Poems of To-Day | Page 8

with a quiet beat--?O wave into the sunset flowing calm!?O tired lark descending on the wheat!?Lies it all peace beyond that western fold?Where now the lingering shepherd sees his star?Rise upon Malvern? Paints an Age of Gold?Yon cloud with prophecies of linked ease--?Lulling this Land, with hills drawn up like knees,?To drowse beside her implements of war?
Man shall outlast his battles. They have swept?Avon from Naseby Field to Severn Ham;?And Evesham's dedicated stones have stepp'd?Down to the dust with Montfort's oriflamme.?Nor the red tear nor the reflected tower?Abides; but yet these eloquent grooves remain,?Worn in the sandstone parapet hour by hour?By labouring bargemen where they shifted ropes.?E'en so shall man turn back from violent hopes?To Adam's cheer, and toil with spade again.
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Ay, and his mother Nature, to whose lap?Like a repentant child at length he hies,?Not in the whirlwind or the thunder-clap?Proclaims her more tremendous mysteries:?But when in winter's grave, bereft of light,?With still, small voice divinelier whispering?--Lifting the green head of the aconite,?Feeding with sap of hope the hazel-shoot--?She feels God's finger active at the root,?Turns in her sleep, and murmurs of the Spring.
_Arthur Quiller-Couch._
8. BY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES AT CHARING CROSS
Sombre and rich, the skies;?Great glooms, and starry plains.?Gently the night wind sighs;?Else a vast silence reigns.
The splendid silence clings?Around me: and around?The saddest of all kings?Crowned, and again discrowned.
Comely and calm, he rides?Hard by his own Whitehall:?Only the night wind glides:?No crowds, nor rebels, brawl.
Gone, too, his Court; and yet,?The stars his courtiers are:?Stars in their stations set;?And every wandering star.
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Alone he rides, alone,?The fair and fatal king:?Dark night is all his own,?That strange and solemn thing.
Which are more full of fate:?The stars; or those sad eyes??Which are more still and great:?Those brows; or the dark skies?
Although his whole heart yearn?In passionate tragedy:?Never was face so stern?With sweet austerity.
Vanquished in life, his death?By beauty made amends:?The passing of his breath?Won his defeated ends.
Brief life and hapless? Nay:?Through death, life grew sublime.?_Speak after sentence?_ Yea:?And to the end of time.
Armoured he rides, his head?Bare to the stars of doom:?He triumphs now, the dead,?Beholding London's gloom.
Our wearier spirit faints,?Vexed in the world's employ:
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His soul was of the saints;?And art to him was joy.
King, tried in fires of woe!?Men hunger for thy grace:?And through the night I go,?Loving thy mournful face.
Yet when the city sleeps;?When all the cries are still:?The stars and heavenly deeps?Work out a perfect will.
_Lionel Johnson._
10. TO THE FORGOTTEN DEAD
To the forgotten dead,?Come, let us drink in silence ere we part.?To every fervent yet resolvèd heart?That brought its tameless passion and its tears,?Renunciation and laborious years,?To lay the deep foundations of our race,?To rear its stately fabric overhead?And light its pinnacles with golden grace.?To the unhonoured dead.
To the forgotten dead,?Whose dauntless hands were stretched to grasp the rein?Of Fate and hurl into the void again?Her thunder-hoofed horses, rushing blind?Earthward along the courses of the wind.
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Among the stars, along the wind in vain?Their souls were scattered and their blood was shed,?And nothing, nothing of them doth remain.?To the thrice-perished dead.
_Margaret L. Woods._
11. DRAKE'S DRUM
Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,?(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)?Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,?An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.?Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,?Wi' sailor-lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,?An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin', He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.
Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,?(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)?Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,?An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.?"Take my drum to England, 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.
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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