Deemest thou, labour

Only is earnest?

Grave is all beauty,
Solemn is joy.

Song is no bauble-
Slight not the songsmith,

England my mother,

Maker of men.

William Watson.

To a Revolutionary Poet

B

ECAUSE you could not choose to cramp Your stripling soul in custom's mail, Nor prate the catchwords of the camp, Nor strive to shine, nor fear to fail, Therefore your soul was made aware Of many secrets in the air.

Because you could not choose but hear
The weary rumour underground,
Though all your fellows closed their ear,
Or knew no meaning in the sound,
Therefore your ear and voice grew free
Of all the moods of melody.

Because from week to week you wrought
Through Rhyme or Reason to make plain
The burden of our age's thought

For toiling and untutored men,

You earned a master-craftman's skill
To marshal words to speak your will.

Because your heart was wont to move

Less for its own than others' pain,

Because you did not fear to love

With only loving for your gain, The tedious years have had no power Your sturdy cheerfulness to sour.

Comrade, because your soul was free,
Because in strife with gloom and wrong
Your ear and pen learnt mastery,

Because your heart was blithe and strong, Therefore for us these songs of yours

Breathe of the beauty that endures.

ON after days when grasses high

O'ertop the stone where I shall lie, Though ill or well the world adjust My slender claim to honoured dust, I shall not question or reply.

I shall not see the morning sky;
I shall not hear the night-wind sigh;
I shall be mute, as all men must
In after days!

But yet, now living, fain were I
That some one then should testify,
Saying " He held his pen in trust
To Art, not serving shame or lust ".
Will none? Then let my memory die
In after days!

Austin Dobson.

The Scholar

Y days among the Dead are past;
Around me I behold,

M

Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old;

My never-failing friends are they,

With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;

And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,

My cheeks have often been bedewed
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
I live in long past years,

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears,

And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead; anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on

Through all Futurity;

Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.

Southey.

W

Ionicus

ITH failing feet and shoulders bowed
Beneath the weight of happier days,
He lagged among the heedless crowd,
Or crept along suburban ways.

But still through all his heart was young,

His mood a joy that naught could mar,

A courage, a pride, a rapture, sprung

Of the strength and splendour of England's war.

From ill-requited toil he turned

To ride with Picton and with Pack, Among his grammars inly burned

To storm the Afghan mountain-track. When midnight chimed, before Quebec

He watched with Wolfe till the morning star;

At noon he saw from Victory's deck

The sweep and splendour of England's war.

Beyond the book his teaching sped,

He left on whom he taught the trace Of kinship with the deathless dead, And faith in all the Island Race. He passed: his life a tangle seemed, His age from fame and power was far; But his heart was high to the end, and dreamed Of the sound and splendour of England's war. Henry Newbolt.

Founder's Day

Eton, 1891

HRIST and His Mother, heavenly Maid,
Mary, in whose fair name was laid
Eton's corner, bless our youth

With truth, and purity, mother of truth!

O ye, 'neath breezy skies of June

By silver Thames's lulling tune,
In shade of willow or oak, who try
The golden gates of Poesy;

Or on the tabled sward all day
Match your strength in England's play,
Scholars of Henry, giving grace

To toil and force in game or race;

Exceed the prayer and keep the fame
Of him, the sorrowful king, who came
Here in his realm a realm to found,
Where he might stand for ever crowned.

Or whether with naked bodies flashing
Ye plunge in the lashing weir; or dashing
The oars of cedar skiffs, ye strain
Round the rushes and home again;-

Or what pursuit soe'er it be

That makes your mingled presence free,
When by the School-gate 'neath the limes
Ye muster waiting the lazy chimes;

May Peace, that conquereth sin and death,
Temper for you her sword of faith;