"Therefore the days are coming when thou shalt burnWith passion whitely hot;Rest shall be rest no more; thy feet shall spurnAll that thy hand hath got;And One that is stronger shall gird thee, and lead thee swiftlyWhither, O heart of Youth, thou wouldest not."
And the School passed; and I saw the living and deadSet 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 themLightly as drifted leaves on an endless plain.
The Echo
Of A Ballad Sung By H. Plunket Greene To His Old School
Twice three hundred boys were we,Long ago, long ago,Where the Downs look out to the Severn Sea.Clifton for aye!We held by the game and hailed the team,For many could play where few could dream.City of Song shall stand alway.
Some were for profit and some for pride,Long ago, long ago,Some for the flag they lived and died.Clifton for aye!The work of the world must still be done,And minds are many though truth be one.City of Song shall stand alway.
But a lad there was to his fellows sang,Long ago, long ago,And soon the world to his music rang.Clifton for aye!Follow your Captains, crown your Kings,But what will ye give to the lad that sings?City of Song shall stand alway.
For the voice ye hear is the voice of home,Long ago, long ago,And the voice of Youth with the world to roam.Clifton for aye!The voice of passion and human tears,And the voice of the vision that lights the years.City of Song shall stand alway.
The Best School of All
It's good to see the school we knew,The land of youth and dream.To greet again the rule we knewBefore 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 daysAt the best school of all.
The stars and sounding vanitiesThat half the crowd bewitch,What are they but inanitiesTo him that treads the pitch?And where's the welth I'm wondering,Could buy the cheers that rollWhen the last charge goes thunderingTowards the twilight goal?
Then men that tanned the hide of us,Our daily foes and friends,They shall not lose their pride of us,Howe'er the journey ends.Their voice to us who sing of it,No more its message bears,But the round world shall ring of it,And all we are be theirs.
To speak of fame a venture is,There's little here can bide,But we may face the centuries,And dare the deepending tide:for though the dust that's part of us,To dust again be gone,Yet here shall beat the heart of us—-The school we handed on!
We'll honour yet the school we knew,The best school of all:We'll honour yet the rule we knew,Till the last bell call.For working days or holidays,And glad or melancholy days,They were great days and jolly daysAt the best school of all.
England
Praise thou with praise unending,The Master of the Wine;To all their portions sendingHimself he mingled thine:
The sea-born flush of morning,The sea-born hush of night,The East wind comfort scorning,And the North wind driving right:
The world for gain and giving,The game for man and boy,The life that joys in living,The faith that lives in joy.
Victoria Regina
(June 21st, 1897*)
A thousand years by sea and landOur race hath served the island kings,But not by custom's dull commandTo-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 earthOr give her hopes beyond our own:
But stayed on faith more sternly provedAnd pride than ours more pure and deep,She loves the land our fathers lovedAnd keeps the fame our sons shall keep.
* These lines, with music by Dr. Lloyd, formed part of the Cycle of Song offered to Queen Victoria, of blessed and glorious memory, in celebration of her second Jubilee.
The King Of England
(June 24th, 1902)
In that eclipse of noon when joy was hushedLike the bird's song beneath unnatural night,And Terror's footfall in the darkness crushedThe 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 renownAnd silent-throbbing drumsI saw the King of England, hale and fair,Ride out with a great train through London town.
Unarmed he rode, but in his ruddy shieldThe lions bore the dint of many a lance,And up and down his mantle's azure fieldWere strewn the lilies plucked in famous France.Before him went with banner floating wideThe yeoman breed that served his honour best,And mixed with these his knights of noble blood;But in the place of prideHis admirals in billowy lines abreastConvoyed him close like galleons on the flood.
Full of a strength unbroken showed his faceAnd his brow calm with youth's unclouded dawn,But round his lips were lines of tenderer graceSuch as no hand but Time's hath ever drawn.Surely he knew his glory had no partIn dull decay, nor unto Death must bend,Yet surely too of lengthening shadows dreamedWith 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 hailSons of thy dust that shall inherit thee:O King of men that die, though we must failThy 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 downIn our dear native earth,Full sure the King of England, while we sleep,For ever rides abroad, through London town.
The Nile
Out of the unknown South,Through the dark lands of drouth,Far wanders ancient Nile in slumber gliding:Clear-mirrored in his dreamThe deeds that haunt his streamFlash out and fade like stars in midnight sliding.Long since, before the life of manRose from among the lives that creep,With Time's own tide beganThat still mysterious sleep,Only to cease when Time shall reach the eternal deep.
From out his vision vastThe early gods have passed,They waned and perished with the faith that made them;The long phantasmal lineOf Pharaohs crowned divineAre dust among the dust that once obeyed them.Their land is one mute burial mound,Save when across the drifted yearsSome chant of hollow sound,Some triumph blent with tears,From Memnon's lips at dawn wakens the desert meres.
O Nile, and can it beNo memory dwells with theeOf 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 mightThat cleft with passionate speedAboukir's tranquil night,And shattered in mid-swoop the great world-eagle's flight.
Yet have there been on earthSpirits 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 riseAbove our twilight's rim,Until the immortal dawn shall make all glories dim.
For this man was not greatBy gold or kingly state,Or the bright sword, or knowledge of earth's wonder;But more than all his raceHe saw life face to face,And heard the still small voice above the thunder.O river, while thy waters rollBy yonder vast deserted tomb,There, where so clear a soulSo shone through gathering doom,Thou and thy land shall keep the tale of lost Khartoum.
Sráhmandázi*
Deep embowered beside the forest river,Where the flame of sunset only falls,Lapped in silence lies the House of Dying,House of them to whom the twilight calls.
There within when day was near to ending,By her lord a woman young and strong,By his chief a songman old and strickenWatched 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-heartedMarches down the sky to vanish soon,At the self-same hour in SráhmandáziRises pallid like the rainy moon.
"There he sees the heroes by their river,Where the great fish daily upward swim;Yet they are but shadows hunting shadows,Phantom fish in waters drear and dim.
"There he sees the kings among their headmen,Women weaving, children playing games;Yet they are but shadows ruling shadows,Phantom folk with dim forgotten names.
"Bid farewell to all that most thou lovest,Tell thy heart thy living life is done;All the days and deeds of SráhmandáziAre not worth an hour of yonder sun.
Dreamily the chief from out the songnetDrew 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 togetherKeep their troth and find the twilight fair.
"Thou art still a king, and at thy passingBy thy latest word must all abide:If thou willest, here am I, thy songman;If thou lovest, here is she, thy bride."
Hushed and dreamy lay the House of Dying,Dreamily the sunlight upward failed,Dreamily the chief on eyes that loved himLooked 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 SráhmandáziAre not worth an hour of yonder sun."
Yet, when there within the House of DyingThe 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 forestSang of Srahmandazi all night through,"Lovely be thy name, O Land of shadows,Land of meeting, Land of all the true!"
* This ballad is founded on materials given to the author by the late Miss Mary Kingsley on her return from her last visit to the Bantu peoples of West Africa.
Outward Bound
Dear Earth, near Earth, the clay that made us men,The land we sowed,The hearth that glowed—-O Mother, must we bid farewell to thee?Fast dawns the last dawn, and what shall comfort thenThe lonely hearts that roam the outer sea?
Gray wakes the daybreak, the shivering sails are set,To misty deepsThe channel sweeps—-O Mother, think on us who think on thee!Earth-home, birth-home, with love remember yetThe sons in exile on the eternal sea.
Hope The Hornblower
"Hark ye, hark to the winding horn;Sluggards, awake, and front the morn!Hark ye, hark to the winding horn;The sun's on meadow and mill.Follow me, hearts that love the chase;Follow me, feet that keep the pace:Stirrup to stirrup we ride, we ride,We ride by moor and hill."
Huntsman, huntsman, whither away?What is the quarry afoot to-day?Huntsman, huntsman, whither away,And what the game ye kill?Is it the deer, that men may dine?Is it the wolf that tears the kine?What is the race ye ride, ye ride,Ye ride by moor and hill?
"Ask not yet till the day be deadWhat is the game that's forward fled,Ask not yet till the day be deadThe game we follow still.An echo it may be, floating past;A shadow it may be, fading fast:Shadow or echo, we ride, we ride,We ride by moor and hill"
O Pulchritudo
O Saint whose thousand shrines our feet have trodAnd 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 onTill 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 onTill we thy pilgrims from the road are gone.
In July
His beauty bore no token,No sign our gladness shook;With tender strength unbrokenThe hand of Life he took:But the summer flowers were falling,Falling and fading away,And mother birds were calling,Crying and callingFor their loves that would not stay.
He knew not Autumn's chillness,Nor Winter's wind nor Spring's.He lived with Summer's stillnessAnd sun and sunlit things:But when the dusk was fallingHe went the shadowy way,And one more heart is calling,Crying and callingFor the love that would not stay.
From Generation To Generation
O Son of mine, when dusk shall find thee bendingBetween a gravestone and a cradle's head—-Between the love whose name is loss unendingAnd the young love whose thoughts are liker dread,—-Thou too shalt groan at heart that all thy spendingCannot repay the dead, the hungry dead.
When I Remember
When I remember that the day will comeFor this our love to quit his land of birth,And bid farewell to all the ways of earthWith 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 worthWhen 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 faceAnd deep communion of thine inmost kiss.
Rondel*
Though I wander far-off ways,Dearest, never doubt thou me:
Mine is not the love that strays,Though I wander far-off ways:
Faithfully for all my daysI have vowed myself to thee:Though I wander far-off ways,Dearest, never doubt thou me.
* This and the two following pieces are from the French of Wenceslas, Duke of Brabant and Luxembourg, who died in 1384.
Rondel
Long ago to thee I gaveBody, soul, and all I have—-Nothing in the world I keep:
All that in return I craveIs that thou accept the slaveLong 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 gaveBody, soul, and all I have—-Nothing in the world I keep.
Balade
I cannot tell, of twain beneath this bond,Which one in grief the other goes beyond,—-Narcissus, who to end the pain he boreDied of the love that could not help him more;Or I, that pine because I cannot seeThe lady who is queen and love to me.
Nay—for Narcissus, in the forest pondSeeing 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 moreAll day remembered in my hope shall beThe lady who is queen and love to me.
The Last Word
Before the April night was lateA 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 lateSir Alain rode from the castle gate.
He called his men-at-arms by name,But one there was uncalled that came:He bade his troop behind him ride,But there was one that rode beside.
"Why will you spur so fast to die?Be wiser ere the night go by.A message late is a message lost;For all your haste the foe had crossed.
"Are men such small unmeaning thingsTo 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 aboveRustled the woodland homes of love:Softly the April air belowCarried the dream of buds that blow.
"Is he that bears a warrior's fameTo shun the pointless stroke of shame?Will he that propped a trembling throneNot 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 eyesThe East like a great chancel rise,And deep through all his senses drawn,Received the sacred wine of dawn.
He set his face to the stream below,He drew his axe from the saddle bow:"Farewell, Messire, the night is sped;There lies the ford, when all is said"
The Viking's Song
When I thy lover firstShook out my canvas freeAnd like a pirate burstInto that dreaming sea,The land knew no such thirstAs then tormented me.
Now when at eve returnedI near that shore divine,Where once but watch-fires burnedI see thy beacon shine,And know the land hath learnedDesire that welcomes mine.
The Sufi In The City
When late I watched the arrows of the sleetAgainst the windows of the Tavern beat,I heard a Rose that murmured from her Pot:"Why trudge thy fellows yonder in the Street?
"Before the phantom of False Morning dies,Choked in the bitter Net that binds the skies,Their feet, bemired with Yesterday, set outFor the dark alleys where To-morrow lies.
"Think you, when all their petals they have bruised,And all the fragrances of Life confused,That Night with sweeter rest will comfort theseThan us, who still within the Garden mused?
"Think you the Gold they fight for all day longIs worth the frugal Peace their clamours wrong?Their Titles, and the Name they toil to build—-Will they outlast the echoes of our Song?"
O Sons of Omar, what shall be the closeSeek not to know, for no man living knows:But while within your hands the Wine is setDrink ye—to Omar and the Dreaming Rose!
Yattendon
Among the woods and tillageThat fringe the topmost downs,All lonely lies the village,Far off from seas and towns.Yet when her own folk slumberedI heard within her streetMurmur of men unnumberedAnd march of myriad feet.
For all she lies so lonely,Far off from towns and seas,The village holds not onlyThe roofs beneath her trees:While Life is sweet and tragicAnd Death is veiled and dumb,Hither, by singer's magic,The pilgrim world must come.
Among The Tombs
She is a lady fair and wise,Her heart her counsel keeps,And well she knows of time that fliesAnd tide that onward sweeps;But still she sits with restless eyesWhere Memory sleeps—-Where Memory sleeps.
Ye that have heard the whispering deadIn every wind that creeps,Or felt the stir that strains the leadBeneath the mounded heaps,Tread softly, ah! more softly treadWhere Memory sleeps—-Where Memory sleeps.
A Sower
With sanguine looksAnd rolling walkAmong the rooksHe loved to stalk,
While on the landWith gusty laughFrom a full handHe scattered chaff.
Now that withinHis spirit sleepsA harvest thinThe sickle reaps;
But the dumb fieldsDesire his tread,And no earth yieldsA wheat more red.
A Song Of Exmoor
The Forest above and the Combe below,On a bright September morn!He's the soul of a clod who thanks not GodThat ever his body was born!So hurry along, the stag's afoot,The Master's up and away!Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it throughFrom Bratton to Porlock Bay!
So hurry along, the stag's afoot,The Master's up and away!Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it throughFrom 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 rideBefore he leaves the ling!
Here comes Antony bringing the pack,Steady! he's laying them on!By the sound of their chime you may tell that it's timeTo 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 PoundHe'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 ChainsWhile 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 throughFrom 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 throughFrom Bratton to Porlock Bay!
Fidele's Grassy Tomb
The Squire sat propped in a pillowed chair,His eyes were alive and clear of care,But well he knew that the hour was comeTo 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 seeWas the island church of Orchardleigh.
The last that his heart could understandWas 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 shoreWhen 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 doorFidele was dead on the chantry floor.
They buried him there at his master's feet,And all that heard of it deemed it meet:The story went the round for years,Till it came at last to the Bishop's ears.
Bishop of Bath and Wells was he,Lord of the lords of Orchardleigh;And he wrote to the Parson the strongest screedThat Bishop may write or Parson read.
The sum of it was that a soulless houndWas known to be buried in hallowed ground:From scandal sore the Church to saveThey must take the dog from his masters grave.
The heir was far in a foreign land,The Parson was wax to my Lord's command:He sent for the Sexton and bade him makeA lonely grave by the shore of the lake.
The Sexton sat by the water's brinkWhere he used to sit when he used to think:He reasoned slow, but he reasoned it out,And his argument left him free from doubt.
"A Bishop," he said, "is the top of his trade:But there's others can give him a start with the spade:Yon dog, he carried the Squire ashore,And a Christian couldn't ha' done no more.
The grave was dug; the mason cameAnd carved on stone Fidele's name;But the dog that the Sexton laid insideWas 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 foundIn the tomb of the Squire the bones of a hound.
As for the Bishop of Bath and WellsNo 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 wrongHas little to do with this my song;Something we owe him, you must allow;And perhaps he has changed his mind by now.
The Squire in the family chantry sleeps,The marble still his memory keeps:Remember, when the name you spell,There rest Fidele's bones as well.
For the Sexton's grave you need not search,'Tis a nameless mound by the island church:An ignorant fellow, of humble lot—-But. he knew one thing that a Bishop did not.
Moonset
Past seven o'clock: time to be gone;Twelfth-night's over and dawn shivering up:A hasty cut of the loaf, a steaming cup,Down to the door, and there is Coachman John.
Ruddy of cheek is John and bright of eye;But John it appears has none of your grins and winks;Civil enough, but short: perhaps he thinks:Words come once in a mile, and always dry.
Has he a mind or not? I wonder; but soonWe turn through a leafless wood, and there to the right,Like a sun bewitched in alien realms of night,Mellow and yellow and rounded hangs the moon.
Strangely near she seems, and terribly great:The world is dead: why are we travelling still?Nightmare silence grips my struggling will;We are driving for ever and ever to find a gate.
"When you come to consider the moon," says John at last,And stops, to feel his footing and take his stand;"And then there's some will say there's never a handThat made the world!"A flick, and the gates are passed.
Out of the dim magical moonlit park,Out to the workday road and wider skies:There's a warm flush in the East where day's to rise,And I'm feeling the better for Coachman John's remark.
Master And Man
Do ye ken hoo to fush for the salmon?If ye'll listen I'll tell ye.Dinna trust to the books and their gammon,They're but trying to sell ye.Leave professors to read their ain cackleAnd fush their ain style;Come awa', sir, we'll oot wi' oor tackleAnd be busy the while.
'Tis a wee bit ower bright, ye were thinkin'?Aw, ye'll no be the loser;'Tis better ten baskin' and blinkin'Than ane that's a cruiser.If ye're bent, as I tak it, on slatter,Ye should pray for the droot,For the salmon's her ain when there's watter,But she's oors when it's oot.
Ye may just put your flee-book behind ye,Ane hook wull be plenty;If they'll no come for this, my man, mind ye,They'll no come for twenty.Ay, a rod; but the shorter the strangerAnd the nearer to strike;For myself I prefare it nae langerThan 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 murrderWhen ye ken what to do.
Na, na, sir, I doot na ye're willin'But I canna permit ye;For I'm thinkin' that yon kind o' killin'Wad hardly befit ye.And some work is deefficult hushin',There'd be havers and chaff:'Twull be best, sir, for you to be fushin'And me wi' the gaff.
Gavotte
(Old French)
Memories long in music sleeping,No more sleeping,No more dumb;Delicate phantoms softly creepingSoftly back from the old-world come.
Faintest odours around them straying,Suddenly strayingIn chambers dim;Whispering silks in order swaying,Glimmering gems on shoulders slim:
Courage advancing strong and tender,Grace untenderFanning desire;Suppliant conquest, proud surrender,Courtesy cold of hearts on fire—-
Willowy billowy now they're bending,Low they're bendingDown-dropt eyes;Stately measure and stately ending,Music sobbing, and a dream that dies.
Imogen
(A Lady of Tender Age)
Ladies, where were your bright eyes glancing,Where were they glancing yester-night?Saw ye Imogen dancing, dancing,Imogen dancing all in white?Laughed she not with a pure delight,Laughed she not with a joy serene,Stepped she not with a grace entrancing,Slenderly girt in silken sheen?
All through the night from dusk to daytimeUnder her feet the hours were swift,Under her feet the hours of play-timeRose and fell with a rhythmic lift:Music set her adrift, adrift,Music eddying towards the daySwept her along as brooks in May-timeCarry the freshly falling May.
Ladies, life is a changing measure,Youth is a lilt that endeth soon;Pluck ye never so fast at pleasureTwilight follows the longest noon.Nay, but here is a lasting boon,Life for hearts that are old and chill,Youth undying for hearts that treasureImogen dancing, dancing still.
Nel Mezzo Del Cammin
Whisper it not that late in yearsSorrow shall fade and the world be brighter,Life be freed of tremor and tears,Heads be wiser and hearts be lighter.Ah! but the dream that all endears,The dream we sell for your pottage of truth—-Give us again the passion of youth,Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter.
The Invasion
Spring, they say, with his greeneryNorthward marches at last,Mustering thorn and elm;Breezes rumour him conquering,Tell how Victory sitsHigh on his glancing helm.
Smit with sting of his archery,Hardest ashes and oaksBurn at the root below:Primrose, violet, daffodil,Start like blood where the shaftsLight from his golden bow.
Here where winter oppresses usStill we listen and doubt,Dreading a hope betrayed:Sore we long to be greeting him,Still we linger and doubt"What if his march be stayed?"
Folk in thrall to the enemy,Vanquished, tilling a soilHateful and hostile grown;Always wearily, warily,Feeding deep in the heartPassion they dare not own—-
So we wait the deliverer;Surely soon shall he come,Soon shall his hour be due:Spring shall come with his greenery,Life be lovely again,Earth be the home we knew.
Pereunt Et Imputantur
(After Martial)
Bernard, if to you and meFortune all at once should giveYears to spend secure and free,With the choice of how to live,Tell me, what should we proclaimLife deserving of the name?
Winning some one else's case?Saving some one else's seat?Hearing with a solemn facePeople of importance bleat?No, I think we should not stillWaste our time at others' will.
Summer noons beneath the limes,Summer rides at evening cool,Winter's tales and home-made rhymes,Figures on the frozen pool—-These would we for labours take,And of these our business make.
Ah! but neither you nor IDare in earnest venture so;Still we let the good days dieAnd to swell the reckoning go.What are those that know the way,Yet to walk therein delay?
Felix Antonius
(After Martial)
To-day, my friend is seventy-five;He tells his tale with no regret;His brave old eyes are steadfast yet,His heart the .lightest heart alive.
He sees behind him green and wideThe pathway of his pilgrim years;He sees the shore, and dreadless hearsThe whisper of the creeping tide.
For out of all his days, not oneHas passed and left its unlaid ghostTo seek a light for ever lost,Or wail a deed for ever done.
So for reward of life-long truthHe lives again, as good men can,Redoubling his allotted spanWith memories of a stainless youth.
Ireland, Ireland
Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland,Down thy valleys green and sad,Still thy spirit wanders wailing,Wanders wailing, wanders mad.
Long ago that anguish took thee,Ireland, Ireland, green and fair,Spoilers strong in darkness took thee,Broke thy heart and left thee there.
Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland,Still thy spirit wanders mad;All too late they love that wronged thee,Ireland, Ireland, green and sad.
Hymn
In The Time Of War And Tumults
O Lord Almighty, Thou whose handsDespair and victory give;In whom, though tyrants tread their lands,The souls of nations live;
Thou wilt not turn Thy face awayFrom those who work Thy will,But send Thy peace on hearts that pray,And guard Thy people still.
Remember not the days of shame,The hands with rapine dyed,The wavering will, the baser aim,The brute material pride:
Remember, Lord, the years of faith,The spirits humbly brave,The strength that died defying death,The love that loved the slave:
The race that strove to rule Thine earthWith 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 mindThrough lives of men that fear not manls light for all mankind.
Thou wilt not turn Thy face awayFrom those who work Thy will,But send Thy strength on hearts that prayFor strength to serve Thee still.
The Building Of The Temple
(An Anthem Heard In Canterbury Cathedral)
[The Organ]
O Lord our God, we are strangers before Thee, and sojourners, as were all our fathers: our days on the earth are as a shadow, and there is none abiding.
O Lord God of our fathers, keep this for ever in the imagination of the thoughts of Thy people, and prepare their heart unto Thee.
And give unto Solomon my son a perfect heart to keep Thy commandments, and to build the palace for the which I have made provision.
[Boys' voices.]
O come to the Palace of Life,Let us build it again.It was founded on terror and strife,It was laid in the curse of the womb,And pillared on toil and pain,And hung with veils of doom,And vaulted with the darkness of the tomb.
[Men's voices.]
O Lord our God, we are sojourners here for a day,Strangers and sojourners, as all our fathers were:Our years on the earth are a shadow that fadeth away;Grant us light for our labour, and a time for prayer.
[Boys.]
But now with endless song,And joy fulfilling the Law;Of passion as pure as strongAnd pleasure undimmed of awe;With garners of wine and grainLaid up for the ages long,Let us build the Palace againAnd 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 nameOf the strong and skilled,Lasting the fameOf them that build:The tongues of many nationsShall speak of our praise,And far generationsBe glad for our days.
[Men.]
We are sojourners here as all our fathers were,As all our children shall be, forgetting and forgot:The fame of man is a murmur that passeth on the air,We perish indeed if Thou remember not.
We are sojourners here as all our fathers were,Strangers travelling down to the land of death:There is neither work nor device nor knowledge there,O grant us might for our labour, and to rest in faith.
[Boys.]
In joy, in the joy of the light to be,
[Men.]
O Father of Lights, unvarying and true,
[Boys.]
Let us build the Palace of Life anew.
[Men.]
Let us build for the years we shall not see.
[Boys.]
Lofty of line and glorious of hue,With gold and pearl and with the cedar tree,
[Men.]
With silence dueAnd 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.