In Flanders Fields | Page 4

breast --
The English flowers he likes the best
That I bring from
Brecon Town.

And I sit beside him -- him and me,
(We're back to Brecon Town.)

To talk of the things that used to be
(Grey ghosts of Brecon Town);

I know the look o' the land and sky,
And the bird that builds in the
tree near by,
And times I hear the jackals cry,
And me in Brecon
Town.
Golden grey on miles of sand
The dawn comes creeping down;
It's
day in far off Zululand
And night in Brecon Town.
The Unconquered Dead
". . . defeated, with great loss."
Not we the conquered! Not to us the blame
Of them that flee, of them
that basely yield;
Nor ours the shout of victory, the fame
Of them
that vanquish in a stricken field.
That day of battle in the dusty heat
We lay and heard the bullets
swish and sing
Like scythes amid the over-ripened wheat,
And we
the harvest of their garnering.
Some yielded, No, not we! Not we, we swear
By these our wounds;
this trench upon the hill
Where all the shell-strewn earth is seamed
and bare,
Was ours to keep; and lo! we have it still.
We might have yielded, even we, but death
Came for our helper; like
a sudden flood
The crashing darkness fell; our painful breath
We
drew with gasps amid the choking blood.
The roar fell faint and farther off, and soon
Sank to a foolish
humming in our ears,
Like crickets in the long, hot afternoon

Among the wheat fields of the olden years.
Before our eyes a boundless wall of red
Shot through by sudden
streaks of jagged pain!
Then a slow-gathering darkness overhead

And rest came on us like a quiet rain.

Not we the conquered! Not to us the shame,
Who hold our earthen
ramparts, nor shall cease
To hold them ever; victors we, who came

In that fierce moment to our honoured peace.
The Captain
1797
Here all the day she swings from tide to tide,
Here all night long she
tugs a rusted chain,
A masterless hulk that was a ship of pride,
Yet
unashamed: her memories remain.
It was Nelson in the `Captain', Cape St. Vincent far alee,
With the
`Vanguard' leading s'uth'ard in the haze --
Little Jervis and the
Spaniards and the fight that was to be, Twenty-seven Spanish
battleships, great bullies of the sea, And the `Captain' there to find her
day of days.
Right into them the `Vanguard' leads, but with a sudden tack The
Spaniards double swiftly on their trail;
Now Jervis overshoots his
mark, like some too eager pack,
He will not overtake them, haste he
e'er so greatly back,
But Nelson and the `Captain' will not fail.
Like a tigress on her quarry leaps the `Captain' from her place, To lie
across the fleeing squadron's way:
Heavy odds and heavy onslaught,
gun to gun and face to face, Win the ship a name of glory, win the men
a death of grace, For a little hold the Spanish fleet in play.
Ended now the "Captain"'s battle, stricken sore she falls aside Holding
still her foemen, beaten to the knee:
As the `Vanguard' drifted past
her, "Well done, `Captain'," Jervis cried, Rang the cheers of men that
conquered, ran the blood of men that died, And the ship had won her
immortality.
Lo! here her progeny of steel and steam,
A funnelled monster at her
mooring swings:
Still, in our hearts, we see her pennant stream,


And "Well done, `Captain'," like a trumpet rings.
The Song of the Derelict
Ye have sung me your songs, ye have chanted your rimes
(I scorn
your beguiling, O sea!)
Ye fondle me now, but to strike me betimes.

(A treacherous lover, the sea!)
Once I saw as I lay, half-awash in
the night
A hull in the gloom -- a quick hail -- and a light
And I
lurched o'er to leeward and saved her for spite
From the doom that ye
meted to me.
I was sister to `Terrible', seventy-four,
(Yo ho! for the swing of the
sea!)
And ye sank her in fathoms a thousand or more
(Alas! for the
might of the sea!)
Ye taunt me and sing me her fate for a sign!

What harm can ye wreak more on me or on mine?
Ho braggart! I care
not for boasting of thine --
A fig for the wrath of the sea!
Some night to the lee of the land I shall steal,
(Heigh-ho to be home
from the sea!)
No pilot but Death at the rudderless wheel,
(None
knoweth the harbor as he!)
To lie where the slow tide creeps hither
and fro
And the shifting sand laps me around, for I know
That my
gallant old crew are in Port long ago --
For ever at peace with the sea!
Quebec
1608-1908
Of old, like Helen, guerdon of the strong --
Like Helen fair, like
Helen light of word, --
"The spoils unto the conquerors belong.

Who winneth me must win me by the sword."
Grown old, like Helen, once the jealous prize
That strong men battled
for in savage hate,
Can she