Chapter 2

The endless noon, the endless evening through, All other needs forgetting, great or small, They drank despair with thirst whose torment grew As the hours died beneath that stifling pall. At last they saw the fires to blackness fall One after one, and slowly turned them home, A little longer yet their own to call A city enslaved, and wear the bonds of Rome, With weary hearts foreboding all the woe to come.

Minora Sidera

(The Dictionary Of National Biography)

Sitting at times over a hearth that burns With dull domestic glow, My thought, leaving the book, gratefully turns To you who planned it so.

Not of the great only you deigned to tell--- The stars by which we steer--- But lights out of the night that flashed, and fell Tonight again, are here.

Such as were those, dogs of an elder day, Who sacked the golden ports, And those later who dared grapple their prey Beneath the harbour forts:

Some with flag at the fore, sweeping the world To find an equal fight, And some who joined war to their trade, and hurled Ships of the line in flight.

Whether their fame centuries long should ring They cared not over-much, But cared greatly to serve God and the king, And keep the Nelson touch;

And fought to build Britain above the tide Of wars and windy fate; And passed content, leaving to us the pride Of lives obscurely great.

Laudabunt Alii

(After Horace)

Let others praise, as fancy wills, Berlin beneath her trees, Or Rome upon her seven hills, Or Venice by her seas; Stamboul by double tides embraced, Or green Damascus in the waste.

For me there's nought I would not leave For the good Devon land, Whose orchards down the echoing cleeve Bedewed with spray-drift stand, And hardly bear the red fruit up That shall be next year's cider-cup.

You too, my friend, may wisely mark How clear skies follow rain, And, lingering in your own green park Or drilled on Laffan's Plain, Forget not with the festal bowl To soothe at times your weary soul.

When Drake must bid to Plymouth Hoe Good-bye for many a day, And some were sad and feared to go, And some that dared not stay, Be sure he bade them broach the best, And raised his tankard with the rest.

"Drake's luck to all that sail with Drake For promised lands of gold! Brave lads, whatever storms may break, We've weathered worse of old! To-night the loving-cup we'll drain, To-morrow for the Spanish Main!"

Admiral Death

Boys, are ye calling a toast to-night? (Hear what the sea-wind saith) Fill for a bumper strong and bright, And here's to Admiral Death! He's sailed in a hundred builds o' boat, He's fought in a thousand kinds o' coat, He's the senior flag of all that float, And his name's Admiral Death!

Which of you looks for a service free? (Hear what the sea-wind saith) The rules o' the service are but three When ye sail with Admiral Death. Steady your hand in time o' squalls, Stand to the last by him that falls, And answer clear to the voice that calls, "Ay, Ay! Admiral Death!"

How will ye know him among the rest? (Hear what the sea-wind saith) By the glint o' the stars that cover his breast Ye may find Admiral Death. By the forehead grim with an ancient scar, By the voice that rolls like thunder far, By the tenderest eyes of all that are, Ye may know Admiral Death.

Where are the lads that sailed before? (Hear what the sea-wind saith) Their bones are white by many a shore, They sleep with Admiral Death. Oh! but they loved him, young and old, For he left the laggard, and took the bold, And the fight was fought, and the story's told, And they sleep with Admiral Death.

Homeward Bound

After long labouring in the windy ways, On smooth and shining tides Swiftly the great ship glides, Her storms forgot, her weary watches past; Northward she glides, and through the enchanted haze Faint on the verge her far hope dawns at last.

The phantom sky-line of a shadowy down, Whose pale white cliffs below Through sunny mist aglow, Like noon-day ghosts of summer moonshine gleam--- Soft as old sorrow, bright as old renown, There lies the home, of all our mortal dream.

Gillespie.

Riding at dawn, riding alone, Gillespie left the town behind; Before he turned by the Westward road A horseman crossed him, staggering blind.

"The Devil's abroad in false Vellore, The Devil that stabs by night," he said, "Women and children, rank and file, Dying and dead, dying and dead."

Without a word, without a groan, Sudden and swift Gillespie turned, The blood roared in his ears like fire, Like fire the road beneath him burned.

He thundered back to Arcot gate, He thundered up through Arcot town, Before he thought a second thought In the barrack yard he lighted down.

"Trumpeter, sound for the Light Dragoons, Sound to saddle and spur," he said; "He that is ready may ride with me, And he that can may ride ahead."

Fierce and fain, fierce and fain, Behind him went the troopers grim, They rode as ride the Light Dragoons But never a man could ride with him.

Their rowels ripped their horses' sides, Their hearts were red with a deeper goad, But ever alone before them all Gillespie rode, Gillespie rode.

Alone he came to false Vellore, The walls were lined, the gates were barred; Alone he walked where the bullets bit, And called above to the Sergeant's Guard.

"Sergeant, Sergeant, over the gate, Where are your officers all?" he said; Heavily came the Sergeant's voice, "There are two living and forty dead."

"A rope, a rope," Gillespie cried : They bound their belts to serve his need. There was not a rebel behind the wall But laid his barrel and drew his bead.

There was not a rebel among them all But pulled his trigger and cursed his aim, For lightly swung and rightly swung Over the gate Gillespie came.

He dressed the line, he led the charge, They swept the wall like a stream in spate, And roaring over the roar they heard The galloper guns that burst the gate.

Fierce and fain, fierce and fain, The troopers rode the reeking flight: The very stones remember still The end of them that stab by night.

They've kept the tale a hundred years, They'll keep the tale a hundred more: Riding at dawn, riding alone, Gillespie came to false Vellore.

Seringapatam

"The sleep that Tippoo Sahib sleeps Heeds not the cry of man; The faith that Tippoo Sahib keeps No judge on earth may scan; He is the lord of whom ye hold Spirit and sense and limb, Fetter and chain are all ye gain Who dared to plead with him."

Baird was bonny and Baird was young, His heart was strong as steel, But life and death in the balance hung, For his wounds were ill to heal. "Of fifty chains the Sultan gave We have filled but forty-nine: We dare not fail of the perfect tale For all Golconda's mine."

That was the hour when Lucas first Leapt to his long renown; Like summer rains his anger burst, And swept their scruples down. "Tell ye the lord to whom ye crouch, His fetters bite their fill: To save your oath I'll wear them both, And step the lighter still."

The seasons came, the seasons passed, They watched their fellows die; But still their thought was forward cast, Their courage still was high. Through tortured days and fevered nights Their limbs alone were weak, And year by year they kept their cheer, And spoke as freemen speak.

But once a year, on the fourth of June, Their speech to silence died, And the silence beat to a soundless tune And sang with a wordless pride; Till when the Indian stars were bright, And bells at home would ring, To the fetters' clank they rose and drank "England! God save the King!"

The years came, and the years went, The wheel full-circle rolled; The tyrant's neck must yet be bent, The price of blood be told: The city yet must hear the roar Of Baird's avenging guns, And see him stand with lifted hand By Tippoo Sahib's sons.

The lads were bonny, the lads were young, But he claimed a pitiless debt; Life and death in the balance hung, They watched it swing and set. They saw him search with sombre eyes, They knew the place he sought; They saw him feel for the hilted steel, They bowed before his thought.

But he--he saw the prison there In the old quivering heat, Where merry hearts had met despair And died without defeat; Where feeble hands had raised the cup For feebler lips to drain, And one had worn with smiling scorn His double load of pain.

"The sleep that Tippoo Sahib sleeps Hears not the voice of man; The faith that Tippoo Sahib keeps No earthly judge may scan; For all the wrong your father wrought Your father's sons are free; Where Lucas lay no tongue shall say That Mercy bound not me."

A Ballad of John Nicholson

It fell in the year of Mutiny, At darkest of the night, John Nicholson by Jalándhar came, On his way to Delhi fight.

And as he by Jalándhar came, He thought what he must do, And he sent to the Rajah fair greeting, To try if he were true.

"God grant your Highness length of days, And friends when need shall be; And I pray you send your Captains hither, That they may speak with me."

On the morrow through Jalándhar town The Captains rode in state; They came to the house of John Nicholson, And stood before the gate.

The chief of them was Mehtab Singh, He was both proud and sly; His turban gleamed with rubies red, He held his chin full high.

He marked his fellows how they put Their shoes from off their feet; "Now wherefore make ye such ado These fallen lords to greet?

"They have ruled us for a hundred years, In truth I know not how, But though they be fain of mastery They dare not claim it now."

Right haughtily before them all The durbar hall he trod, With rubies red his turban gleamed, His feet with pride were shod.

They had not been an hour together, A scanty hour or so, When Mehtab Singh rose in his place And turned about to go.

Then swiftly came John Nicholson Between the door and him, With anger smouldering in his eyes, That made the rubies dim.

"You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh,"--- Oh, but his voice was low! He held his wrath with a curb of iron That furrowed cheek and brow.

"You are overhasty, Mehtab Singh, When that the rest are gone, I have a word that may not wait To speak with you alone."

The Captains passed in silence forth And stood the door behind; To go before the game was played Be sure they had no mind.

But there within John Nicholson Turned him on Mehtab Singh, "So long as the soul is in my body You shall not do this thing.

"Have ye served us for a hundred years And yet ye know not why? We brook no doubt of our mastery, We rule until we die.

"Were I the one last Englishman Drawing the breath of life, And you the master-rebel of all That stir this land to strife---

"Were I," he said, "but a Corporal, And you a Rajput King, So long as the soul was in my body You should not do this thing.

"Take off, take off, those shoes of pride, Carry them whence they came; Your Captains saw your insolence, And they shall see your shame."

When Mehtab Singh came to the door His shoes they burned his hand, For there in long and silent lines He saw the Captains stand.

When Mehtab Singh rode from the gate His chin was on his breast: The Captains said, "When the strong command Obedience is best."

The Guides at Cabul

(1879)

Sons of the Island race, wherever ye dwell, Who speak of your fathers' battles with lips that burn, The deed of an alien legion hear me tell, And think not shame from the hearts ye tamed to learn, When succour shall fail and the tide for a season turn, To fight with joyful courage, a passionate pride, To die at last as the Guides of Cabul died.

For a handful of seventy men in a barrack of mud, Foodless, waterless, dwindling one by one, Answered a thousand yelling for English blood With stormy volleys that swept them gunner from gun, And charge on charge in the glare of the Afghan sun, Till the walls were shattered wherein they couched at bay, And dead or dying half of the seventy lay.

Twice they had taken the cannon that wrecked their hold, Twice toiled in vain to drag it back, Thrice they toiled, and alone, wary and bold, Whirling a hurricane sword to scatter the rack, Hamilton, last of the English, covered their track. "Never give in!" he cried, and he heard them shout, And grappled with death as a man that knows not doubt.

And the Guides looked down from their smouldering barrack again, And behold, a banner of truce, and a voice that spoke: "Come, for we know that the English all are slain, We keep no feud with men of a kindred folk; Rejoice with us to be free of the conqueror's yolk." Silence fell for a moment, then was heard A sound of laughter and scorn, and an answering word.

"Is it we or the lords we serve who have earned this wrong, That ye call us to flinch from the battle they bade us fight? We that live--do ye doubt that our hands are strong? They that are fallen--ye know that their blood was bright! Think ye the Guides will barter for lust of the light The pride of an ancient people in warfare bred, Honour of comrades living, and faith to the dead?"

Then the joy that spurs the warrior's heart To the last thundering gallop and sheer leap Came on the men of the Guides: they flung apart The doors not all their valour could longer keep; They dressed their slender line; they breathed deep, And with never a foot lagging or head bent To the clash and clamour and dust of death they went.

The Gay Gordons

(Dargai, October 20, 1897)

Whos for the Gathering, who's for the Fair? (Gay goes the Gordon to a fight) The bravest of the brave are at deadlock there, (Highlanders! march! by the right!) There are bullets by the hundred buzzing in the air, There are bonny lads lying on the hillside bare; But the Gordons know what the Gordons dare When they hear the pipers playing!

The happiest English heart today (Gay goes the Gordon to a fight) Is the heart of the Colonel, hide it as he may; (Steady there! steady on the right!) He sees his work and he sees his way, He knows his time and the word to say, And he's thinking of the tune that the Gordons play When he sets the pipers playing.

Rising, roaring, rushing like the tide, (Gay goes the Gordon to a fight) They're up through the fire-zone, not be be denied; (Bayonets! and charge! by the right!) Thirty bullets straight where the rest went wide, And thirty lads are lying on the bare hillside; But they passed in the hour of the Gordons' pride, To the skirl of the pipers' playing.

He Fell Among Thieves

"Ye have robbed," said he, "ye have slaughtered and made an end, Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead: What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?" "Blood for our blood," they said.

He laughed: "If one may settle the score for five, I am ready; but let the reckoning stand til day: I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive." "You shall die at dawn," said they.

He flung his empty revolver down the slope, He climbed alone to the Eastward edge of the trees; All night long in a dream untroubled of hope He brooded, clasping his knees.

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

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

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

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

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

He watched the liner's stem ploughing the foam, He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; He heard the passengers' voices talking of home, He saw the flag she flew.

And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet, And strode to his ruined camp below the wood; He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet: His murderers round him stood.

Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast, The blood-red snow-peaks chilled to dazzling white: He turned, and saw the golden circle at last, Cut by the Eastern height.

"O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun, I have lived, I praise and adore Thee." A sword swept. Over the pass the voices one by one Faded, and the hill slept.

Ionicus

With failing feet and shoulders bowed Beneath the weight of happier days, He lagged among the heedless crowd, Or crept along suburban ways. But still through all his heart was young, His mood a joy that nought could mar, A courage, a pride, a rapture, sprung Of the strength and splendour of England's war.

From ill-requited toil he turned To ride with Picton and with Pack, Among his grammars inly burned To storm the Afghan mountain-track. When midnight chimed, before Quebec He watched with Wolfe till the morning star; At noon he saw from _Victory's_ deck The sweep and splendour of England's war.

Beyond the book his teaching sped, He left on whom he taught the trace Of kinship with the deathless dead, And faith in all the Island Race. He passed: his life a tangle seemed, His age from fame and power was far; But his heart was night to the end, and dreamed Of the sound and splendour of England's war.

The Non-Combatant

Among a race high-handed, strong of heart, Sea-rovers, conquerors, builders in the waste, He had his birth; a nature too complete, Eager and doubtful, no man's soldier sworn And no man's chosen captain; born to fail, A name without an echo: yet he too Within the cloister of his narrow days Fulfilled the ancestral rites, and kept alive The eternal fire; it may be, not in vain; For out of those who dropped a downward glance Upon the weakling huddled at his prayers, Perchance some looked beyond him, and then first Beheld the glory, and what shrine it filled, And to what Spirit sacred: or perchance Some heard him chanting, though but to himself, The old heroic names: and went their way: And hummed his music on the march to death.

Clifton Chapel

This is the Chapel: here, my son, Your father thought the thoughts of youth, And heard the words that one by one The touch of Life has turned to truth. Here in a day that is not far, You too may speak with noble ghosts Of manhood and the vows of war You made before the Lord of Hosts.

To set the cause above renown, To love the game beyond the prize, To honour, while you strike him down, The foe that comes with fearless eyes; To count the life of battle good, And dear the land that gave you birth, And dearer yet the brotherhood That binds the brave of all the earth---

My son, the oath is yours: the end Is His, Who built the world of strife, Who gave His children Pain for friend, And Death for surest hope of life. To-day and here the fight's begun, Of the great fellowship you're free; Henceforth the School and you are one, And what You are, the race shall be.

God send you fortune: yet be sure, Among the lights that gleam and pass, You'll live to follow none more pure Than that which glows on yonder brass: "Qui procul hinc," the legend's writ,--- The frontier-grave is far away--- "Qui ante diem periit: Sed miles, sed pro patriâ."

Vitaï Lampada

There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night--- Ten to make and the match to win--- A bumping pitch and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man in. And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat, Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote--- "Play up! play up! and play the game!"

The sand of the desert is sodden red,--- Red with the wreck of a square that broke;--- The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead, And the regiment blind with dust and smoke. The river of death has brimmed his banks, And England's far, and Honour a name, But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks, "Play up! play up! and play the game!"

This is the word that year by year, While in her place the School is set, Every one of her sons must hear, And none that hears it dare forget. This they all with a joyful mind Bear through life like a torch in flame, And falling fling to the host behind--- "Play up! play up! and play the game!"

The Vigil

England! where the sacred flame Burns before the inmost shrine, Where the lips that love thy name Consecrate their hopes and thine, Where the banners of thy dead Weave their shadows overhead, Watch beside thine arms to-night, Pray that God defend the Right.

Think that when to-morrow comes War shall claim command of all, Thou must hear the roll of drums, Thou must hear the trumpet's call. Now, before they silence ruth, Commune with the voice of truth; England! on thy knees to-night Pray that God defend the Right.

Hast thou counted up the cost, What to foeman, what to friend? Glory sought is Honour lost, How should this be knighthood's end? Know'st thou what is Hatred's meed? What the surest gain of greed? England! wilt thou dare to-night Pray that God defend the Right.

Single-hearted, unafraid, Hither all thy heroes came, On this altar's steps were laid Gordon's life and Outram's fame. England! if thy will be yet By their great example set, Here beside thine arms to-night Pray that God defend the Right.

So shalt thou when morning comes Rise to conquer or to fall, Joyful hear the rolling drums, Joyful hear the trumpets call, Then let Memory tell thy heart: "England! what thou wert, thou art!" Gird thee with thine ancient might, Forth! and God defend the Right!

The Sailing Of The Long-Ships

(October, 1899)

They saw the cables loosened, they saw the gangways cleared, They heard the women weeping, they heard the men that cheered; Far off, far off, the tumult faded and died away, And all alone the sea-wind came singing up the Bay.

"I came by Cape St. Vincent, I came by Trafalgar, I swept from Torres Vedras to golden Vigo Bar, I saw the beacons blazing that fired the world with light When down their ancient highway your fathers passed to fight.

"O race of tireless fighters, flushed with a youth renewed, Right well the wars of Freedom befit the Sea-kings' brood; Yet as ye go forget not the fame of yonder shore, The fame ye owe your fathers and the old time before.

"Long-suffering were the Sea-kings, they were not swift to kill, But when the sands had fallen they waited no man's will; Though all the world forbade them, they counted not nor cared, They weighed not help or hindrance, they did the thing they dared.

"The Sea-kings loved not boasting, they cursed not him that cursed, They honoured all men duly, and him that faced them, first; They strove and knew not hatred, they smote and toiled to save, They tended whom they vanquished, they praised the fallen brave.

"Their fame's on Torres Vedras, their fame's on Vigo Bar, Far-flashed to Cape St. Vincent it burns from Trafalgar; Mark as ye go the beacons that woke the world with light When down their ancient highway your fathers passed to fight."

Waggon Hill

Drake in the North Sea grimly prowling, Treading his dear _Revenge's_ deck, Watched, with the sea-dogs round him growling, Galleons drifting wreck by wreck. "Fetter and Faith for England's neck, Faggot and Father, Saint and chain,--- Yonder the Devil and all go howling, Devon, O Devon, in wind and rain!