Poems of To-Day: an Anthology. Various

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Poems of To-Day: an Anthology - Various

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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 watch'd the liner's stem ploughing the foam,

          He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw;

        He heard her 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 ruin'd 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 a dazzling white;

        He turn'd, 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.

Henry Newbolt.

      16. ENGLAND

        Shall we but turn from braggart pride

        Our race to cheapen and defame?

        Before the world to wail, to chide,

        And weakness as with vaunting claim?

        Ere the hour strikes, to abdicate

        The steadfast spirit that made us great,

        And rail with scolding tongues at fate?

        If England's heritage indeed

        Be lost, be traded quite away

        For fatted sloth and fevered greed;

        If, inly rotting, we decay;

        Suffer we then what doom we must,

        But silent, as befits the dust

        Of them whose chastisement was just.

        But rather, England, rally thou

        Whatever breathes of faith that still

        Within thee keeps the undying vow

        And dedicates the constant will.

        For such yet lives, if not among

        The boasters, or the loud of tongue,

        Who cry that England's knell is rung.

        The fault of heart, the small of brain,

        In thee but their own image find;

        Beyond such thoughts as these contain

        A mightier Presence is enshrined.

        Nor meaner than their birthright grown

        Shall these thy latest sons be shown,

        So thou but use them for thine own.

        By those great spirits burning high

        In our home's heaven, that shall be stars

        To shine, when all is history

        And rumour of old, idle wars;

        By all those hearts which proudly bled

        To make this rose of England red;

        The living, the triumphant dead;

        By all who suffered and stood fast

        That Freedom might the weak uphold,

        And in men's ways of wreck and waste

        Justice her awful flower unfold;

        By all who out of grief and wrong

        In passion's art of noble song

        Made Beauty to our speech belong;

        By those adventurous ones who went

        Forth overseas, and, self-exiled,

        Sought from far isle and continent

        Another England in the wild,

        For whom no drums beat, yet they fought

        Alone, in courage of a thought

        Which an unbounded future wrought;

        Yea, and yet more by those to-day

        Who toil and serve for naught of gain,

        That in thy purer glory they

        May melt their ardour and their pain;

        By these and by the faith of these,

        The faith that glorifies and frees,

        Thy lands call on thee, and thy seas.

        If thou hast sinned, shall we forsake

        Thee, or the less account us thine?

        Thy sores, thy shames on us we take.

        Flies not for us thy famed ensign?

        Be ours to cleanse and to atone;

        No man this burden bears alone;

        England, our best shall be thine own.

        Lift up thy cause into the light!

        Put all the factious lips to shame!

        Our loves, our faiths, our hopes unite

        And strike into a single flame!

        Whatever from without betide,

        O purify the soul of pride

        In us; thy slumbers cast aside;

        And of thy sons be justified!

Laurence Binyon.

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