Poems of To-Day: an Anthology - Various 2 стр.

    To the forgotten dead,
  Come, let us drink in silence ere we part.
  To every fervent yet resolvèd heart
  That brought its tameless passion and its tears,
  Renunciation and laborious years,
  To lay the deep foundations of our race,
  To rear its stately fabric overhead
  And light its pinnacles with golden grace.

    To the unhonoured dead.
    To the forgotten dead,
  Whose dauntless hands were stretched to grasp the rein
  Of Fate and hurl into the void again
  Her thunder-hoofed horses, rushing blind
  Earthward along the courses of the wind.
  Among the stars, along the wind in vain
  Their souls were scattered and their blood was shed,
  And nothing, nothing of them doth remain.
    To the thrice-perished dead.

  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.
  Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,
    Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;
  Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin'
    They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago!

  The moon is up: the stars are bright
    The wind is fresh and free!
  We're out to seek for gold to-night
    Across the silver sea!
  The world was growing grey and old:
    Break out the sails again!
  We're out to seek a Realm of Gold
    Beyond the Spanish Main.

  We're sick of all the cringing knees,
    The courtly smiles and lies!
  God, let Thy singing Channel breeze
    Lighten our hearts and eyes!
  Let love no more be bought and sold
    For earthly loss or gain;
  We're out to seek an Age of Gold
    Beyond the Spanish Main.

  Beyond the light of far Cathay,
    Beyond all mortal dreams,
  Beyond the reach of night and day
    Our El Dorado gleams,
  Revealingas the skies unfold
    A star without a stain,
  The Glory of the Gates of Gold
    Beyond the Spanish Main.

  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.

  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.

  Fear? Yes . . . I heard you saying
  In an Oxford common-room
  Where the hearth-light's kindly raying
  Stript the empanelled walls of gloom,
  Silver groves of candles playing
  In the soft wine turned to bloom
  At the word I see you now
  Blandly push the wine-boat's prow
  Round the mirror of that scored
  Yellow old mahogany board
  I confess to one fear! this,
To be buried alive!

        My Lord,
  Your fancy has played amiss.

  Fear not. When in farewell
  While guns toll like a bell
  And the bell tolls like a gun
  Westminster towers call
  Folk and state to your funeral,
  And robed in honours won,
  Beneath the cloudy pall
  Of the lifted shreds of glory
  You lie in the last stall
  Of that grey dormitory
  Fear not lest mad mischance
  Should find you lapt and shrouded
  Alive in helpless trance
  Though seeming death-beclouded:

  For long ere so you rest
  On that transcendent bier
  Shall we not have addressed
  One summons, one last test,
  To your reluctant ear?
  O believe it! we shall have uttered
  In ultimate entreaty
  A name your soul would hear
  Howsoever thickly shuttered;
  We shall have stooped and muttered
  England! in your cold ear. . . .
  Then, if your great pulse leap
  No more, nor your cheek burn,
  Enough; then shall we learn
  'Tis time for us to weep.

  "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 climb'd alone to the Eastward edge of the trees;
  All night long in a dream untroubled of hope
    He brooded, clasping his knees.

  He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills
    The ravine where the Yassin river sullenly flows;
  He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills,
    Or the far Afghan snows.

  He saw the April noon on his books aglow,
    The wistaria trailing in at the window wide;
  He heard his father's voice from the terrace below
    Calling him down to ride.

  He saw the gray little church across the park,
    The mounds that hid the loved and honoured dead;
  The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark,
    The brasses black and red.

  He saw the School Close, sunny and green,
    The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall,
  The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between
    His own name over all.

  He saw the dark wainscot and timbered roof,
    The long tables, and the faces merry and keen;
  The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof,
    The Dons on the daïs serene.

  He watch'd 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 ruin'd camp below the wood;
  He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet;
    His murderers round him stood.

  Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast,
    The blood-red snow-peaks chilled to a dazzling white;
  He turn'd, 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.

  Shall we but turn from braggart pride
  Our race to cheapen and defame?
  Before the world to wail, to chide,
  And weakness as with vaunting claim?
  Ere the hour strikes, to abdicate
  The steadfast spirit that made us great,
  And rail with scolding tongues at fate?

  If England's heritage indeed
  Be lost, be traded quite away
  For fatted sloth and fevered greed;
  If, inly rotting, we decay;
  Suffer we then what doom we must,
  But silent, as befits the dust
  Of them whose chastisement was just.

  But rather, England, rally thou
  Whatever breathes of faith that still
  Within thee keeps the undying vow
  And dedicates the constant will.
  For such yet lives, if not among
  The boasters, or the loud of tongue,
  Who cry that England's knell is rung.

  The fault of heart, the small of brain,
  In thee but their own image find;
  Beyond such thoughts as these contain
  A mightier Presence is enshrined.
  Nor meaner than their birthright grown
  Shall these thy latest sons be shown,
  So thou but use them for thine own.

  By those great spirits burning high
  In our home's heaven, that shall be stars
  To shine, when all is history
  And rumour of old, idle wars;
  By all those hearts which proudly bled
  To make this rose of England red;
  The living, the triumphant dead;

  By all who suffered and stood fast
  That Freedom might the weak uphold,
  And in men's ways of wreck and waste
  Justice her awful flower unfold;
  By all who out of grief and wrong
  In passion's art of noble song
  Made Beauty to our speech belong;

  By those adventurous ones who went
  Forth overseas, and, self-exiled,
  Sought from far isle and continent
  Another England in the wild,
  For whom no drums beat, yet they fought
  Alone, in courage of a thought
  Which an unbounded future wrought;

  Yea, and yet more by those to-day
  Who toil and serve for naught of gain,
  That in thy purer glory they
  May melt their ardour and their pain;
  By these and by the faith of these,
  The faith that glorifies and frees,
  Thy lands call on thee, and thy seas.

  If thou hast sinned, shall we forsake
  Thee, or the less account us thine?
  Thy sores, thy shames on us we take.
  Flies not for us thy famed ensign?
  Be ours to cleanse and to atone;
  No man this burden bears alone;
  England, our best shall be thine own.

  Lift up thy cause into the light!
  Put all the factious lips to shame!
  Our loves, our faiths, our hopes unite
  And strike into a single flame!
  Whatever from without betide,
  O purify the soul of pride
  In us; thy slumbers cast aside;
  And of thy sons be justified!

  "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.

  When we fought campaigns (in the long Christmas rains)
    With soldiers spread in troops on the floor,
  I shot as straight as you, my losses were as few,
    My victories as many, or more.
  And when in naval battle, amid cannon's rattle,
    Fleet met fleet in the bath,
  My cruisers were as trim, my battleships as grim,
    My submarines cut as swift a path.
  Or, when it rained too long, and the strength of the strong
    Surged up and broke a way with blows,
  I was as fit and keen, my fists hit as clean,
    Your black eye matched my bleeding nose.
  Was there a scrap or ploy in which you, the boy,
    Could better me? You could not climb higher,
  Ride straighter, run as quick (and to smoke made you sick)
    . . . But I sit here, and you're under fire.

  Oh, it's you that have the luck, out there in blood and muck:
    You were born beneath a kindly star;
  All we dreamt, I and you, you can really go and do,
    And I can't, the way things are.
  In a trench you are sitting, while I am knitting
    A hopeless sock that never gets done.
  Well, here's luck, my dear;and you've got it, no fear;
    But for me . . . a war is poor fun.

  His wage of rest at nightfall still
    He takes, who sixty years has known
  Of ploughing over Cotsall hill
    And keeping trim the Cotsall stone.

  He meditates the dusk, and sees
    Folds of his wonted shepherdings
  And lands of stubble and tall trees
    Becoming insubstantial things.

  And does he see on Cotsall hill
    Thrown even to the central shire
  The funnelled shapes forbidding still
    The stranger from his cottage fire?

  These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
    Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
  The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
    And sunset, and the colours of the earth.

  These had seen movement, and heard music; known
    Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
  Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
    Touched flowers and furs, and cheeks. All this is ended.

  There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
  And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
    Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
  And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
    Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
  A width, a shining peace, under the night.

  If I should die, think only this of me:
    That there's some corner of a foreign field
  That is for ever England. There shall be
    In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
  A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
    Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
  A body of England's, breathing English air,
    Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

  And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
    A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
      Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
  Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
    And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
      In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.