Chapter 3

Drake at the last off Nombre lying, Knowing the night that toward him crept, Gave to the sea-dogs round him crying, This for a sign before he slept:--- "Pride of the West! What Devon hath kept Devon shall keep on tide or main; Call to the storm and drive them flying, Devon, O Devon, in wind and rain!"

Valour of England gaunt and whitening, Far in a South land brought to bay, Locked in a death-grip all day tightening, Waited the end in twilight gray. Battle and storm and the sea-dog's way! Drake from his long rest turned again, Victory lit thy steel with lightning, Devon, o Devon, in wind and rain!

The Volunteer

"He leapt to arms unbidden, Unneeded, over-bold; His face by earth is hidden, His heart in earth is cold.

"Curse on the reckless daring That could not wait the call, The proud fantastic bearing That would be first to fall!"

O tears of human passion, Blur not the image true; This was not folly's fashion, This was the man we knew.

The Only Son

O Bitter wind toward the sunset blowing, What of the dales to-night? In yonder gray old hall what fires are glowing, What ring of festal light?

"In the great window as the day was dwindling I saw an old man stand; His head was proudly held and his eyes kindling, But the list shook in his hand."

O wind of twilight, was there no word uttered, No sound of joy or wail? "'A great fight and a good death,' he muttered; 'Trust him, he would not fail.'"

What of the chamber dark where she was lying; For whom all life is done? "Within her heart she rocks a dead child, crying 'My son, my ltttle son.'"

The Grenadier's Good-Bye

"When Lieutenant Murray fell, the only words he spoke were, 'Forward, Grenadiers!'"---Press Telegram.

Here they halted, here once more Hand from hand was rent; Here his voice above the roar Rang, and on they went. Yonder out of sight they crossed, Yonder died the cheers; One word lives where all is lost--- "Forward, Grenadiers!"

This alone he asked of fame, This alone of pride; Still with this he faced the flame, Answered Death, and died. Crest of battle sunward tossed, Song of the marching years, This shall live though all be lost--- "Forward, Grenadiers!"

The Schoolfellow

Our game was his but yesteryear; We wished him back; we could not know The self-same hour we missed him here He led the line that broke the foe.

Blood-red behind our guarded posts Sank as of old and dying day; The battle ceased; the mingled hosts Weary and cheery went their way:

"To-morrow well may bring," we said, "As fair a fight, as clear a sun." Dear lad, before the world was sped, For evermore thy goal was won.

On Spion Kop

Foremost of all on battle's fiery steep Here VERTUE fell, and here he sleeps his sleep.* A fairer name no Roman ever gave To stand sole monument on Valour's grave.

* Major N. H. Vertue, of the Buffs, Brigade-Major to General Woodgate, was buried where he fell, on the edge of Spion Kop, in front of the British position.

The School At War

All night before the brink of death In fitful sleep the army lay, For through the dream that stilled their breath Too gauntly glared the coming day.

But we, within whose blood there leaps The fulness of a life as wide As Avon's water where he sweeps Seaward at last with Severn's tide,

We heard beyond the desert night The murmur of the fields we knew, And our swift souls with one delight Like homing swallows Northward flew.

We played again the immortal games, And grappled with the fierce old friends, And cheered the dead undying names, And sang the song that never ends;

Till, when the hard, familiar bell Told that the summer night was late, Where long ago we said farewell We said farewell by the old gate.

"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."

By The Hearth-Stone

By the hearth-stone She sits alone, The long night bearing: With eyes that gleam Into the dream Of the firelight staring.

Low and more low The dying glow Burns in the embers; She nothing heeds And nothing needs--- Only remembers.

Peace

No more to watch by Night's eternal shore, With England's chivalry at dawn to ride; No more defeat, faith, victory---O! no more A cause on earth for which we might have died.

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--- We miss them from the moor road, They're getting old to roam, The road they're on's a sure road And nearer, lad, to home.

Your name, the name they cherish? 'Twill fade, lad, 'tis true: But stone and all may perish With little loss to you. While fame's fame you're Devon, lad, The Glory of the West; Till the roll's called in heaven, lad, You may well take your rest.

Commemoration

I sat by the granite pillar, and sunlight fell Where the sunlight fell of old, And the hour was the hour my heart remembered well, And the sermon rolled and rolled As it used to roll when the place was still unhaunted, And the strangest tale in the world was still untold.

And I knew that of all this rushing of urgent sound That I so clearly heard, The green young forest of saplings clustered round Was heeding not one word: Their heads were bowed in a still serried patience Such as an angel's breath could never have stirred.

For some were already away to the hazardous pitch, Or lining the parapet wall, And some were in glorious battle, or great and rich, Or throned in a college hall: And among the rest was one like my own young phantom, Dreaming for ever beyond my utmost call.

"O Youth," the preacher was crying, "deem not thou Thy life is thine alone; Thou bearest the will of the ages, seeing how They built thee bone by bone, And within thy blood the Great Age sleeps sepulchred Till thou and thine shall roll away the stone.

"Therefore the days are coming when thou shalt burn With passion whitely hot; Rest shall be rest no more; thy feet shall spurn All that thy hand hath got; And One that is stronger shall gird thee, and lead thee swiftly Whither, O heart of Youth, thou wouldest not."

And the School passed; and I saw the living and dead Set in their seats again, And I longed to hear them speak of the word that was said, But I knew that I longed in vain. And they stretched forth their hands, and the wind of the spirit took them Lightly as drifted leaves on an endless plain.

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 knew Before we took the stream: Though long we've missed the sight of her, Our hearts may not forget; We've lost the old delight of her, We keep her honour yet.

We'll honour yet the school we knew, The best school of all: We'll honour yet the rule we knew, Till the last bell call. For working days or holidays, And glad or melancholy days, They were great days and jolly days At the best school of all.

The stars and sounding vanities That half the crowd bewitch, What are they but inanities To him that treads the pitch? And where's the welth I'm wondering, Could buy the cheers that roll When the last charge goes thundering Towards 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 days At the best school of all.

England

Praise thou with praise unending, The Master of the Wine; To all their portions sending Himself he mingled thine:

The sea-born flush of morning, The sea-born hush of night, The East wind comfort scorning, And the North wind driving right:

The world for gain and giving, The game for man and boy, The life that joys in living, The faith that lives in joy.

Victoria Regina

(June 21st, 1897*)

A thousand years by sea and land Our race hath served the island kings, But not by custom's dull command To-day with song her Empire rings:

Not all the glories of her birth, Her armed renown and ancient throne, Could make her less the child of earth Or give her hopes beyond our own:

But stayed on faith more sternly proved And pride than ours more pure and deep, She loves the land our fathers loved And keeps the fame our sons shall keep.

* These lines, with music by Dr. Lloyd, formed part of the Cycle of Song offered to Queen Victoria, of blessed and glorious memory, in celebration of her second Jubilee.

The King Of England

(June 24th, 1902)

In that eclipse of noon when joy was hushed Like the bird's song beneath unnatural night, And Terror's footfall in the darkness crushed The rose imperial of our delight, Then, even then, though no man cried "He comes," And no man turned to greet him passing there, With phantom heralds challenging renown And silent-throbbing drums I saw the King of England, hale and fair, Ride out with a great train through London town.

Unarmed he rode, but in his ruddy shield The lions bore the dint of many a lance, And up and down his mantle's azure field Were strewn the lilies plucked in famous France. Before him went with banner floating wide The yeoman breed that served his honour best, And mixed with these his knights of noble blood; But in the place of pride His admirals in billowy lines abreast Convoyed him close like galleons on the flood.

Full of a strength unbroken showed his face And his brow calm with youth's unclouded dawn, But round his lips were lines of tenderer grace Such as no hand but Time's hath ever drawn. Surely he knew his glory had no part In dull decay, nor unto Death must bend, Yet surely too of lengthening shadows dreamed With sunset in his heart, So brief his beauty now, so near the end, And now so old and so immortal seemed.

O King among the living, these shall hail Sons of thy dust that shall inherit thee: O King of men that die, though we must fail Thy life is breathed from thy triumphant sea. O man that servest men by right of birth, Our hearts' content thy heart shall also keep, Thou too with us shalt one day lay thee down In our dear native earth, Full sure the King of England, while we sleep, For ever rides abroad, through London town.

The Nile

Out of the unknown South, Through the dark lands of drouth, Far wanders ancient Nile in slumber gliding: Clear-mirrored in his dream The deeds that haunt his stream Flash out and fade like stars in midnight sliding. Long since, before the life of man Rose from among the lives that creep, With Time's own tide began That still mysterious sleep, Only to cease when Time shall reach the eternal deep.

From out his vision vast The early gods have passed, They waned and perished with the faith that made them; The long phantasmal line Of Pharaohs crowned divine Are dust among the dust that once obeyed them. Their land is one mute burial mound, Save when across the drifted years Some chant of hollow sound, Some triumph blent with tears, From Memnon's lips at dawn wakens the desert meres.

O Nile, and can it be No memory dwells with thee Of Grecian lore and the sweet Grecian singer? The legions' iron tramp, The Goths' wide-wandering camp, Had these no fame that by thy shore might linger? Nay, then must all be lost indeed, Lost too the swift pursuing might That cleft with passionate speed Aboukir's tranquil night, And shattered in mid-swoop the great world-eagle's flight.

Yet have there been on earth Spirits of starry birth, Whose splendour rushed to no eternal setting: They over all endure, Their course through all is sure, The dark world's light is still of their begetting. Though the long past forgotten lies, Nile! in thy dream remember him, Whose like no more shall rise Above our twilight's rim, Until the immortal dawn shall make all glories dim.

For this man was not great By gold or kingly state, Or the bright sword, or knowledge of earth's wonder; But more than all his race He saw life face to face, And heard the still small voice above the thunder. O river, while thy waters roll By yonder vast deserted tomb, There, where so clear a soul So shone through gathering doom, Thou and thy land shall keep the tale of lost Khartoum.

Sráhmandázi*

Deep embowered beside the forest river, Where the flame of sunset only falls, Lapped in silence lies the House of Dying, House of them to whom the twilight calls.

There within when day was near to ending, By her lord a woman young and strong, By his chief a songman old and stricken Watched together till the hour of song.

"O my songman, now the bow is broken, Now the arrows one by one are sped, Sing to me the song of Sráhmandázi, Sráhmandázi, home of all the dead."

Then the songman, flinging wide his songnet, On the last token laid his master's hand, While he sang the song of Sráhmandázi, None but dying men can understand.

"Yonder sun that fierce and fiery-hearted Marches down the sky to vanish soon, At the self-same hour in Sráhmandázi Rises pallid like the rainy moon.

"There he sees the heroes by their river, Where the great fish daily upward swim; Yet they are but shadows hunting shadows, Phantom fish in waters drear and dim.

"There he sees the kings among their headmen, Women weaving, children playing games; Yet they are but shadows ruling shadows, Phantom folk with dim forgotten names.

"Bid farewell to all that most thou lovest, Tell thy heart thy living life is done; All the days and deeds of Sráhmandázi Are not worth an hour of yonder sun.

Dreamily the chief from out the songnet Drew his hand and touched the woman's head: "Know they not, then, love in Sráhmandázi? Has a king no bride among the dead?"

Then the songman answered, "O my master, Love they know, but none may learn it there; Only souls that reach that land together Keep their troth and find the twilight fair.

"Thou art still a king, and at thy passing By thy latest word must all abide: If thou willest, here am I, thy songman; If thou lovest, here is she, thy bride."

Hushed and dreamy lay the House of Dying, Dreamily the sunlight upward failed, Dreamily the chief on eyes that loved him Looked with eyes the coming twilight veiled.

Then he cried, "My songman, I am passing; Let her live, her life is but begun; All the days and nights of Sráhmandázi Are not worth an hour of yonder sun."

Yet, when there within the House of Dying The last silence held the sunset air, Not alone he came to Sráhmandázi, Not alone she found the twilight fair:

While the songman, far beneath the forest Sang of Srahmandazi all night through, "Lovely be thy name, O Land of shadows, Land of meeting, Land of all the true!"

* 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 then The lonely hearts that roam the outer sea?

Gray wakes the daybreak, the shivering sails are set, To misty deeps The channel sweeps--- O Mother, think on us who think on thee! Earth-home, birth-home, with love remember yet The sons in exile on the eternal sea.

Hope The Hornblower

"Hark ye, hark to the winding horn; Sluggards, awake, and front the morn! Hark ye, hark to the winding horn; The sun's on meadow and mill. Follow me, hearts that love the chase; Follow me, feet that keep the pace: Stirrup to stirrup we ride, we ride, We ride by moor and hill."

Huntsman, huntsman, whither away? What is the quarry afoot to-day? Huntsman, huntsman, whither away, And what the game ye kill? Is it the deer, that men may dine? Is it the wolf that tears the kine? What is the race ye ride, ye ride, Ye ride by moor and hill?

"Ask not yet till the day be dead What is the game that's forward fled, Ask not yet till the day be dead The game we follow still. 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 trod And our eyes loved thy lamp's eternal beam, Dim earthly radiance of the Unknown God, Hope of the darkness, light of them that dream, Far off, far off and faint, O glimmer on Till we thy pilgrims from the road are gone.

O Word whose meaning every sense hath sought, Voice of the teeming field and grassy mound, Deep-whispering fountain of the wells of thought, Will of the wind and soul of all sweet sound, Far off, far off and faint, O murmur on Till we thy pilgrims from the road are gone.

In July

His beauty bore no token, No sign our gladness shook; With tender strength unbroken The hand of Life he took: But the summer flowers were falling, Falling and fading away, And mother birds were calling, Crying and calling For their loves that would not stay.

He knew not Autumn's chillness, Nor Winter's wind nor Spring's. He lived with Summer's stillness And sun and sunlit things: But when the dusk was falling He went the shadowy way, And one more heart is calling, Crying and calling For the love that would not stay.

From Generation To Generation

O Son of mine, when dusk shall find thee bending Between a gravestone and a cradle's head--- Between the love whose name is loss unending And the young love whose thoughts are liker dread,--- Thou too shalt groan at heart that all thy spending Cannot repay the dead, the hungry dead.

When I Remember

When I remember that the day will come For this our love to quit his land of birth, And bid farewell to all the ways of earth With lips that must for evermore be dumb,

Then creep I silent from the stirring hum, And shut away the music and the mirth, And reckon up what may be left of worth When hearts are cold and love's own body numb.

Something there must be that I know not here, Or know too dimly through the symbol dear; Some touch, some beauty, only guessed by this--- If He that made us loves, it shall replace, Beloved, even the vision of thy face And deep communion of thine inmost kiss.

Rondel*

Though I wander far-off ways, Dearest, never doubt thou me:

Mine is not the love that strays, Though I wander far-off ways:

Faithfully for all my days I have vowed myself to thee: Though I wander far-off ways, Dearest, never doubt thou me.

* This and the two following pieces are from the French of Wenceslas, Duke of Brabant and Luxembourg, who died in 1384.

Rondel

Long ago to thee I gave Body, soul, and all I have--- Nothing in the world I keep:

All that in return I crave Is that thou accept the slave Long ago to thee I gave--- Body, soul, and all I have.

Had I more to share or save, I would give as give the brave, Stooping not to part the heap; Long ago to thee I gave Body, soul, and all I have--- Nothing in the world I keep.

Balade

I cannot tell, of twain beneath this bond, Which one in grief the other goes beyond,--- Narcissus, who to end the pain he bore Died of the love that could not help him more; Or I, that pine because I cannot see The lady who is queen and love to me.

Nay--for Narcissus, in the forest pond Seeing his image, made entreaty fond, "Beloved, comfort on my longing pour": So for a while he soothed his passion sore; So cannot I, for all too far is she--- The lady who is queen and love to me.

But since that I have Love's true colours donned, I in his service will not now despond, For in extremes Love yet can all restore: So till her beauty walks the world no more All day remembered in my hope shall be The lady who is queen and love to me.

The Last Word

Before the April night was late A rider came to the castle gate; A rider breathing human breath, But the words he spoke were the words of Death.

"Greet you well from the King our lord, He marches hot for the eastward ford; Living or dying, all or one, Ye must keep the ford till the race be run.

Sir Alain rose with lips that smiled, He kissed his wife, he kissed his child: Before the April night was late Sir Alain rode from the castle gate.

He called his men-at-arms by name, But one there was uncalled that came: He bade his troop behind him ride, But there was one that rode beside.

"Why will you spur so fast to die? Be wiser ere the night go by. A message late is a message lost; For all your haste the foe had crossed.

"Are men such small unmeaning things To strew the board of smiling Kings? With life and death they play their game, And life or death, the end's the same."

Softly the April air above Rustled the woodland homes of love: Softly the April air below Carried the dream of buds that blow.

"Is he that bears a warrior's fame To shun the pointless stroke of shame? Will he that propped a trembling throne Not stand for right when right's his own?

"Your oath on the four gospels sworn? What oath can bind resolves unborn? You lose that far eternal life? Is it yours to lose? Is it child and wife?

But now beyond the pathway's bend, Sir Alain saw the forest end, And winding wide beneath the hill, The glassy river lone and still.

And now he saw with lifted eyes The East like a great chancel rise, And deep through all his senses drawn, Received the sacred wine of dawn.

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