And fought to build Britain above the tide
Of wars and windy fate;

And passed content, leaving to us the pride
Of lives obscurely great.

Henry Newbolt.

The Winners

E stand one with the men that died;
Whatever the goal, we have these beside!
Living or dead, we are comrades all,-

W

O battles are won by the men that fall!

He who died quick with his face to the foe,
In the heart of a friend must needs die slow:
Over his grave shall be heard the call,-
The battle is won by the men that fall!

For a dead man leaves you a work to do:
Your heart's so full that you fight like two!
And the dead man's aim is the best of all,-
The battle is won by the men that fall.

Oh, lads, dear lads, who were loyal and true,
The worst of the fight was borne by you;
So the word shall go to cottage and hall,-
Our battles are won by the men that fall.

When peace dawns over the country side,
Our thanks shall be to the lads that died;
Oh, quiet hearts, can they hear us tell
How peace was won by the men that fell?

Laurence Housman.

Rank and File

Undistinguished Dead!

Whom the bent covers, or the rock-strewn
steep

Shows to the stars, for you I mourn-I weep,
O undistinguished Dead!

None knows your name.

Blackened and blurred in the wild battle's brunt,
Hotly you fell . . . with all your wounds in front:-
This is your fame!

Austin Dobson.

Obscure Martyrs

HEY have no place in storied page,
No rest in marble shrine;

They are past and gone with a perished age,
They died, and made no sign.

But work that shall find its wages yet,

And deeds that their God did not forget,
Done for the love divine-

These were their mourners, and these shall be
The crowns of their immortality.

Oh! seek them not where sleep the dead,
Ye shall not find their trace;

No graven stone is at their head,

No green grass hides their face; But sad and unseen is their silent graveIt may be the sand or the deep sea-wave, Or a lonely desert place;

For they needed no prayers, and no mourning-bell, They were tombed in the true hearts that knew them

well.

They healed sick hearts till theirs were broken,
And dried sad eyes till theirs lost light;
We shall know at last by a certain token
How they fought, and fell in the fight.

Salt tears of sorrow unbeheld,

Passionate cries unchronicled,

And silent strifes for the right,

Angels shall count them, and Earth shall sigh
That she left her best children to battle and die!

Sir Edwin Arnold.

From "The Prelude'

THERS, too,

There are among the walks of homely life
Still higher, men for contemplation framed,
Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase;
Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would
sink

Beneath them, summoned to such intercourse:
Theirs is the language of the heavens, the power,
The thought, the image, and the silent joy:
Words are but under-agents in their souls;
When they are grasping with their greatest strength,
They do not breathe among them: this I speak
In gratitude to God, Who feeds our hearts
For His own service; knoweth, loveth us,
When we are unregarded by the world.

Wordsworth.

Quiet Work

|NE lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee,
One lesson which in every wind is blown,
One lesson of two duties kept at one
Though the loud world proclaim their en-
mity-

Of toil unsever'd from tranquillity;

Of labour, that in lasting fruit outgrows
Far noisier schemes, accomplish'd in repose,
Too great for haste, too high for rivalry.

Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring,
Man's fitful uproar mingling with his toil,
Still do thy sleepless ministers move on,

Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting;
Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil,
Labourers that shall not fail, when man is gone.

Matthew Arnold.

In an Illuminated Missal

WOULD have loved: there are no mates in heaven;

I would be great: there is no pride in heaven; I would have sung, as doth the nightingale The summer's night beneath the moonè pale, But Saintès hymnes alone in heaven prevail. My love, my song, my skill, my high intent, Have I within this seely book y-pent; And all that beauty which from every part I treasured still alway within mine heart,

Whether of form or face angelical,

Or herb or flower, or lofty cáthedral,
Upon these sheets below doth lie y-spred,
In quaint devices deftly blazoned.

Lord, in this tome to thee I sanctify

The sinful fruits of worldly fantasy.

Charles Kingsley.

W

On his Blindness

HEN I consider how my light is spent,

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent, which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul
more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he, returning, chide;
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait".

Milton.