Vagabond and Other Poems from Punch | Page 6

a sight that all but made amend:?For they beheld him as a radiant spirit?Indued with virtue and surpassing merit,?Not vain or dull or mean or keen for pelf,?But splendid--as he mostly saw himself.?Darville and Fall were drawn to one another,?And both to Bent as to their heart's own brother;?And a strange feeling grew in every breast,?A self-defeating altruistic zest?Which from that moment's flash composed their strife,?Informed their nature and controlled their life.?But when they sought the Gipsy, him they found,?His dark eyes staring, dead upon the ground.
THE BIRD IN THE ROOM
A robin skimmed into the room,?And blithe he looked and jolly,?A foe to every sort of gloom,?And, most, to melancholy.?He cocked his head, he made no sound,?But gave me stare for stare back,?When, having fluttered round and round,?He perched upon a chair-back.
I rose; ah, then, it seemed, he knew?Too late his reckless error:?Away in eager haste he flew,?And at his tail flew terror.?Now here, now there, from wall to floor,?For mere escape appealing,?He fled and struck against the door?Or bumped about the ceiling.
I went and flung each window wide,?I drew each half-raised blind up;?To coax him out in vain I tried;?He could not make his mind up.?He flew, he fell, he took a rest,?And off again he scuffled?With parted beak and panting breast?And every feather ruffled.
At length I lured him to the sill,?All dazed and undivining;?Beyond was peace o'er vale and hill,?And all the air was shining.?I stretched my hand and touched him; then?He made no more resistance,?But left the cramped abode of men?And flew into the distance.

Is life like that? We make it so;?We leave the sunny spaces,?And beat about, or high or low,?In dark and narrow places;?Till, worn with failure, vexed with doubt,?Our strength at last we rally,?And the bruised spirit flutters out?To find the happy valley.
KILLED IN ACTION
RUPERT is dead, and RUPERT was my friend;?"Only surviving son of"--so it ran--?"Beloved husband" and the rest of it.?But six months back I saw him full of life,?Ardent for fighting; now he lies at ease?In some obscure but splendid field of France,?His strivings over and his conflicts done.?He was a fellow of most joyous moods?And quaint contrivings, ever on the point?Of shaking fame and fortune by the hand?But always baulked of meeting them at last.?He could not brook--and always so declared--?The weak pomposities of little men,?Scorned all the tin-gods of our petty world,?And plunged headlong into imprudences,?And smashed conventions with a reckless zeal,?Holding his luck and not himself to blame?For aught that might betide when reckoning came.?But he was true as steel and staunch as oak.?And if he pledged his word he bore it out?Unswerving to the finish, and he gave?Whate'er he had of strength to help a friend.
When the great summons came he rushed to arms,?Counting no cost and all intent to serve?His country and to prove himself a man.?Yet he could laugh at all his ardour too?And find some fun in glory, as a child?Laughs at a bauble but will guard it well.?Now he is fall'n, and on his shining brow?Glory has set her everlasting seal.
I like to think how cheerily he talked?Amid the ceaseless tumult of the guns,?How, when the word was given, he stood erect,?Sprang from the trench and, shouting to his men,?Led them forthright to where the sullen foe?Waited their coming; and his brain took fire,?And all was exultation and a high?Heroic ardour and a pulse of joy.?"Forward!" his cry rang out, and all his men?Thundered behind him with their eyes ablaze,?"Forward for England! Clear the beggars out!?Remember--" and death found him, and he fell?Fronting the Germans, and the rush swept on.
Thrice blesséd fate! We linger here and droop?Beneath the heavy burden of our years,?And may not, though we envy, give our lives?For England and for honour and for right;?But still must wear our weary hours away,?While he, that happy fighter, in one leap,?From imperfection to perfection borne,?Breaks through the bonds that bound him to the earth.?Now of his failures is a triumph made;?His very faults are into virtues turned;?And, reft for ever from the haunts of men,?He wears immortal honour and is joined?With those who fought for England and are dead.
EPITAPH
FOR AN ENGLISH SOLDIER AND AN INDIAN SOLDIER BURIED TOGETHER IN FRANCE
When the fierce bugle thrilled alarm,?From lands apart these fighters came.?An equal courage nerved each arm,?And stirred each generous heart to flame.
Now, greatly dead, they lie below;?Their creed or language no man heeds,?Since for their colour they can show?The blood-red blazon of their deeds!
TO FLIGHT-LIEUTENANT ROBINSON, V.C.
You with the hawk's eyes and the nerves of steel,?How was it with you when the hurried word?Roused you and sent you swiftly forth to deal?A blow for justice? Sure your pulses stirred,?And all your being leapt to meet the call
Which bade you strike nor spare?Where poised in air?Murder and ravening flame were hid intent to fall.
Alone