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 roarOf Baird's avenging guns,And see him stand with lifted handBy Tippoo Sahib's sons.
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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 thereIn the old quivering heat,Where merry hearts had met despairAnd died without defeat;Where feeble hands had raised the cupFor feebler lips to drain,And one had worn with smiling scornHis double load of pain.
"The sleep that Tippoo Sahib sleepsHears not the voice of man;The faith that Tippoo Sahib keepsNo earthly judge may scan;For all the wrong your father wroughtYour father's sons are free;Where Lucas lay no tongue shall sayThat 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 cameHe 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 townThe Captains rode in state;They came to the house of John NicholsonAnd 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 putTheir shoes from off their feet;"Now wherefore make ye such adoThese 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 allThe 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 placeAnd turned about to go.
Then swiftly came John NicholsonBetween the door and him,With anger smouldering in his eyesThat 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 waitTo speak with you alone."
The Captains passed in silence forthAnd stood the door behind;To go before the game was playedBe sure they had no mind.
But there within John NicholsonTurned him on Mehtab Singh,"So long as the soul is in my bodyYou shall not do this thing.
"Have ye served us for a hundred yearsAnd yet ye know not why?We brook no doubt of our mastery,We rule until we die.
"Were I the one last EnglishmanDrawing the breath of life,And you the master-rebel of allThat 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 bodyYou should not do this thing.
{64}
"Take off, take off those shoes of pride,Carry them whence they came;Your Captains saw your insolenceAnd they shall see your shame."
When Mehtab Singh came to the doorHis shoes they burned his hand,For there in long and silent linesHe saw the Captains stand.
When Mehtab Singh rode from the gateHis chin was on his breast:The Captains said, "When the strong commandObedience 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 bloodWith 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 heardA 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 lightThe 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 heartTo the last thundering gallop and sheer leapCame on the men of the Guides; they flung apartThe 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
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 dareWhen 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 playWhen 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 hopeHe brooded, clasping his knees.
He did not hear the monotonous roar that fillsThe 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 belowCalling 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 betweenHis own name over all.
He saw the dark wainscot and timbered roof,The long tables, and the faces merry and keen;The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof,The Dons on the daïs serene.
He watched the liner's stem ploughing the foam,He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw;He heard 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 oneFaded, 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 bowedBeneath 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, sprungOf the strength and splendour of England's war.
From ill-requited toil he turnedTo ride with Picton and with Pack,Among his grammars inly burnedTo storm the Afghan mountain-track.When midnight chimed, before QuebecHe watched with Wolfe till the morning star;At noon he saw fromVictory'sdeckThe sweep and splendour of England's war.
{73}
Beyond the book his teaching sped,He left on whom he taught the traceOf 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 dreamedOf 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 swornAnd no man's chosen captain; born to fail,A name without an echo: yet he tooWithin the cloister of his narrow daysFulfilled the ancestral rites, and kept aliveThe eternal fire; it may be, not in vain;For out of those who dropped a downward glanceUpon the weakling huddled at his prayers,Perchance some looked beyond him, and then firstBeheld the glory, and what shrine it filled,And to what Spirit sacred: or perchanceSome 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
Ye that with me have fought and failed and foughtTo 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 thenTo 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 oneThe touch of Life has turned to truth.Here in a day that is not far,You too may speak with noble ghostsOf manhood and the vows of warYou 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 brotherhoodThat binds the brave of all the earth—
My son, the oath is yours; the endIs His, Who built the world of strife,Who gave His children Pain for friend,And Death for surest hope of life.
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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 pureThan 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}
Vitaï Lampada
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night—Ten to make and the match to win—A bumping pitch and a blinding light,An hour to play and the last man in.And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote—"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
The sand of the desert is sodden red,—Red with the wreck of a square that broke;—The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead,And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.The river of death has brimmed his banks,And England's far, and Honour a name,But the voice of 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 mindBear 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 flameBurns before the inmost shrine,Where the lips that love thy nameConsecrate their hopes and thine,Where the banners of thy deadWeave their shadows overhead,Watch beside thine arms to-night,Pray that God defend the Right.
Think that when to-morrow comesWar 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-nightPray 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-nightPray that God defend the Right?
Single-hearted, unafraid,Hither all thy heroes came,On this altar's steps were laidGordon's life and Outram's fame.England! if thy will be yetBy their great example set,Here beside thine arms to-nightPray that God defend the Right.
So shalt thou when morning comesRise 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
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 lightWhen 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 lightWhen 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 cryingThis for a sign before he slept:—"Pride of the West! What Devon hath keptDevon 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,
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Locked in a death-grip all day tightening,Waited the end in twilight gray.Battle and storm and the sea-dog's wayDrake 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 daringThat could not wait the call,The proud fantastic bearingThat 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 dwindlingI 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 lyingFor 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 moreHand from hand was rent;Here his voice above the roarRang, 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 knowThe selfsame hour we missed him hereHe led the line that broke the foe.
Blood-red behind our guarded postsSank as of old the dying day;The battle ceased; the mingled hostsWeary 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 steepHere VERTUE fell, and here he sleeps his sleep.*A fairer name no Roman ever gaveTo 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 deathIn fitful sleep the army lay,For through the dream that stilled their breathToo gauntly glared the coming day.
But we, within whose blood there leapsThe fulness of a life as wideAs Avon's water where he sweepsSeaward at last with Severn's tide,
We heard beyond the desert nightThe murmur of the fields we knew,And our swift souls with one delightLike 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 bellTold that the summer night was late,Where long ago we said farewellWe 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-stoneShe sits alone,The long night bearing:With eyes that gleamInto the dreamOf the firelight staring.
Low and more lowThe dying glowBurns in the embers;She nothing heedsAnd 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 moreA 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—
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We miss them from the moor road,They're getting old to roam,The road they're on's a sure roadAnd nearer, lad, to home.
Your name, the name they cherish?'Twill fade, lad, 'tis true:But stone and all may perishWith 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 fellWhere the sunlight fell of old,And the hour was the hour my heart remembered well,And the sermon rolled and rolledAs 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 soundThat I so clearly heard,The green young forest of saplings clustered roundWas heeding not one word:Their heads were bowed in a still serried patienceSuch 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.
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"O Youth," the preacher was crying, "deem not thouThy life is thine alone;Thou bearest the will of the ages, seeing howThey built thee bone by bone,And within thy blood the Great Age sleeps sepulchredTill thou and thine shall roll away the stone.
"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 thespirit took themLightly as drifted leaves on an endless plain.
{99}
The Echo
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 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?
{102}
And where's the wealth, I'm wondering,Could buy the cheers that rollWhen the last charge goes thunderingBeneath 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 itAnd 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 usTo 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.
{103}
England
Praise thou with praise unendingThe 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.
{104}
Victoria Regina
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.
{105}
The King of England
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.
{106}
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.
{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 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.
{108}
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.
{109}
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.
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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.
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"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."
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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!"
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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.
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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.
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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."
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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.
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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 recallWon through the desert of the Burning Dark,Thou shalt behold within a garden brightA well, beside a cypress ivory-white.
Still is that well, and in its waters coolWhite, white and windless, sleeps that cypress tree:Who drinks but once from out her shadowy poolShall 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.
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"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 leapsFrom Memory's fount, wherein no cypress sleeps."
Then shalt thou drink, O Soul, and therewith slakeThe 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 thouWith them shalt reign in never-ending Now.
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Il Santo
Alas! alas! what impious hands are these?They have cut down my dark mysterious trees,Defied the brooding spellThat sealed my sacred well,Broken my fathers' fixed and ancient bars,And on the mouldering shadeWherein my dead were laidLet 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 aweFor bronze-engraven law,For dust beatified and saintly name?When they shall see the shrinePrinces have held divine,Will they not bow before the eternal flame?
Vain! vain! the wind of heaven for ages longHath whispered manhood, "Let thine arm be strong!Hew down and fling awayThe growth that veils decay,
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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 browMay for thy race redeemThe source of that lost streamOnce given the thirst of all the earth to slake.Nay, thou too ere the endThy weary knee mayst bendAnd in thy trembling hands that water take."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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."
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"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.
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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."
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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.
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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?
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"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!
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To Edward Fitzgerald
'Tis a sad fateTo watch the world fighting,All that is most fairRuthlessly blighting,Blighting, ah! blighting.
When such a thought comethLet us not pine,But gather old friendsRound the red wine—Oh! pour the red wine!
And there we'll talkAnd warm our witsWith Eastern fallaciesOut of old Fitz!British old Fitz!
See him, half statesman—Philosopher too—Half ancient marinerIn baggy blue—Such baggy blue!
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Whimsical, wistful,Haughty, forsooth:Indolent always, yetArdent in truth,But indolent, indolent!
There at the tableWith us sits he,Charming us subtlyTo reverie,Magic reverie.
"How sweet is summer's breath,How sure and swift is death;Nought wise on earth, saveWhat the wine whispereth,Dreamily whispereth.
"At Naíshapúr beneath the sun,Or here in misty Babylon,Drink! for the rose leaves while you lingerAre falling, ever falling, one by one."
Ah! poet's soul, once more with us conspireTo grasp this sorry scheme of things entire,Once more with us to-night, old Fitz, once moreRemould it nearer to the heart's desire!
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