Collected Poems 1897 - 1907, by Henry Newbolt Part 8

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 rus.h.i.+ng of urgent sound That I so clearly heard, The green young forest of saplings cl.u.s.tered 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sed; 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 pa.s.sion 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*)