OUR DEAD
Not where the English turf grows green we laid them,
Where their forefathers lie;
O'er the rude trench and rough-built mound we made them
Arches an alien sky.
No chime of bells from old-time towers above them;
No sound of English streams,
Calling of rooks, or voice of those who love them,
Ever shall break their dreams.
What matters it? The earth that o'er them closes
Its flowers as softly sheds
As English winds could bring the English roses
To rain upon their heads.
And though an alien land their dust is keeping,
Still in their hearts with pride
They say: "Though England may not guard our sleeping,
Yet 'tis for her we died."
And with each wind across the waves that sever
Them from the land they knew,
Shall blow this message through their hearts forever:
"England remembers too."
NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1916
Gregory fell beside the Marne,
And John where flows the Aisne;
But here to-night, ere midnight chime,
We three shall meet again.
Though land and sea lie wide between,
Their ghosts this way shall win,
For, three true men, we made a bond
To watch the New Year in.
We made it on a Flanders field
Where white the shell-smoke ran;
And who is Death to break the faith
That man has pledged to man?
Then draw their chairs beside the fire
And brim their cups with wine;
For ere the bells of midnight swing
Their hands shall clasp with mine.
Though Gregory lies where Marne runs down,
And John beside the Aisne,
Living and dead, ere midnight chime,
We three shall meet again.
TO IRELAND'S DEAD
Ah, golden youths! who leave for evermore
Your ports of quiet breath,
Turning your prows from Life's familiar shore
Forth with adventurous Death.
With that great comrade sailing, side by side,
To meet your warrior peers,
Whose names have starred the roll of Erin's pride
Down all the echoing years.
Your sunlit sails flash for a moment's space,
Fade, waver and are gone;
But, straining through the mists, our spirits trace
A glory lingering on.
Farewell, great fellowship! Sail on, nor mourn
Your ports of quiet breath;
Your prows with singing and with laughter turn
Forth with adventurous Death.
A SONG OF EXILE
What is the news of England?
The April breezes blow,
Bringing to us faint odours
From lanes we used to know—
Lanes, where the hawthorn hedges
Foam into blossoms white;
What is the news of England
For England's sons to-night?
What is the news of England?
'Neath her white cliffs the sea
Croons its soft song of summer,
The golden days to be.
Her hills are fair with promise,
Her woods with voices ring,
From every copse the cuckoo
Shouts to the jocund Spring.
What is the news of England?
Once more the cowslip gleams
Gold in her misty meadows,
Gold by her murmuring streams.
Once more the April breezes
Blow secrets of delight
From the great heart of England
To England's sons to-night.
THE AIR-MEN
We brought great ships to birth,
We builded towns and towers—
Lords of the sea and earth,
Soon shall the sky be ours.
Soon shall our navies drift
Like swallows down the wind,
Shall wheel and swoop and lift,
Leaving the clouds behind.
The stars our keels shall know,
The eagle, as it flies,
Shall scream to see us go
Swift moving through the skies.
High o'er the mountain-steep
Our wingèd fleets shall sail,
The serried squadrons sweep,
White-pinioned down the gale.
We are the lords of the land,
We built us towns and towers,
The sea has felt our hand—
Soon shall the sky be ours.
THE DEFEATED
Cheer if you will the brave deed done, with laurels the victor crown,
But keep one leaf of your wreath of bay for the men who lost and are
down—
For the fight in vain, for the cankered grain that in blood and tears
was sown.
Honour the strong of heart and hand, the sure of will and of sight,
But what of the stumbling feet, the eyes that strain in vain for light?
Is there no gain for the tears and pain of the men who fell in the fight?
Beaten—baffled—with standards lost—knowing no rallying cry,
Struggling still, but with failing strength, while stronger men
pass by:—
Keep ye your bays; I give my praise to the men who lose and die.
THE GENTLEMEN OF OXFORD
The sunny streets of Oxford
Are lying still and bare,
No sound of voice or laughter
Rings through the golden air;
And, chiming from her belfry,
No longer Christchurch calls
The eager, boyish faces
To gather in her halls.
The colleges are empty,
Only the sun and wind
Make merry in the places
The lads have left behind.
But, when the trooping shadows
Have put the day to flight,
The Gentlemen of Oxford
Come homing through the night.
From France they come, and Flanders,
From Mons, and Marne and Aisne,
From Greece and from Gallipoli
They come to her again;
From the North Sea's grey waters,
From many a grave unknown,
The Gentlemen of Oxford
Come back to claim their own.
The dark is full of laughter,
Boy laughter, glad and young,
They tell the old-time stories,
The old-time songs are sung;
They linger in her cloisters,
They throng her dewy meads,
Till Isis hears their calling
And laughs among her reeds.
But, when the east is whitening
To greet the rising sun,
And slowly, over Carfax,
The stars fade, one by one,
Then, when the dawn-wind whispers
Along the Isis shore,
The Gentlemen of Oxford
Must seek their graves once more.