Spun-yarn And Spindrift Part 10

OUR DEAD

Not where the English turf grows green we laid them, Where their forefathers lie; O'er the rude trench and rough-built mound we made them Arches an alien sky.

No chime of bells from old-time towers above them; No sound of English streams, Calling of rooks, or voice of those who love them, Ever shall break their dreams.

What matters it? The earth that o'er them closes Its flowers as softly sheds As English winds could bring the English roses To rain upon their heads.

And though an alien land their dust is keeping, Still in their hearts with pride They say: "Though England may not guard our sleeping, Yet 'tis for her we died."

And with each wind across the waves that sever Them from the land they knew, Shall blow this message through their hearts forever: "England remembers too."

NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1916

Gregory fell beside the Marne, And John where flows the Aisne; But here to-night, ere midnight chime, We three shall meet again.

Though land and sea lie wide between, Their ghosts this way shall win, For, three true men, we made a bond To watch the New Year in.

We made it on a Flanders field Where white the sh.e.l.l-smoke ran; And who is Death to break the faith That man has pledged to man?

Then draw their chairs beside the fire And brim their cups with wine; For ere the bells of midnight swing Their hands shall clasp with mine.

Though Gregory lies where Marne runs down, And John beside the Aisne, Living and dead, ere midnight chime, We three shall meet again.

TO IRELAND'S DEAD

Ah, golden youths! who leave for evermore Your ports of quiet breath, Turning your prows from Life's familiar sh.o.r.e Forth with adventurous Death.

With that great comrade sailing, side by side, To meet your warrior peers, Whose names have starred the roll of Erin's pride Down all the echoing years.

Your sunlit sails flash for a moment's s.p.a.ce, Fade, waver and are gone; But, straining through the mists, our spirits trace A glory lingering on.

Farewell, great fellows.h.i.+p! Sail on, nor mourn Your ports of quiet breath; Your prows with singing and with laughter turn Forth with adventurous Death.

A SONG OF EXILE

What is the news of England?

The April breezes blow, Bringing to us faint odours From lanes we used to know-- Lanes, where the hawthorn hedges Foam into blossoms white; What is the news of England For England's sons to-night?

What is the news of England?

'Neath her white cliffs the sea Croons its soft song of summer, The golden days to be.

Her hills are fair with promise, Her woods with voices ring, From every copse the cuckoo Shouts to the jocund Spring.

What is the news of England?

Once more the cowslip gleams Gold in her misty meadows, Gold by her murmuring streams.

Once more the April breezes Blow secrets of delight From the great heart of England To England's sons to-night.

THE AIR-MEN

We brought great s.h.i.+ps to birth, We builded towns and towers-- Lords of the sea and earth, Soon shall the sky be ours.

Soon shall our navies drift Like swallows down the wind, Shall wheel and swoop and lift, Leaving the clouds behind.

The stars our keels shall know, The eagle, as it flies, Shall scream to see us go Swift moving through the skies.

High o'er the mountain-steep Our winged fleets shall sail, The serried squadrons sweep, White-pinioned down the gale.

We are the lords of the land, We built us towns and towers, The sea has felt our hand-- Soon shall the sky be ours.

THE DEFEATED

Cheer if you will the brave deed done, with laurels the victor crown, But keep one leaf of your wreath of bay for the men who lost and are down-- For the fight in vain, for the cankered grain that in blood and tears was sown.

Honour the strong of heart and hand, the sure of will and of sight, But what of the stumbling feet, the eyes that strain in vain for light?

Is there no gain for the tears and pain of the men who fell in the fight?

Beaten--baffled--with standards lost--knowing no rallying cry, Struggling still, but with failing strength, while stronger men pa.s.s by:-- Keep ye your bays; I give my praise to the men who lose and die.

THE GENTLEMEN OF OXFORD

The sunny streets of Oxford Are lying still and bare, No sound of voice or laughter Rings through the golden air; And, chiming from her belfry, No longer Christchurch calls The eager, boyish faces To gather in her halls.

The colleges are empty, Only the sun and wind Make merry in the places The lads have left behind.

But, when the trooping shadows Have put the day to flight, The Gentlemen of Oxford Come homing through the night.

From France they come, and Flanders, From Mons, and Marne and Aisne, From Greece and from Gallipoli They come to her again; From the North Sea's grey waters, From many a grave unknown, The Gentlemen of Oxford Come back to claim their own.

The dark is full of laughter, Boy laughter, glad and young, They tell the old-time stories, The old-time songs are sung; They linger in her cloisters, They throng her dewy meads, Till Isis hears their calling And laughs among her reeds.