Poems of To-Day | Page 9

hang et by the shore,
Strike et when your powder's runnin'
low;
If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,
An' drum
them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."
Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,
(Capten, art
tha sleepin' there below?)
Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for
the drum,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
{14}
Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,
Call him when ye
sail to meet the foe;
Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin'

They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago!
_Henry Newbolt._
12. THE MOON IS UP
The moon is up: the stars are bright
The wind is fresh and free!

We're out to seek for gold to-night
Across the silver sea!
The world
was growing grey and old:
Break out the sails again!
We're out to
seek a Realm of Gold
Beyond the Spanish Main.
We're sick of all the cringing knees,
The courtly smiles and lies!

God, let Thy singing Channel breeze
Lighten our hearts and eyes!


Let love no more be bought and sold
For earthly loss or gain;
We're
out to seek an Age of Gold
Beyond the Spanish Main.
Beyond the light of far Cathay,
Beyond all mortal dreams,
Beyond
the reach of night and day
Our El Dorado gleams,
{15}
Revealing--as the skies unfold--
A star without a stain,
The Glory
of the Gates of Gold
Beyond the Spanish Main.
_Alfred Noyes._
13. MINORA SIDERA
Sitting at times over a hearth that burns
With dull domestic glow,

My thought, leaving the book, gratefully turns
To you who planned it
so.
Not of the great only you deigned to tell--
The stars by which we
steer--
But lights out of the night that flashed, and fell
To night
again, are here.
Such as were those, dogs of an elder day,
Who sacked the golden
ports,
And those later who dared grapple their prey
Beneath the
harbour forts:
Some with flag at the fore, sweeping the world
To find an equal fight,

And some who joined war to their trade, and hurled
Ships of the
line in flight.
Whether their fame centuries long should ring
They cared not
over-much,
But cared greatly to serve God and the king,
And keep
the Nelson touch;
{16}

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._
14. MUSING ON A GREAT SOLDIER
_Fear? Yes_ . . . I heard you saying
In an Oxford common-room

Where the hearth-light's kindly raying
Stript the empanelled walls of
gloom,
Silver groves of candles playing
In the soft wine turned to
bloom--
At the word I see you now
Blandly push the wine-boat's
prow
Round the mirror of that scored
Yellow old mahogany board--

_I confess to one fear! this,
To be buried alive!_
My Lord,
Your fancy has played amiss.
Fear not. When in farewell
While guns toll like a bell
And the bell
tolls like a gun
Westminster towers call
Folk and state to your
funeral,
And robed in honours won,
Beneath the cloudy pall
Of
the lifted shreds of glory
{17}
You lie in the last stall
Of that grey dormitory--
Fear not lest mad
mischance
Should find you lapt and shrouded
Alive in helpless
trance
Though seeming death-beclouded:
For long ere so you rest
On that transcendent bier
Shall we not have
addressed
One summons, one last test,
To your reluctant ear?
O
believe it! we shall have uttered
In ultimate entreaty
A name your
soul would hear
Howsoever thickly shuttered;
We shall have
stooped and muttered
_England!_ in your cold ear. . . .
Then, if
your great pulse leap
No more, nor your cheek burn,

Enough; then
shall we learn
'Tis time for us to weep.

_Herbert Trench._
16. HE FELL AMONG THIEVES
"Ye have robbed," said he, "ye have slaughtered and made an end, Take
your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead;
What will ye more of your
guest and sometime friend?"
"Blood for our blood," they said.
{18}
He laughed: "If one may settle the score for five,
I am ready; but let
the reckoning stand till day:
I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any
alive."
"You shall die at dawn," said they.
He flung his empty revolver down the slope,
He climb'd alone to the
Eastward edge of the trees;
All 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.
{19}

He saw the dark wainscot and timbered roof,
The long tables, and