Imogen

LADIES, where were your bright eyes glancing,

Where were they glancing yesternight?

Saw ye Imogen dancing, dancing,

Imogen dancing all in white?

Laughed she not with a pure delight,

Laughed she not with a joy serene,

Stepped she not with a grace entrancing,

Slenderly girt in silken sheen?

All through the night from dusk to daytime

Under her feet the hours were swift,

Under her feet the hours of playtime

Rose and fell with a rhythmic lift:

Music set her adrift, adrift,

Music eddying towards the day

Swept her along as brooks in Maytime

Carry the freshly falling may.

Ladies, life is a changing measure,

Youth is a lilt that endeth soon;

Pluck ye never so fast at pleasure

Twilight follows the longest noon.

Nay, but here is a lasting boon,

Life for hearts that are old and chill,

Youth undying for hearts that treasure

Imogen dancing, dancing still.

Sir Henry Newbolt

He Fell among Thieves

'YE have robb'd,' said he, 'ye have slaughter'd 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.

He laugh'd: 'If one may settle the score for five,

I am ready; but let the reckoning stand til 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 honour'd 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.

He saw the dark wainscot and timber'd roof,

The long tables, and the faces merry and keen;

The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof,

The Dons on the daïs serene.

He watch'd the liner's stem ploughing the foam,

He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw;

He heard the passengers' voices talking of home,

He saw the flag she flew.

And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet,

And strode to his ruin'd camp below the wood;

He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet:

His murderers round him stood.

Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast,

The blood-red snow-peaks chill'd to dazzling white;

He turn'd, and saw the golden circle at last,

Cut by the Eastern height.

'O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun,

I have lived, I praise and adore Thee.' A sword swept.

Over the pass the voices one by one

Faded, and the hill slept.

Sir Henry Newbolt

Vitaï Lampada

THERE'S a breathless hush in the Close to-night --

Ten to make and the match to win --

A bumping pitch and a blinding light,

An hour to play and the last man in.

And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,

Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,

But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote

"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

The sand of the desert is sodden red, --

Red with the wreck of a square that broke; --

The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,

And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.

The river of death has brimmed his banks,

And England's far, and Honor a name,

But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks,

"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

This is the word that year by year

While in her place the School is set

Every one of her sons must hear,

And none that hears it dare forget.

This they all with a joyful mind

Bear through life like a torch in flame,

And falling fling to the host behind --

"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

Sir Henry Newbolt

Drake's Drum

DRAKE he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles 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-dancing' heel-an'-toe,

An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin',

He see 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?)

Roving' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,

A' 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 drumm'd 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.

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 and wakin', as they found him long ago!

Sir Henry Newbolt

Clifton Chapel

THIS is the Chapel: here, my son,

Your father thought the thoughts of youth,

And heard the words that one by one

The touch of Life has turn'd to truth.

Here in a day that is not far,

You too may speak with noble ghosts

Of manhood and the vows of war

You made before the Lord of Hosts.

To set the cause above renown,

To love the game beyond the prize,

To honour, while you strike him down,

The foe that comes with fearless eyes;

To count the life of battle good,

And dear the land that gave you birth,

And dearer yet the brotherhood

That binds the brave of all the earth. --

My son, the oath is yours: the end

Is His, Who built the world of strife,

Who gave His children Pain for friend,

And Death for surest hope of life.

To-day and here the fight's begun,

Of the great fellowship you're free;

Henceforth the School and you are one,

And what You are, the race shall be.

God send you fortune: yet be sure,

Among the lights that gleam and pass,

You'll live to follow none more pure

Than that which glows on yonder brass:

'Qui procul hinc,' the legend's writ, --

The frontier-grave is far away --

'Qui ante diem perlit:

Sed miles, sed pro patria.'

Sir Henry Newbolt