chalice gleam above her face + And her dear lips with life immortal red, + Then, born again beyond the mist of years, + I knelt in Heaven, and drank the wine of tears. + + + + +{150} + +_Sir Hugh the Palmer_ + + I + + He kneeled among a waste of sands + Before the Mother-Maid, + But on the far green forest-lands + His steadfast eyes were stayed, + And like a knight of stone his hands + He straightened while he prayed. + + "Lady, beyond all women fair, + Beyond all saints benign, + Whose living heart through life I bear + In mystery divine, + Hear thou and grant me this my prayer, + Or grant no prayer of mine. + + "The fever of my spirit's pain + Heal thou with heavenly scorn; + The dust that but of dust is fain + Leave thou in dust forlorn; + Yea! bury love to rise again + Meet for eternal morn. + +{151} + + "So by thy grace my inward eyes + Thy beauty still shall see, + And while our life in shadow lies + High dawn shall image thee, + Till with thy soul in Paradise + Thy servant's soul shall be." + + Before the immortal Mother-Maid + Low on the sands he kneeled; + But even while the words he prayed + His lips to patience sealed, + Joy in his eyes a radiance made + Like stars in dusk revealed. + + + II + + It was an idle company-- + Ladies and lordings fine-- + Idly under the wild-wood tree + Their laughter ran like wine. + Yet as they laughed a voice they heard-- + A voice where none was seen,-- + Singing blithe as a hidden bird + Among the forest green. + + "Mark ye, mark ye, a lonely knight + Riding the green forest: + Pardi! for one so poorly dight + He lifts a haughty crest! + +{152} + + Azure and white is all his wear, + He hath no gold, I trow! + Wanderer, thou in the wild-wood there, + Tell us why sing ye so!" + + "Noble ladies and lordings gay, + God have you all in guard: + Since ye are pleased with me to play, + My riddle it is not hard. + I sing because, of all that ride, + I am the least of worth: + I sing because, to match my pride, + Never was pride on earth. + + "But, an ye ask what that may mean, + Thus do I answer then: + I bear with me the heart of a Queen-- + I that am least of men:-- + I bear her heart till the end of all, + Yea! by her own command + I bear the heart of a Queen royal + Unto the Holy Land." + + Humbly there his crest he bent,-- + Azure it waved and white,-- + Haughtily there he turned and went + Singing, out of their sight. + Long, long but his voice they heard,-- + A voice where none was seen,-- + Singing blithe as a hidden bird, + Among the forest green. + + + + +{153} + +_The Presentation_ + + When in the womb of Time our souls' own son + Dear Love lay sleeping till his natal hour, + Long months I knew not that sweet life begun, + Too dimly treasuring thy touch of power; + And wandering all those days + By far-off ways, + Forgot immortal seed must have immortal flower. + + Only, beloved, since my beloved thou art + I do remember, now that memory's vain, + How twice or thrice beneath my beating heart + Life quickened suddenly with proudest pain. + Then dreamed I Love's increase, + Yet held my peace + Till I might render thee thy own great gift again. + + For as with bodies, so with souls it is, + The greater gives, the lesser doth conceive: + That thou hast fathered Love, I tell thee this, + And by my pangs beseech thee to believe. + Look on his hope divine-- + Thy hope and mine-- + Pity his outstretched hands, tenderly him receive! + + + + +{154} + +_The Inheritance_ + + While I within her secret garden walked, + The flowers, that in her presence must be dumb, + With me, their fellow-servant, softly talked, + Attending till the Flower of flowers should come. + Then, since at Court I had arrived but late, + I was by love made bold + To ask that of my lady's high estate + I might be told, + And glories of her blood, perpetuate + In histories old. + + Then they, who know the chronicle of Earth, + Spoke of her loveliness, that like a flame + Far-handed down from noble birth to birth, + Gladdened the world for ages ere she came. + "Yea, yea," they said, "from Summer's royal sun + Comes that immortal line, + And was create not for this age alone + Nor wholly thine, + Being indeed a flower whose root is one + With Life Divine. + +{155} + + "To the sweet buds that of herself are part + Already she this portion hath bequeathed, + As, not less surely, into thy proud heart + Her nobleness, O poet, she hath breathed, + That her inheritance by them and thee + The world may keep alway, + When the still sunlight of her eyes shall be + Lost to the day, + And even the fragrance of her memory + Fading away." + + + + +{156} + +_Amore Altiero_ + + Since thou and I have wandered from the highway + And found with hearts reborn + This swift and unimaginable byway + Unto the hills of morn, + Shall not our love disdain the unworthy uses + Of the old time outworn? + + I'll not entreat thy half unwilling graces + With humbly folded palms, + Nor seek to shake thy proud defended places + With noise of vague alarms, + Nor ask against my fortune's grim pursuing + The refuge of thy arms. + + Thou'lt not withhold for pleasure vain and cruel + That which has long been mine, + Nor overheap with briefly burning fuel + A fire of flame divine, + Nor yield the key for life's profaner voices + To brawl within the shrine. + +{157} + + But thou shalt tell me of thy queenly pleasure + All that I must fulfil, + And I'll receive from out my royal treasure + What golden gifts I will, + So that two realms supreme and undisputed + Shall be one kingdom still. + + And our high hearts shall praise the beauty hidden + In starry-minded scorn + By the same Lord who hath His servants bidden + To seek with eyes new-born + This swift and unimaginable byway + Unto the hills of morn. + + + + +{158} + +_The Pedlar's Song_ + + I tramped among the townward throng + A sultry summer's morn: + They mocked me loud, they mocked me long, + They laughed my pack to scorn. + But a likely pedlar holds his peace + Until the reckoning's told:-- + Merrily I to market went, tho' songs were all my gold. + + At weary noon I left the town, + I left the highway straight, + I climbed the silent, sunlit down + And stood by a castle gate. + Never yet was a house too high + When the pedlar's heart was bold:-- + Merrily I to market went, tho' songs were all my gold. + + A lady leaned from her window there + And asked my wares to see; + Her voice made rich the summer air, + Richer my soul in me. + She gave me only four little words, + Words of a language old:-- + Merrily I from market came, for all my songs were sold. + + + + +{159} + +_Benedick's Song_ + + Though I see within thine eyes + Sudden frown of cloudy skies, + Yet I bid them "merry morn" + For they tell me Love is born. + So ha-ha! with ha-ha-ha! + For they tell me Love is born. + + Storms of mocking from thy lips + Lash me still like airy whips; + But to-day thy scorn I scorn + For I know that Love is born. + So ha-ha! with ha-ha-ha! + For I know that Love is born. + + O the hail that rattles fierce + Through my hodden cloak to pierce! + What care I if rags be torn? + Love and I are beggars born! + So ha-ha! with ha-ha-ha! + Love and I are beggars born. + + + + +{160} + +_Love and Grief._ + + One day, when Love and Summer both were young, + Love in a garden found my lady weeping; + Whereat, when he to kiss her would have sprung, + I stayed his childish leaping. + + "Forbear," said I, "she is not thine to-day; + Subdue thyself in silence to await her; + If thou dare call her from Death's side away + Thou art no Love, but traitor. + + Yet did he run, and she his kiss received, + "She is twice mine," he cried, "since she is troubled; + I knew but half, and now I see her grieved + My part in her is doubled." + + + + +{161} + +_Egeria's Silence_ + + Her thought that, like a brook beside the way, + Sang to my steps through all the wandering year, + Has ceased from melody--O Love, allay + My sudden fear! + + She cannot fail--the beauty of that brow + Could never flower above a desert heart-- + Somewhere beneath, the well-spring even now + Lives, though apart. + + Some day, when winter has renewed her fount + With cold, white-folded snows and quiet rain, + O Love, O Love, her stream again will mount + And sing again! + + + + +{162} + +_Against Oblivion_ + + Cities drowned in olden time + Keep, they say, a magic chime + Rolling up from far below + When the moon-led waters flow. + + So within me, ocean deep, + Lies a sunken world asleep. + Lest its bells forget to ring, + Memory! set the tide a-swing! + + + + +{163} + +_Fond Counsel_ + + O youth, beside thy silver-springing fountain, + In sight and hearing of thy father's cot, + These and the morning woods, the lonely mountain, + These are thy peace, although thou know'st it not. + Wander not yet where noon's unpitying glare + Beats down the toilers in the city bare; + Forsake not yet, not yet, the homely plot, + O Youth, beside thy silver-springing fountain. + + + + +{164} + +_Youth_ + + His song of dawn outsoars the joyful bird, + Swift on the weary road his footfall comes; + The dusty air that by his stride is stirred + Beats with a buoyant march of fairy drums. + "Awake, O Earth! thine ancient slumber break; + To the new day, O slumbrous Earth, awake!" + + Yet long ago that merry march began, + His feet are older than the path they tread; + His music is the morning-song of man, + His stride the stride of all the valiant dead; + His youngest hopes are memories, and his eyes + Deep with the old, old dream that never dies. + + + + +{165} + +_The Wanderer_ + + To Youth there comes a whisper out of the west: + "O loiterer, hasten where there waits for thee + A life to build, a love therein to nest, + And a man's work, serving the age to be." + + Peace, peace awhile! Before his tireless feet + Hill beyond hill the road in sunlight goes; + He breathes the breath of morning, clear and sweet, + And his eyes love the high eternal snows. + + + + +{166} + +_The Adventurers_ + + Over the downs in sunlight clear + Forth we went in the spring of the year: + Plunder of April's gold we sought, + Little of April's anger thought. + + Caught in a copse without defence + Low we crouched to the rain-squall dense: + Sure, if misery man can vex, + There it beat on our bended necks. + + Yet when again we wander on + Suddenly all that gloom is gone: + Under and over through the wood, + Life is astir, and life is good. + + Violets purple, violets white, + Delicate windflowers dancing light, + Primrose, mercury, moscatel, + Shimmer in diamonds round the dell. + + Squirrel is climbing swift and lithe, + Chiff-chaff whetting his airy scythe, + Woodpecker whirrs his rattling rap, + Ringdove flies with a sudden clap. + +{167} + + Rook is summoning rook to build, + Dunnock his beak with moss has filled, + Robin is bowing in coat-tails brown, + Tomtit chattering upside down. + + Well is it seen that every one + Laughs at the rain and loves the sun; + We too laughed with the wildwood crew, + Laughed till the sky once more was blue. + + Homeward over the downs we went + Soaked to the heart with sweet content; + April's anger is swift to fall, + April's wonder is worth it all. + + + + +{168} + +_To Clare_ + +(WITH A VOLUME OF STORIES FROM FROISSART) + + My Clare,-- + These tales were told, you know, + In French, five hundred years ago, + By old Sir John, whose heart's delight + Was lady sweet and valiant knight. + A hundred years went by, and then + A great lord told the tales again, + When bluff King Hal desired his folk + To read them in the tongue they spoke. + Last, I myself among them took + What I loved best and made this book. + Great, lesser, less--these writers three + Worked for the days they could not see, + And certes, in their work they knew + Nothing at all, dear child, of you. + Yet is this book your own in truth, + Because 'tis made for noble youth, + And every word that's living there + Must die when Clares are no more Clare. + + + + +{169} + +_The Return of Summer: An Eclogue_ + +Scene: ASHDOWN FOREST IN MAY + +Persons: H.--A POET; C.--HIS DAUGHTER + + H. Here then, if you insist, my daughter: still, + I must confess that I preferred the hill. + The warm scent of the pinewood seemed to me + The first true breath of summer; did you see + The waxen hurt-bells with their promised fruit + Already purple at the blossom's root, + And thick among the rusty bracken strown + Sunburnt anemones long overblown? + Summer is come at last! + + C. And that is why + Mine is a better place than yours to lie. + This dark old yew tree casts a fuller shade + Than any pine; the stream is simply made + For keeping bottles cool; and when we've dined + I could just wade a bit while you . . . reclined. + + H. Empty the basket then, without more words . . . + But I still wish we had not left the birds. + +{170} + + C. Father! you are perverse! Since when, I beg, + Have forest birds been tethered by the leg? + They're everywhere! What more can you desire? + The cuckoo shouts as though he'd never tire, + The nuthatch, knowing that of noise you're fond, + Keeps chucking stones along a frozen pond, + And busy gold-crest, somewhere out of sight, + Works at his saw with all his tiny might. + I do not count the ring-doves or the rooks, + We hear so much about them in the books + They're hardly real; but from where I sit + I see two chaffinches, a long-tailed tit, + A missel-thrush, a yaffle---- + + H. That will do: + I may have overlooked a bird or two. + Where are the biscuits? Are you getting cramp + Down by the water there--it must be damp? + + C. I'm only watching till your bottle's cool: + It lies so snug beneath this glassy pool, + Like a sunk battleship; and overhead + The water-boatmen get their daily bread + By rowing all day long, and far below + Two little eels go winding, winding slow . . . + Oh! there's a shark! + + H. A what? + + C. A miller's thumb. + Don't move, I'll tempt him with a tiny crumb. + + H. Be quick about it, please, and don't forget + I am at least as dry as he is wet. + + C. Oh, very well then, here's your drink. + +{171} + + H. That's good! + I feel much better now. + + C. I thought you would (_exit quietly_). + + H. How beautiful the world is when it breathes + The news of summer!--when the bronzy sheathes + Still hang about the beech-leaf, and the oaks + Are wearing still their dainty tasselled cloaks, + While on the hillside every hawthorn pale + Has taken now her balmy bridal veil, + And, down below, the drowsy murmuring stream + Lulls the warm noonday in an endless dream. + O little brook, far more thou art to me + Than all the pageantry of field and tree: + _Es singen wohl die Nixen_--ah! 'tis truth-- + _Tief unten ihren Reih'n_--but only Youth + Can hear them joyfully, as once I lay + And heard them singing of the world's highway, + Of wandering ended, and the maiden found, + And golden bread by magic mill-wheel ground. + Lost is the magic now, the wheel is still, + And long ago the maiden left the mill: + Yet once a year, one day, when summer dawns, + The old, old murmur haunts the river-lawns, + The fairies wake, the fairy song is sung, + And for an hour the wanderer's feet are young (_he dozes_). + + C. (returning) Father! I called you twice. + + H. I did not know: + Where have you been? + + C. Oh, down the stream. + +{172} + + H. Just so: + Well, I went _up_. + + C. I wish you'd been with me. + + H. When East is West, my daughter, that may be. + + + + +{173} + +_Dream-Market_ + +A MASQUE PRESENTED AT WILTON HOUSE, + +JULY 28, 1909 + + + _Scene_. A LAWN IN THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA + + _Enter FLORA, Lady of Summer, with her maidens, PHYLLIS + and AMARYLLIS. She takes her seat upon a bank, + playing with a basket of freshly gathered flowers, one + of which she presently holds up in her hand._ + + + FLORA. Ah! how I love a rose! But come, my girls, + Here's for your task: to-day you, Amaryllis, + Shall take the white, and, Phyllis, you the red. + Hold out your kirtles for them. White, red, white, + Red, red, and white again. . . . + Wonder you not + How the same sun can breed such different beauties? + [_She divides all her roses between them._ + Well, take them all, and go--scatter them wide + In gardens where men love me, and be sure + +{174} + + Where even one flower falls, or one soft petal, + Next year shall see a hundred. + [_As they turn to go, enter LUCIA in hunting dress, + with bow in hand and a hound by her side. FLORA + rises to meet her, and recalls her maidens._] + Stay! attend me. + + LUCIA. Greeting, fair ladies; you, I think, must be + Daughters of this green Earth, and one of you + The sweet Dame Flora. + + FLORA. Your true servant, madam. + But if my memory be not newly withered + I have not known the pleasure. . . . + + LUCIA. Yes, you have seen me-- + At least, you might have seen me; I am Lucia, + Lady of Moonlight, and I often hunt + These downs of yours with all my nightly pack + Of questing beams and velvet-footed shadows. + + FLORA. I fear at night. . . . + + LUCIA. Oh, yes! at night you are sleeping! + And I by day am always rather faint; + So we don't meet; but sometimes your good folk + Have torn my nets by raking in the water; + And though their neighbours laughed, there are worse ways + Of spending time, and far worse things to rake for + Than silver lights upon a crystal stream. + But come! My royal Sire, the Man in the Moon-- + _He_ has been here? + + FLORA. So many kings come here, + I can't be sure; I've heard the Man in the Moon + +{175} + + Did once come down and ask his way to Norwich. + But that was years agone--hundreds of years-- + It may not be the same--I do not know + You royal father's age. . . . + + LUCIA. His age? Oh surely! + He never _can_ be more than one month old. + + FLORA. Yet he's your father! + + LUCIA. Well, he is and is not; + [_Proudly_] I am the daughter of a million moons. + They month by month and year by circling year, + From their celestial palace looking down + On your day-wearied Earth, have soothed her sleep, + And rocked her tides, and made a magic world + For all her lovers and her nightingales. + You owe them much, my ancestors. No doubt, + At times they suffered under clouds; at times + They were eclipsed; yet in their brighter hours + They were illustrious! + + FLORA. And may I hope + Your present Sire, his present Serene Highness, + Is in his brighter hours to-day? + + LUCIA. Ah! no. + Be sure he is not--else I had not left + My cool, sweet garden of unfading stars + For the rank meadows of this sun-worn mould. + + FLORA. What _is_ your trouble, then? + + LUCIA. Although my father + Has been but ten days reigning, he is sad + With all the sadness of a phantom realm, + And all the sorrows of ten thousand years. + +{176} + + We in our Moonland have no life like yours, + No birth, no death: we live but in our dreams: + And when they are grown old--these mortal visions + Of an immortal sleep--we seem to lose them. + They are too strong for us, too self-sufficient + To live for us; they go their ways and leave us, + Like shadows grown substantial. + + FLORA. I have heard + Something on earth not unlike this complaint, + But can I help you? + + LUCIA. Lady, if you cannot, + No one can help. In Moonland there is famine, + We are losing all our dreams, and I come hither + To buy a new one for my father's house. + + FLORA. To buy a dream? + + LUCIA. Some little darling dream + That will be always with us, night and day, + Loving and teasing, sailing light of heart + Over our darkest deeps, reminding us + Of our lost childhood, playing our old games, + Singing our old songs, asking our old riddles, + Building our old hopes, and with our old gusto + Rehearsing for us in one endless act + The world past and the world to be. + + FLORA. Oh! now + I see your meaning. Yes, I have indeed + Plenty of such sweet dreams: _we_ call them children. + They are _our_ dreams too, and though they are born of us, + Truly in them we live. But, dearest lady, + We do not sell them. + +{177} + + LUCIA. Do you mean you will not? + Not one? Could you not _lend_ me one--just one? + + FLORA. Ah! but to lend what cannot be returned + Is merely giving--who can bring again + Into the empty nest those winged years? + Still, there are children here well worth your hopes, + And you shall venture: if there be among them + One that your heart desires, and she consent, + Take her and welcome--for the will of Love + Is the wind's will, and none may guess his going. + + LUCIA. O dearest Lady Flora! + + FLORA. Stay! they are here, + Mad as a dance of May-flies. + + [_The children run in dancing and singing._ + + Shall we sit + And watch these children? + Phyllis, bid them play, + And let them heed us no more than the trees + That girdle this green lawn with whispering beauty. + [_The children play and sing at their games, till at a + convenient moment the LADY FLORA holds up her hand._] + + FLORA. Now, Amaryllis, stay the rushing stream, + The meadows for this time have drunk enough. + [_To LUCIA._] And you, what think you, lady, of these maids? + Has their sweet foolish singing moved your heart + To choose among them? + + LUCIA. I have heard them gladly, + And if I could, would turn them all to elves, + That if they cannot live with me, at least + +{178} + + I might look down when our great galleon sails + Close over earth, and see them always here + Dancing upon the moonlit shores of night. + But how to choose!--and though they are young and fair + Their every grace foretells the fatal change, + The swift short bloom of girlhood, like a flower + Passing away, for ever passing away. + Have you not one with petals tenderer yet, + More deeply folded, further from the hour + When the bud dies into the mortal rose? + + FLORA [_pointing._] _There_ is my youngest blossom and my fairest, + But my most wilful too--you'll pluck her not + Without some aid of magic. + + LUCIA. Time has been + When I have known even your forest trees + Sway to a song of moonland. I will try it. + + [_She sings and dances a witching measure._] + + + SONG + + (_To an air by HENRY LAWES, published in 1652_) + + The flowers that in thy garden rise, + Fade and are gone when Summer flies, + And as their sweets by time decay, + So shall thy hopes be cast away. + + The Sun that gilds the creeping moss + Stayeth not Earth's eternal loss: + He is the lord of all that live, + Yet there is life he cannot give. + +{179} + + The stir of Morning's eager breath-- + Beautiful Eve's impassioned death-- + Thou lovest these, thou lovest well, + Yet of the Night thou canst not tell. + + In every land thy feet may tread, + Time like a veil is round thy head: + Only the land thou seek'st with me + Never hath been nor yet shall be. + + It is not far, it is not near, + Name it hath none that Earth can hear; + But there thy Soul shall build again + Memories long destroyed of men, + And Joy thereby shall like a river + Wander from deep to deep for ever. + + + [_When she has finished the child runs into her arms._] + + FLORA. Your spell has won her, and I marvel not: + She was but half our own. + [_To the Child_] Farewell, dear child, + 'Tis time to part, you with this lovely lady + To dance in silver halls, and gather stars + And be the dream you are: while we return + To the old toil and harvest of the Earth. + Farewell! and farewell all! + + ALL. Farewell! farewell! + + [_Exeunt omnes._ + + + + +{180} + +_The Cicalas: An Idyll_ + +_Scene_: AN ENGLISH GARDEN BY STARLIGHT + +_Persons_: A LADY AND A POET + + + THE POET + + Dimly I see your face: I hear your breath + Sigh faintly, as a flower might sigh in death + And when you whisper, you but stir the air + With a soft hush like summer's own despair. + + + THE LADY (_aloud_) + + O Night divine, O Darkness ever blest, + Give to our old sad Earth eternal rest. + Since from her heart all beauty ebbs away, + Let her no more endure the shame of day. + + + THE POET + + A thousand ages have not made less bright + The stars that in this fountain shine to-night: + Your eyes in shadow still betray the gleam + That every son of man desires in dream. + + +{181} + + THE LADY + + Yes, hearts will burn when all the stars are cold; + And Beauty lingers--but her tale is told: + Mankind has left her for a game of toys, + And fleets the golden hour with speed and noise. + + + THE POET + + Think you the human heart no longer feels + Because it loves the swift delight of wheels? + And is not Change our one true guide on earth, + The surest hand that leads us from our birth? + + + THE LADY + + Change were not always loss, if we could keep + Beneath all change a clear and windless deep: + But more and more the tides that through us roll + Disturb the very sea-bed of the soul. + + + THE POET + + The foam of transient passions cannot fret + The sea-bed of the race, profounder yet: + And there, where Greece and her foundations are, + Lies Beauty, built below the tide of war. + + + THE LADY + + So--to the desert, once in fifty years-- + Some poor mad poet sings, and no one hears: + But what belated race, in what far clime, + Keeps even a legend of Arcadian time? + + +{182} + + THE POET + + Not ours perhaps: a nation still so young, + So late in Rome's deserted orchard sprung, + Bears not as yet, but strikes a hopeful root + Till the soil yield its old Hesperian fruit. + + + THE LADY + + Is not the hour gone by? The mystic strain, + Degenerate once, may never spring again. + What long-forsaken gods shall we invoke + To grant such increase to our common oak? + + + THE POET + + Yet may the ilex, of more ancient birth, + More deeply planted in that genial earth, + From her Italian wildwood even now + Revert, and bear once more the golden bough. + + + THE LADY + + A poet's dream was never yet less great + Because it issued through the ivory gate! + Show me one leaf from that old wood divine, + And all your ardour, all your hopes are mine. + + + THE POET + + May Venus bend me to no harder task! + For--Pan be praised!--I hold the gift you ask. + The leaf, the legend, that your wish fulfils, + To-day he brought me from the Umbrian hills. + + +{183} + + THE LADY + + Your young Italian--yes! I saw you stand + And point his path across our well-walled land: + A sculptor's model, but alas! no god: + These narrow fields the goat-foot never trod! + + + THE POET + + Yet from his eyes the mirth a moment glanced + To which the streams of old Arcadia danced; + And on his tongue still lay the childish lore + Of that lost world for which you hope no more. + + + THE LADY + + Tell me!--from where I watched I saw his face, + And his hands moving with a rustic grace, + Caught too the alien sweetness of his speech, + But sound alone, not sense, my ears could reach. + + + THE POET + + He asked if we in England ever heard + The tiny beasts, half insect and half bird, + That neither eat nor sleep, but die content + When they in endless song their strength have spent. + + + THE LADY + + Cicalas! how the name enchants me back + To the grey olives and the dust-white track! + Was there a story then?--I have forgot, + Or else by chance my Umbrians told it not. + + +{184} + + THE POET + + Lover of music, you at least should know + That these were men in ages long ago,-- + Ere music was,--and then the Muses came, + And love of song took hold on them like flame. + + + THE LADY + + Yes, I remember now the voice that speaks-- + Most living still of all the deathless Greeks-- + Yet tell me--how they died divinely mad, + And of the Muses what reward they had. + + + THE POET + + They are reborn on earth, and from the first + They know not sleep, they hunger not nor thirst + Summer with glad Cicala's song they fill, + Then die, and go to haunt the Muses' Hill. + + + THE LADY + + They are reborn indeed! and rightly you + The far-heard echo of their music knew! + Pray now to Pan, since you too, it would seem, + Were there with Phaedrus, by Ilissus' stream. + + + THE POET + + Beloved Pan, and all ye gods whose grace + For ever haunts our short life's resting-place, + Outward and inward make me one true whole, + And grant me beauty in the inmost soul! + + +{185} + + THE LADY + + And thou, O Night, O starry Queen of Air, + Remember not my blind and faithless prayer! + Let me too live, let me too sing again, + Since Beauty wanders still the ways of men. + + + + +{186} + +_The Faun_ + + Yesterday I thought to roam + Idly through the fields of home, + And I came at morning's end + To our brook's familiar bend. + There I raised my eyes, and there, + Shining through an ampler air, + Folded in by hills of blue + Such as Wessex never knew, + Changed as in a waking dream + Flowed the well-remembered stream. + + Now a line of wattled pale + Fenced the downland from the vale, + Now the sedge was set with reeds + Fitter for Arcadian meads, + And where I was wont to find + Only things of timid kind, + Now the Genius of the pool + Mocked me from his corner cool. + Eyes he had with malice quick, + Tufted hair and ears a-prick, + And, above a tiny chin, + Lips with laughter wide a-grin. + +{187} + + Therewithal a shaggy flank + In the crystal clear he sank, + And beneath the unruffled tide + A little pair of hooves I spied. + + Yet though plainly there he stood, + Creature of the wave and wood, + Under his satyric grace + Something manlike I could trace, + And the eyes that mocked me there + Like a gleam of memory were. + + "So," said I at last to him, + Frowning from the river's brim, + "This is where you come to play, + Heedless of the time of day." + + "Nay," replied the youthful god, + Leaning on the flowery sod, + "Here there are no clocks, and so + Time can neither come nor go." + + "Little goat," said I, "you're late, + And your dinner will not wait: + If to-day you wish to eat, + Trust me, you must find your feet." + + "Father," said the little goat, + "Do you know that I can float? + +{188} + + Do you know that I can dive + As deep as any duck alive? + Would you like to see me drop + Out of yonder willow's top?" + + Sternly I replied again, + "You may spare your boasting vain; + All that you can do I did + When I was myself a kid." + Laughter followed such as pealed + Through the first unfurrowed field. + "Then what mother says is true, + And your hoof is cloven too!" + + Ah!--but that irreverent mirth, + Learnt of the primeval earth, + Surely was with magic fraught + That upon my pulses wrought: + I too felt the air of June + Humming with a merry tune, + I too reckoned, like a boy, + Less of Time and more of Joy: + Till, as homeward I was wending, + I perceived my back unbending, + And before the mile was done + Ran beside my truant son. + + + + +{189} + +_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. + +{190} + + 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 master's 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." + +{191} + + 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. + + + + +{192} + +_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. + +{193} + + "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. + + + + +{194} + +_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! + +{195} + + 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!_ + + + + +{196} + +_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. + +{197} + + 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. + + + + +{198} + +_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. + + + + +{199} + +_Imogien_ + +(A LADY OF TENDER AGE) + + Ladies, where were your bright eyes glancing, + Where were they glancing yesternight? + 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 playtime + Rose and fell with a rhythmic lift: + Music set her adrift, adrift, + Music eddying towards the day + Swept her along as brooks in Maytime + Carry the freshly falling May. + + Ladies, life is a changing measure, + Youth is a lilt that endeth soon; + +{200} + + 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. + + + + +{201} + +_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. + + + + +{202} + +_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?" + +{203} + + 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. + + + + +{204} + +_Rilloby-Rill_ + + Grasshoppers four a-fiddling went, + Heigh-ho! never be still! + They earned but little towards their rent + But all day long with their elbows bent + They fiddled a tune called Rilloby-rilloby, + Fiddled a tune called Rilloby-rill. + + Grasshoppers soon on Fairies came, + Heigh-ho! never be still! + Fairies asked with a manner of blame, + "Where do you come from, what is your name? + What do you want with your Rilloby-rilloby, + What do you want with your Rilloby-rill?" + + "Madam, you see before you stand, + Heigh-ho! never be still! + The Old Original Favourite Grand + Grasshopper's Green Herbarian Band, + And the tune we play is Rilloby-rilloby, + Madam, the tune is Rilloby-rill." + +{205} + + Fairies hadn't a word to say, + Heigh-ho! never be still! + Fairies seldom are sweet by day, + But the Grasshoppers merrily fiddled away, + O but they played with a willoby-rilloby, + O but they played with a willoby-will! + + Fairies slumber and sulk at noon, + Heigh-ho! never be still! + But at last the kind old motherly moon + Brought them dew in a silver spoon, + And they turned to ask for Rilloby-rilloby, + One more round of Rilloby-rill. + + Ah! but nobody now replied, + Heigh-ho! never be still! + When day went down the music died, + Grasshoppers four lay side by side, + And there was an end of their Rilloby-rilloby, + There was an end of their Rilloby-rill. + + + + +{206} + +_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. + +{207} + + 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? + + + + + + + +{208} + +_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. + + + + +{209} + +_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. + + + + +{210} + +_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; + +{211} + + 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 + Is 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. + + + + +{212} + +_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. + +{213} + +_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: + +{214} + + 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, + +{215} + +_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. + + + + +{216} + +_Epistle_ + +TO COLONEL FRANCIS EDWARD YOUNGHUSBAND + + Across the Western World, the Arabian Sea, + The Hundred Kingdoms and the Rivers Three, + Beyond the rampart of Himalayan snows, + And up the road that only Rumour knows, + Unchecked, old friend, from Devon to Thibet, + Friendship and Memory dog your footsteps yet. + + Let not the scornful ask me what avails + So small a pack to follow mighty trails: + Long since I saw what difference must be + Between a stream like you, a ditch like me. + This drains a garden and a homely field + Which scarce at times a living current yield; + The other from the high lands of his birth + Plunges through rocks and spurns the pastoral earth, + Then settling silent to his deeper course + Draws in his fellows to augment his force, + Becomes a name, and broadening as he goes, + Gives power and purity where'er he flows, + Till, great enough for any commerce grown, + He links all nations while he serves his own. + +{217} + + Soldier, explorer, statesman, what in truth + Have you in common with homekeeping youth? + "Youth" comes your answer like an echo faint; + And youth it was that made us first acquaint. + Do you remember when the Downs were white + With the March dust from highways glaring bright, + How you and I, like yachts that toss the foam, + From Penpole Fields came stride and stride for home? + One grimly leading, one intent to pass, + Mile after mile we measured road and grass, + Twin silent shadows, till the hour was done, + The shadows parted and the stouter won. + Since then I know one thing beyond appeal-- + How runs from stem to stern a trimbuilt keel. + Another day--but that's not mine to tell, + The man in front does not observe so well; + Though, spite of all these five-and-twenty years, + As clear as life our schoolday scene appears. + The guarded course, the barriers and the rope; + The runners, stripped of all but shivering hope; + The starter's good grey head; the sudden hush; + The stern white line; the half-unconscious rush; + The deadly bend, the pivot of our fate; + The rope again; the long green level straight; + The lane of heads, the cheering half unheard; + The dying spurt, the tape, the judge's word. + + You, too, I doubt not, from your Lama's hall + Can see the Stand above the worn old wall, + +{218} + + Where then they clamoured as our race we sped, + Where now they number our heroic dead.* + As clear as life you, too, can hear the sound + Of voices once for all by "lock-up" bound, + And see the flash of eyes still nobly bright + But in the "Bigside scrimmage" lost to sight. + + Old loves, old rivalries, old happy times, + These well may move your memory and my rhymes; + These are the Past; but there is that, my friend, + Between us two, that has nor time nor end. + Though wide apart the lines our fate has traced + Since those far shadows of our boyhood raced, + In the dim region all men must explore-- + The mind's Thibet, where none has gone before-- + Rounding some shoulder of the lonely trail + We met once more, and raised a lusty hail. + + "Forward!" cried one, "for us no beaten track, + No city continuing, no turning back: + The past we love not for its being past, + But for its hope and ardour forward cast: + The victories of our youth we count for gain + Only because they steeled our hearts to pain, + And hold no longer even Clifton great + Save as she schooled our wills to serve the State. + +{219} + + Nay, England's self, whose thousand-year-old name + Burns in our blood like ever-smouldering flame, + Whose Titan shoulders as the world are wide + And her great pulses like the Ocean tide, + Lives but to bear the hopes we shall not see-- + Dear mortal Mother of the race to be." + + Thereto you answered, "Forward! in God's name; + I own no lesser law, no narrower claim. + A freeman's Reason well might think it scorn + To toil for those who may be never born, + But for some Cause not wholly out of ken, + Some all-directing Will that works with men, + Some Universal under which may fall + The minor premiss of our effort small; + In Whose unending purpose, though we cease, + We find our impulse and our only peace." + + So passed our greeting, till we turned once more, + I to my desk and you to rule Indore. + To meet again--ah! when? Yet once we met, + And to one dawn our faces still are set. + + EXETER, + _September_ 10, 1904. + + +* In the school quadrangle at Clifton, the site from which, upon +occasion, the grand stand used to overlook the Close, is now occupied +by the Memorial to those Cliftonians who fell in the South African War. + + + + +{220} + +_An Essay on Criticism_ + + 'Tis hard to say if greater waste of time + Is seen in writing or in reading rhyme; + But, of the two, less dangerous it appears + To tire our own than poison others' ears. + Time was, the owner of a peevish tongue, + The pebble of his wrath unheeding flung, + Saw the faint ripples touch the shore and cease, + And in the duckpond all again was peace. + But since that Science on our eyes hath laid + The wondrous clay from her own spittle made, + We see the widening ripples pass beyond, + The pond becomes the world, the world a pond, + All ether trembles when the pebble falls, + And a light word may ring in starry halls. + When first on earth the swift iambic ran + Men here and there were found but nowhere Man. + From whencesoe'er their origin they drew, + Each on its separate soil the species grew, + And by selection, natural or not, + Evolved a fond belief in one small spot. + The Greek himself, with all his wisdom, took + For the wide world his bright Aegean nook, +{221} + + For fatherland, a town, for public, all + Who at one time could hear the herald bawl: + For him barbarians beyond his gate + Were lower beings, of a different date; + He never thought on such to spend his rhymes, + And if he did, they never read the _Times_. + Now all is changed, on this side and on that, + The Herald's learned to print and pass the hat; + His tone is so much raised that, far or near, + All with a sou to spend his news may hear,-- + And who but, far or near, the sou affords + To learn the worst of foreigners and lords! + So comes the Pressman's heaven on earth, wherein + One touch of hatred proves the whole world kin-- + "Our rulers are the best, and theirs the worst, + Our cause is always just and theirs accurst, + Our troops are heroes, hirelings theirs or slaves, + Our diplomats but children, theirs but knaves, + Our Press for independence justly prized, + Theirs bought or blind, inspired or subsidized. + For the world's progress what was ever made + Like to our tongue, our Empire and our trade?" + So chant the nations, till at last you'd think + Men could no nearer howl to folly's brink; + Yet some in England lately won renown + By howling word for word, but upside down. + + But where, you cry, could poets find a place + (If poets we possessed) in this disgrace? +{222} + + Mails will be mails, Reviews must be reviews, + But why the Critic with the Bard confuse? + Alas! Apollo, it must be confessed + Has lately gone the way of all the rest. + No more alone upon the far-off hills + With song serene the wilderness he fills, + But in the forum now his art employs + And what he lacks in knowledge gives in noise. + At first, ere he began to feel his feet, + He begged a corner in the hindmost sheet, + Concealed with Answers and Acrostics lay, + And held aloof from Questions of the Day. + But now, grown bold, he dashes to the front, + Among the leaders bears the battle's brunt, + Takes steel in hand, and cheaply unafraid + Spurs a lame Pegasus on Jameson's Raid, + Or pipes the fleet in melodrama's tones + To ram the Damned on their Infernal Thrones. + + Sure, Scriblerus himself could scarce have guessed + The Art of Sinking might be further pressed: + But while these errors almost tragic loom + The Indian Drummer has but raised a boom. + "So well I love my country that the man + Who serves her can but serve her on my plan; + Be slim, be stalky, leave your Public Schools + To muffs like Bobs and other flannelled fools; + The lordliest life (since Buller made such hay) + Is killing men two thousand yards away; + +{223} + + You shoot the pheasant, but it costs too much + And does not tend to decimate the Dutch; + Your duty plainly then before you stands, + Conscription is the law for seagirt lands; + Prate not of freedom! Since I learned to shoot + I itch to use my ammunition boot." + + An odd way this, we thought, to criticize-- + This barrackyard "Attention! d---- your eyes!" + But England smiled and lightly pardoned him, + For was he not her Mowgli and her Kim? + But now the neighbourhood remonstrance roars, + He's naughty still, and naughty out of doors. + 'Tis well enough that he should tell Mamma + Her sons are tired of being what they are, + But to give friendly bears, expecting buns, + A paper full of stale unwholesome Huns-- + One might be led to think, from all this work, + That little master's growing quite a Turk. + + O Rudyard, Rudyard, in our hours of ease + (Before the war) you were not hard to please: + You loved a regiment whether fore or aft, + You loved a subaltern, however daft, + You loved the very dregs of barrack life, + The amorous colonel and the sergeant's wife. + You sang the land where dawn across the Bay + Comes up to waken queens in Mandalay, + The land where comrades sleep by Cabul ford, + And Valour, brown or white, is Borderlord, +{224} + + The secret Jungle-life of child and beast, + And all the magic of the dreaming East. + These, these we loved with you, and loved still more + The Seven Seas that break on Britain's shore, + The winds that know her labour and her pride, + And the Long Trail whereon our fathers died. + + In that Day's Work be sure you gained, my friend, + If not the critic's name, at least his end; + Your song and story might have roused a slave + To see life bodily and see it brave. + With voice so genial and so long of reach + To your Own People you the Law could preach, + And even now and then without offence + To Lesser Breeds expose their lack of sense. + Return, return! and let us hear again + The ringing engines and the deep-sea rain, + The roaring chanty of the shore-wind's verse, + Too bluff to bicker and too strong to curse. + Let us again with hearts serene behold + The coastwise beacons that we knew of old; + So shall you guide us when the stars are veiled, + And stand among the Lights that never Failed. + + + + +{225} + +_Le Byron de Nos Jours; or, The + English Bar and Cross Reviewers._ + + Still must I hear?--while Austin prints his verse + And Satan's sorrows fill Corelli's purse, + Must I not write lest haply some K.C. + To flatter Tennyson should sneer at me? + Or must the Angels of the Darker Ink + No longer tell the public what to think-- + Must lectures and reviewing all be stayed + Until they're licensed by the Board of Trade? + Prepare for rhyme--I'll risk it--bite or bark + I'll stop the press for neither Gosse nor Clarke. + + O sport most noble, when two cocks engage + With equal blindness and with equal rage! + When each, intent to pick the other's eye, + Sees not the feathers from himself that fly, + And, fired to scorch his rival's every bone, + Ignores the inward heat that grills his own; + Until self-plucked, self-spitted and self-roast, + Each to the other serves himself on toast. + + But stay, but stay, you've pitched the key, my Muse, + A semi-tone too low for great Reviews; + +{226} + + Such penny whistling suits the cockpit's hum, + But here's a scene deserves the biggest drum. + + Behold where high above the clamorous town + The vast Cathedral-towers in peace look down: + Hark to the entering crowd's incessant tread-- + They bring their homage to the mighty dead. + Who in silk gown and fullest-bottomed wig + Approaches yonder, with emotion big? + Room for Sir Edward! now we shall be told + Which shrines are tin, which silver and which gold. + 'Tis done! and now by life-long habit bound + He turns to prosecute the crowd around; + Indicts and pleads, sums up the _pro_ and _con_, + The verdict finds and puts the black cap on. + + "Prisoners, attend! of Queen Victoria's day + I am the Glory, you are the Decay. + You cannot think like Tennyson deceased, + You do not sing like Browning in the least. + Of Tennyson I sanction every word, + Browning I cut to something like one-third: + Though, mind you this, immoral he is not, + Still quite two-thirds I hope will be forgot. + He was to poetry a Tom Carlyle-- + And that reminds me, Thomas too was vile. + He wrote a life or two, but parts, I'm sure, + Compared with other parts are very poor. + +{227} + + Now Dickens--most extraordinary--dealt + In fiction with what people really felt. + That proves his genius. Thackeray again + Is so unequal as to cause me pain. + And last of all, with History to conclude, + I've read Macaulay and I've heard of Froude. + That list, with all deductions, Gentlemen, + Will show that 'now' is not the same as 'then'. + If you believe the plaintiff you'll declare + That English writers are not what they were." + + Down sits Sir Edward with a glowing breast, + And some applause is instantly suppressed. + Now up the nave of that majestic church + A quick uncertain step is heard to lurch. + Who is it? no one knows; but by his mien + He's the head verger, if he's not the Dean. + + "What fellow's this that dares to treat us so? + This is no place for lawyers, out you go! + He is a brawler, Sir, who here presumes + To move our laurels and arrange our tombs. + Suppose that Meredith or Stephen said + (Or do you think those gentlemen are dead?) + This age has borne no advocates of rank, + Would not your face in turn be rather blank? + Come now, I beg you, go without a fuss, + And leave these high and heavenly things to us; + You may perhaps be some one, at the Bar, + But you are not in Orders, and we are." + +{228} + + Sir Edward turns to go, but as he wends, + One swift irrelevant retort he sends. + "Your logic and your taste I both disdain, + You've quoted wrong from Jonson and Montaigne." + The shaft goes home, and somewhere in the rear + Birrell in smallest print is heard to cheer. + + And yet--and yet--conviction's not complete: + There was a time when Milton walked the street, + And Shakespeare singing in a tavern dark + Would not have much impressed Sir Edward Clarke. + To be alive--ay! there's the damning thing, + For who will buy a bird that's on the wing? + Catch, kill and stuff the creature, once for all, + And he may yet adorn Sir Edward's hall; + But while he's free to go his own wild way + He's not so safe as birds of yesterday. + + In fine, if I must choose--although I see + That both are wrong--Great Gosse! I'd rather be + A critic suckled in an age outworn + Than a blind horse that starves knee-deep in corn. + + +NOTE.--The foregoing parody, which first appeared in _The Monthly +Review_ some years ago, was an attempt to sum up and commemorate a +literary discussion of the day. On Saturday night, November 15, 1902, +at the Working Men's College, Great Ormond Street, Sir Edward Clarke, +K.C., delivered an address on "The Glory and Decay of English +Literature in the Reign of Victoria." 'Sir Edward Clarke, who mentioned +incidentally that he lectured at the college forty years ago, said that +there was a rise from the {229} beginning of that reign to the period +1850-60, and that from the latter date there had been a very strange +and lamentable decline to the end of the reign, would he thought, be +amply demonstrated. A glorious galaxy of talent adorned the years +1850-60. There were two great poets, two great novelists, and two +great historians. The two great poets were Alfred Tennyson and Robert +Browning. The first named would always stand at the head of the +literature of the Victorian period. There was no poet in the whole +course of our history whose works were more likely to live as a +complete whole than he, and there was not a line which his friends +would wish to see blotted out. Robert Browning was a poet of strange +inequality and of extraordinary and fantastic methods in his +composition. However much one could enjoy some of his works, one could +only hope that two-thirds of them would be as promptly as possible +forgotten--not, however, from any moral objection to what he wrote. He +was the Carlyle of poetry. By his Lives of Schiller and Sterling, +Carlyle showed that he _could_ write beautiful and pure English, but +that he should descend to the style of some of his later works was a +melancholy example of misdirected energy. . . . Charles Dickens was +perhaps the most extraordinary genius of those who had endeavoured to +deal with fiction as illustrative of the actual experiences of life. +With Dickens there stood the great figure of Thackeray, who had left a +great collection of books, very unequal in their quality, but +containing amongst them some of the finest things ever written in the +English tongue. The two great historians were Macaulay and Froude. +To-day we had no great novelist. Would anyone suggest we had a poet? +(Laughter.) After the year 1860 there were two great names in +poetry--the two Rossettis. There had been no book produced in the last +ten years which could compete with any one of the books produced from +1850 to 1860.' + +To this Mr. Edmund Gosse replied a week later at the Dinner of the +Encyclopaedia Britannica. He reminded his audience that even the most +perspicuous people in past times had made the grossest blunders when +they judged their own age. Let them remember the insensibility of +Montaigne to the merits of all his contemporaries. In the next age, +and in their own country, Ben Jonson took occasion at the very moment +when Shakespeare was producing his masterpieces, to lament the total +decay of poetry in England. We could not see the trees for the wood +behind them, but we ought to be confident they were growing all the +time. + +{230} + +Mr. Gosse also wrote to the _Times_ on behalf of "the Profession" of +Letters, reminding Sir Edward of the names of Swinburne and William +Morris, Hardy and Stevenson, Creighton and Gardiner, and asking what +would be the feelings of the learned gentleman if Meredith or Leslie +Stephen (of whose existence he was perhaps unaware) should put the +question in public, "Would anyone suggest we have an Advocate?" + +Sir Edward, in his rejoinder, had no difficulty in showing that Mr. +Gosse's citation of Montaigne and Jonson was not verbally exact. Mr. +Birrell added some comments which were distinguished by being printed +in type of a markedly different size. + +To the author of these lines, the controversy appears so typical and so +likely to arise again, that he desires to record, in however slight a +form, his recollection of it, and his own personal bias, which is in no +degree lessened by reconsideration after ten years. + + + + +{231} + +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 Temeraire_.--The last two 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 _Temeraire_ 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. For an account of Cheeks +the Marine see Marryat's _Peter Simple_. + +_Vae 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. {232} 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_.--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 over sea; + 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. + +_Srahmandazi_.--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. The song-net, as described by her, +resembles a long piece of fishing-net folded, and is carried by the +Songman over his shoulder. When opened and laid before an audience, it +is seen to contain "tokens"--such as a leopard's paw, a child's hair, a +necklet, or a dried fish--sewn firmly to the meshes of the net. These +form a kind of symbolical index to the Songman's repertory: the +audience make their choice by laying a hand upon any token which +appears desirable. The last of the tokens is that which represents the +Song of Dying or Song of Srahmandazi. It is a shapeless piece of any +substance, and is recognized only by its position in the net. The +song, being unintelligible to the living, is never asked for until the +moment of death. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems: New and Old, by Henry Newbolt + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS: NEW AND OLD *** + +***** This file should be named 24405.txt or 24405.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/4/0/24405/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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