Chapter 4
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!"
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_The Schoolfellow_
Our game was his but yesteryear; We wished him back; we could not know The selfsame hour we missed him here He led the line that broke the foe.
Blood-red behind our guarded posts Sank as of old the 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 word was sped, For evermore thy goal was won.
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_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.
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_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.
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"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."
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_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.
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_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 more A cause on earth for which we might have died.
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_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 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.
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_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.
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"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.
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_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!_
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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._
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_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?
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And where's the wealth, I'm wondering, Could buy the cheers that roll When the last charge goes thundering Beneath 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 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 deepening 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._
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_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.
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_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.
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_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.
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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.
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_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.
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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.
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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.
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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 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.
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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 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."
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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!"
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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 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.
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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 dead What is the game that's forward fled, Ask not yet till the day be dead The 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 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.
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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 recall Won through the desert of the Burning Dark, Thou shalt behold within a garden bright A well, beside a cypress ivory-white.
Still is that well, and in its waters cool White, white and windless, sleeps that cypress tree: Who drinks but once from out her shadowy pool Shall 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 leaps From Memory's fount, wherein no cypress sleeps."
Then shalt thou drink, O Soul, and therewith slake The 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 thou With 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 spell That sealed my sacred well, Broken my fathers' fixed and ancient bars, And on the mouldering shade Wherein my dead were laid Let 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 awe For bronze-engraven law, For dust beatified and saintly name? When they shall see the shrine Princes have held divine, Will they not bow before the eternal flame?
Vain! vain! the wind of heaven for ages long Hath whispered manhood, "Let thine arm be strong! Hew down and fling away The 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 brow May for thy race redeem The source of that lost stream Once given the thirst of all the earth to slake. Nay, thou too ere the end Thy weary knee mayst bend And 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 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.
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_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.
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_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.
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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 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.
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_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.
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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 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.