It was deadly cold in Danbury town
       One terrible night in mid November,
       A night that the Danbury folk remember
     For the sleety wind that hammered them down,
     That chilled their faces and chapped their skin,
       And froze their fingers and bit their feet,
     And made them ice to the heart within,
           And spattered and scattered
           And shattered and battered
     Their shivering bodies about the street;
     And the fact is most of them didn't roam
     In the face of the storm, but stayed at home;
     While here and there a policeman, stamping
     To keep himself warm or sedately tramping
     Hither and thither, paced his beat;
     Or peered where out of the blizzard's welter
     Some wretched being had crept to shelter,
     And now, drenched through by the sleet, a muddled
     Blur of a man and his rags, lay huddled.

     But one there was who didn't care,
     Whatever the furious storm might dare,
     A wonderful, hook-nosed bright-eyed fellow
     In a thin brown cape and a cap of yellow
     That perched on his dripping coal-black hair.
     A red scarf set off his throat and bound him,
     Crossing his breast, and, winding round him,
           Flapped at his flank
           In a red streak dank;
     And his hose were red, with a purple sheen
     From his tunic's blue, and his shoes were green.
     He was most outlandishly patched together
     With ribbons of silk and tags of leather,
     And chains of silver and buttons of stone,
     And knobs of amber and polished bone,
     And a turquoise brooch and a collar of jade,
     And a belt and a pouch of rich brocade,
     And a gleaming dagger with inlaid blade
     And jewelled handle of burnished gold
     Rakishly stuck in the red scarf's fold—
     A dress, in short, that might suit a wizard
           On a calm warm day
           In the month of May,
     But was hardly fit for an autumn blizzard.

     Whence had he come there? Who could say,
     As he swung through Danbury town that day,
       With a friendly light in his deep-set eyes,
     And his free wild gait and his upright bearing,
       And his air that nothing could well surprise,
     So bright it was and so bold and daring?
     He might have troubled the slothful ease
       Of the Great Mogul in a warlike fever;
     He might have bled for the Maccabees,
         Or risen, spurred
         By the Prophet's word,
     And swooped on the hosts of the unbeliever.

     Whatever his birth and his nomenclature,
       Something he seemed to have, some knowledge
       That never was taught at school or college,
     But was part of his very being's nature:
       Some ingrained lore that wanderers show
       As over the earth they come and go,
       Though they hardly know what it is they know.

     And so with his head upheld he walked,
       And ever the rain drove down;
     And now and again to himself he talked
       In the streets of Danbury town.
     And now and again he'd stop and troll
     A stave of music that seemed to roll
     From the inmost depths of his ardent soul;
     But the wind took hold of the notes and tossed them
     And the few who chanced to be near him lost them.

     So, moving on where his fancy listed,
     He came to a street that turned and twisted;
     And there by a shop-front dimly lighted
     He suddenly stopped as though affrighted,
     Stopped and stared with his deep gaze centred
     On something seen, like a dream's illusion,
     Through the streaming glass, mid the queer confusion
     Of objects littered on shelf and floor,
     And about the counter and by the door—
     And then with his lips set tight he entered.

     There were rusty daggers and battered breastplates,
     And jugs of pewter and carved oak cases,
     And china monsters with hideous faces,
     And cracked old plates that had once been best plates;
     And needle-covers and such old-wivery;
     Wonderful chess-men made from ivory;
     Cut-glass bottles for wines and brandies,
     Sticks once flourished by bucks and dandies;
     Deep old glasses they drank enough in,
     And golden boxes they took their snuff in;
     Rings that flashed on a gallant's knuckles,
     Seals and lockets and shining buckles;
     Watches sadly in need of menders,
     Blackened firedogs and dinted fenders;
     Prints and pictures and quaint knick-knackery,
     Rare old silver and mere gimcrackery—
     Such was the shop, and in its middle
     Stood an old man holding a dusty fiddle.

     The Vagabond bowed and the old man bowed,
     And then the Vagabond spoke aloud.
     "Sir," he said, "we are two of a trade,
     Each for the other planned and made,
     And so we shall come to a fair agreement,
     Since I am for you and you're for me meant.
     And I, having travelled hither from far, gain
     You yourself as my life's best bargain.
         But I am one
         Who chaffers for fun,
     Who when he perceives such stores of beauty
     Outspread conceives it to be his duty
     To buy of his visit a slight memento:
     Some curious gem of the quattrocento,
     Or something equally rare and priceless,
     Though its outward fashions perhaps entice less:
     A Sultan's slipper, a Bishop's mitre,
     Or the helmet owned by a Roundhead fighter,
     Or an old buff coat by the years worn thin,
     Or—what do you say to the violin?
     I'll wager you've many, so you can't miss one,
     And I—well, I have a mind for this one,
     This which was made, as you must know,
     Three hundred years and a year ago
     By one who dwelt in Cremona city
     For me—but I lost it, more's the pity,
     Sixty years back in a wild disorder
     That flamed to a fight on the Afghan border;
     And, whatever it costs, I am bound to win it,
     For I left the half of my full soul in it."

     And now as he spoke his eyes began
     To shiver the heart of the grey old man;
       And the old man stuttered,
       And "Sir," he muttered,
     "The words you speak are the merest riddle,
     But-five pounds down, and you own the fiddle!
     And I'll choose for your hand, while the pounds you dole out,
     A bow with which you may pick that soul out."

     So said so done, and our friend again
     Was out in the raging wind and rain.
     Swift through the twisting street he passed
     And came to the Market Square at last,
         And climbed and stood
         On a block of wood
     Where a pent-house, leant to a wall, gave shelter
     From the brunt of the blizzard's helter-skelter,
     And, waving his bow, he cried, "Ahoy!
     Now steady your hearts for an hour of joy!"
     And so to his cheek and jutting chin
     Straight he fitted the violin,
     And, rounding his arm in a movement gay,
     Touched the strings and began to play.

     There hasn't been heard since the world spun round
     Such a marvellous blend of thrilling sound.
     It streamed, it flamed, it rippled and blazed,
     And now it reproached and now it praised,
     And the liquid notes of it wove a scheme
     That was one-half life and one-half a dream.
     And again it scaled in a rush of fire
     The glittering peaks of high desire;
     Now, foiled and shattered, it rose again
     And plucked at the souls and hearts of men;
     And still as it rose the sleet came down
     In the Market Square of Danbury town.

     And now from hundreds of opened doors,
         With quiet paces
         And happy faces,
     In ones and twos and threes and fours,
     A crowd pressed out to the Market Square
     And stood in the storm and listened there.

     And, oh, with what a solemn tender strain
     The long-drawn music eased their hearts of pain;
     And gave them visions of divine content;
       Green fields and happy valleys far away,
     And rippling streams and sunshine and the scent
       Of bursting buds and flowers that come in May.
     And one spoke in a rapt and gentle voice,
       And bade his friends rejoice,
     "For now," he said, "I see, I see once more
     My little lass upon a pleasant shore
     Standing, as long ago she used to stand,
     And beckoning to me with her dimpled hand.
       As in the vanished years,
     So I behold her and forget my tears."
     And each one had his private joy, his own,
     All the old happy things he once had known,
     Renewed and from the prisoning past set free,
     And mixed with hope and happy things to be.

     So for a magic hour the music gushed,
     Then faded to a close, and all was hushed,
     And the tranced people woke and looked about,
     And fell to wondering what had brought them out
     On such a night of wind and piercing sleet,
     Exposed with hatless heads and thin-shod feet.
     Something, they knew, had chased their heavy sadness;
       And for the years to come they still may keep,
         As from a morning sleep,
     Some broken gleam of half-remembered gladness.
     But the wild fiddler on his feet of flame
     Vanished and went the secret way he came.

     I heard—'twas on a morning, but when it was and where,
     Except that well I heard it, I neither know nor care—
     I heard, and, oh, the sunlight was shining in the blue,
     A little water singing as little waters do.

     At Lechlade and at Buscot, where Summer days are long,
     The tiny rills and ripples they tremble into song;
     And where the silver Windrush brings down her liquid gems,
     There's music in the wavelets she tosses to the Thames.

     The eddies have an air too, and brave it is and blithe;
     I think I may have heard it that day at Bablockhythe;
     And where the Eynsham weir-fall breaks out in rainbow spray
     The Evenlode comes singing to join the pretty play.

     But where I heard that music I cannot rightly tell;
     I only know I heard it, and that I know full well:
     I heard a little water, and, oh, the sky was blue,
     A little water singing as little waters do.

FOR WILMA
     (AGED FIVE YEARS)

     Like winds that with the setting of the sun
       Draw to a quiet murmuring and cease,
     So is her little struggle fought and done;
       And the brief fever and the pain
     In a last sigh fade out and so release
     The lately-breathing dust they may not hurt again.

     Now all that Wilma was is made as naught:
       Stilled is the laughter that was erst our pleasure;
     The pretty air, the childish grace untaught,
         The innocent wiles,
         And all the sunny smiles,
     The cheek that flushed to greet some tiny treasure;
       The mouth demure, the tilted chin held high,
       The gleeful flashes of her glancing eye;
       Her shy bold look of wildness unconfined,
       And the gay impulse of her baby mind
         That none could tame,
     That sent her spinning round,
         A spirit of living flame
     Dancing in airy rapture o'er the ground—
       All these with that faint sigh are made to be
       Man's breath upon a glass, a mortal memory.

     Then from the silent room where late she played,
       Setting a steady course toward the light,
     Swifter than thistledown the little shade,
         Reft from the nooks that she had made her own
         And from the love that sheltered, fared alone
     Forth through the gloomy spaces of the night,
         Until at last she lit before the gate
         Where all the suppliant shades must stand and wait.

     Grim Cerberus, the foiler of the dead,
       Keeping his everlasting vigil there
         In deep-mouthed wrath
         Athwart the rocky path,
     Did at her coming raise his triple head
       And lift his bristling hair;
     But when he saw our tender little maid
       Forlorn, but unafraid,
     He blinked his flaming eyes and ceased to frown,
       And, fawning on her, smoothed his shaggy crest,
     Composed his savage limbs and settled down
       With ears laid back and all his care at rest;
     And so with kindly aspect beckoned in
     The little playmate of his earthly kin.

     For often she had tugged old Rollo's mane,
       And often Lufra felt the loving check
       Of childish arms about her glossy neck—
       Lufra and Rollo, who with anxious faces
       Now cast about the haunts and hiding-places
     To find their friend, but ever cast in vain.

     So now, set free from all that can oppress,
       And in her own white innocence arrayed,
     Made one for ever with all happiness,
       Alert she wanders through the starry glade;
     Or, where the blissful Shades intone their praise,
         She from the lily-covered bowers
         Heaping her arms with flowers
           Soars and is borne along
       The amaranthine the delightful ways,
         Gushes the pretty notes and careless trills
           Of her unstudied song,
         And with her music all the joyous valley fills.

     Yet, oh ye Powers whose rule is set above
       These fair abodes that ring the firmament,
     Spirits of Peace and Happiness and Love,
       And thou, too, mild-eyed Spirit of Content,
     Ye will not chide if sometimes in her play
       The child should start and droop her shining head,
         Turning in meek surmise
         Her wistful eyes
     Back tow'rd the dimness of our mortal day
       And the loved home from which her soul was sped.
     Soon shall our little Wilma learn to be
         Amid the immortal blest
         An unrepining guest,
       Who now, dear heart, is young for your eternity.

     I

     There's nothing I know of to make you spend
     A day of your life at Cragwell End.
     It's a village quiet and grey and old,
     A little village tucked into a fold
     (A sort of valley, not over wide)
     Of the hills that flank it on either side.
     There's a large grey church with a square stone tower,
     And a clock to mark you the passing hour
     In a chime that shivers the village calm
     With a few odd bits of the 100th psalm.
     A red-brick Vicarage stands thereby,
       Breathing comfort and lapped in ease,
     With a row of elms thick-trunked and high,
       And a bevy of rooks to caw in these.

     'Tis there that the Revd. Salvyn Bent
       (No tie could be neater or whiter than his tie)
     Maintains the struggle against dissent,
       An Oxford scholar ex Aede Christi;
     And there in his twenty-minute sermons
     He makes mince-meat of the modern Germans,
     Defying their apparatus criticus         Like a brave old Vicar,
         A famous sticker
     To Genesis, Exodus and Leviticus.
     He enjoys himself like a hearty boy
       Who finds his life for his needs the aptest;
     But the poisoned drop in his cup of joy
       Is the Revd. Joshua Fall, the Baptist,
     An earnest man with a tongue that stings—
       The Vicar calls him a child of schism—
     Who has dared to utter some dreadful things
       On the vices of sacerdotalism,
         And the ruination
         Of education
       By the Church of England Catechism.

     Set in a circle of oak and beech,
       North of the village lies Cragwell Hall;
     And stretching far as the eye can reach,
       Over the slopes and beyond the fall
     Of the hills so keeping their guard about it
     That the north wind never may chill or flout it,
     Through forests as dense as that of Arden,
     With orchard and park and trim-kept garden,
     And farms for pasture and farms for tillage,
     The Hall maintains its rule of the village.
         And in the Hall
         Lived the lord of all,
     Girt round with all that our hearts desire
     Of leisure and wealth, the ancient Squire.
     He was the purplest-faced old man
     Since ever the Darville race began,
     Pompous and purple-faced and proud;
     With a portly girth and a voice so loud
     You might have heard it a mile away
     When he cheered the hounds on a hunting day.
     He was hard on dissenters and such encroachers,
     He was hard on sinners and hard on poachers;
     He talked of his rights as one who knew
     That the pick of the earth to him was due:
     The right to this and the right to that,
     To the humble look and the lifted hat;
     The right to scold or evict a peasant,
     The right to partridge and hare and pheasant;
     The right to encourage discontent
     By raising a hard-worked farmer's rent;
     The manifest right to ride to hounds
     Through his own or anyone else's grounds;
     The right to eat of the best by day
     And to snore the whole of the night away;
     For his motto, as often he explained,
     Was "A Darville holds what a Darville gained."
     He tried to be just, but that may be
     Small merit in one who has most things free;
         And his neighbours averred,
         When they heard the word,
     "Old Darville's a just man, is he? Bust his
     Gills, we could do without his justice!"

     II

     The village itself runs, more or less,
     On the sinuous line of a letter S,
     Twining its little houses through
     The twists of the street, as our hamlets do,
     For no good reason, so far as I know,
     Save that chance has arranged it so.
     It's a quaint old ramshackle moss-grown place,
     Keeping its staid accustomed pace;
     Not moved at all by the rush and flurry,
     The mad tempestuous windy hurry
     Of the big world tossing in rage and riot,
     While the village holds to its old-world quiet.

     There's a family grocer, a family baker,
     A family butcher and sausage-maker—
     A butcher, proud of his craft and willing
     To admit that his business in life is killing,
     Who parades a heart as soft as his meat's tough—
     There's a little shop for the sale of sweet stuff;
     There's a maker and mender of boots and shoes
     Of the sort that the country people use,
     Studded with iron and clamped with steel,
     And stout as a ship from toe to heel,
     Who announces himself above his entry
     As "patronised by the leading gentry."
         There's an inn, "The George";
         There's a blacksmith's forge,
     And in the neat little inn's trim garden
     The old men, each with his own churchwarden,
     Bent and grey, but gossipy fellows,
     Sip their innocent pints of beer,
     While the anvil-notes ring high and clear
     To the rushing bass of the mighty bellows.
     And thence they look on a cheerful scene
     As the little ones play on the Village Green,
         Skipping about
         With laugh and shout
     As if no Darville could ever squire them,
     And nothing on earth could tame or tire them.

     On the central point of the pleasant Green
     The famous stone-walled well is seen
     Which has never stinted its ice-cold waters
     To generations of Cragwell's daughters.
     No matter how long the rain might fail
     There was always enough for can and pail—
     Enough for them and enough to lend
     To the dried-out rivals of Cragwell End.
     An army might have been sent to raise
     Enough for a thousand washing days
     Crowded and crammed together in one day,
     One vast soap-sudded and wash-tubbed Monday,
     And, however fast they might wind the winch,
     The water wouldn't have sunk an inch.
     For the legend runs that Crag the Saint,
       At the high noon-tide of a summer's day,
     Thirsty, spent with his toil and faint,
       To the site of the well once made his way,
     And there he saw a delightful rill
     And sat beside it and drank his fill,
     Drank of the rill and found it good,
     Sitting at ease on a block of wood,
     And blessed the place, and thenceforth never
     The waters have ceased but they run for ever.
     They burnt St. Crag, so the stories say,
     And his ashes cast on the winds away,
     But the well survives, and the block of wood
     Stands—nay, stood where it always stood,
     And still was the village's pride and glory
     On the day of which I shall tell my story.
     Gnarled and knotty and weather-stained,
     Battered and cracked, it still remained;
         And thither came,
         Footsore and lame,
     On an autumn evening a year ago
     The wandering pedlar, Gipsy Joe.
     Beside the block he stood and set
     His table out on the well-stones wet.
     "Who'll buy? Who'll buy?" was the call he cried
     As the folk came flocking from every side;
     For they knew their Gipsy Joe of old,
     His free wild words and his laughter bold:
     So high and low all gathered together
     By the village well in the autumn weather,
     Lured by the gipsy's bargain-chatter
     And the reckless lilt of his hare-brained patter.
     And there the Revd. Salvyn Bent,
     The parish church's ornament,
     Stood, as it chanced, in discontent,
     And eyed with a look that was almost sinister
     The Revd. Joshua Fall, the minister.
     And the Squire, it happened, was riding by,
     With an angry look in his bloodshot eye,
     Growling, as was his wont, and grunting
     At the wasted toil of a bad day's hunting;
     And he stopped his horse on its homeward way
     To hear what the gipsy had to say.

     III

     Then the pedlar called to the crowd to hear,
     And his voice rang loud and his voice rang clear;
     And he lifted his head and began to troll
     The whimsical words of his rigmarole:—

     "Since last I talked to you here I've hurled
     My lone way over the wide, wide world.
     South and North and West and East
     I've fought with man and I've fought with beast;
     And I've opened the gates and cleared the bar
     That blocks the road to the morning star!
     "I've seen King Pharaoh sitting down
     On his golden throne in his jewelled crown,
     With wizards fanning like anything
     To cool the face of the mighty King:
     But the King said, 'Wizards are off,' said he;
     'Let Joseph the gipsy talk to me.'
     "So I sat by the King and began to spout
     As the day drew in and the sun went out;
     And I sat by the King and spun my tale
     Till the light returned and the night grew pale;
     And none of the Wizards blinked or stirred
     While the King sat drinking it word by word.
     "Then he gave me rubies and diamonds old;
     He gave me masses of minted gold.
     He gave me all that a King can give:
     The right to live and to cease to live
     Whenever—and that'll be soon, I know—
     The days are numbered of Gipsy Joe.
     "Then I went and I wandered on and on
     Till I came to the kingdom of Prester John;
     And there I stood on a crystal stool
     And sang the song of 'The First Wise Fool':
     Oh, I sang it low and I sang it high
     Till John he whimpered and piped his eye.
     "Then I drew a tooth from the lively jaw
     Of the Prester's ebony Aunt-in-law;
     And he bubbled and laughed so long, d'you see,
     That his wife looked glum and I had to flee.
     So I fled to the place where the Rajahs grow,
     A place where they wanted Gipsy Joe.
     "The Rajahs summoned the turbaned hordes
     And gave me sheaves of their inlaid swords;
     And the Shah of Persia next I saw,
     Who's brother and friend to the Big Bashaw;
     And he sent me a rope of turquoise stones
     The size of a giant's knuckle-bones.
     "But a little brown Pygmie took my hand
     And rattled me fast to a silver strand,
     Where the little brown Pygmie boys and girls
     Are cradled and rocked to sleep in pearls.     And the Pygmies flattered me soft and low,
     'You are tall; be King of us, Gipsy Joe.'
     "I governed them well for half-a-year,
     But it came to an end, and now I'm here.
     Oh, I've opened the gates and cleared the bar,
     And I've come, I've come to my friends from far.
     I'm old and broken, I'm lame and tired,
     But I've come to the friends my soul desired.
     "So it's watches and lockets, and who will buy?
     It's ribbon and lace, and they're not priced high.
     If you're out for a ring or a golden chain
     You can't look over my tray in vain:
     And here is a balsam made of drops
     From a tree that's grown by the AEthiops!
     "I've a chip of the tooth of a mastodont
     That's sure to give you the girl you want.
     I've a packet of spells to make men sigh
     For the lustrous glance of your liquid eye—
     But it's much too dark for such wondrous wares,
     So back, stand back, while I light my flares!"

     Then he lit a match, but his fingers fumbled,
     And, striking his foot on a stone, he stumbled;
     And the match, released by the sudden shock,
     Fell in flame on the old wood-block,
     And burnt there very quietly—
     But before you could have counted three,
     Hardly giving you time to shout,
     A red-blue column of fire shot out,
     Up and up and ever higher,
     A marvellous burst of raging fire,
     Lighting the crowd that shrank from its flashes,
         And so decreasing,
         And suddenly ceasing
     As the seat of St. Crag was burnt to ashes!

     But in the smoke that drifted on the Green
     Queer freaks of vision weirdly wrought were seen:
     For on that shifting background each one saw
     His own reflection and recoiled in awe;
     Saw himself there, a bright light shining through him,
     Not as he thought himself, but as men knew him.
     Before this sudden and revealing sense
     Each rag of sham, each tatter of pretence
     Withered and vanished, as dissolved in air,
     And left the shuddering human creature bare.
     But when they turned and looked upon a friend
     They saw 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.

     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.

     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.

     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!

     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 upon your fearful task you flew,
       Where in the vault of heaven the high stars swing,
     Alone and upward, lost to mortal view,
       Winding about the assassin craft a ring
     Of fateful motion, till at last you sped
         Through the far tracts of gloom
           The bolt of doom,
     Shattering the dastard foe to earth with all his dead.

     For this we thank you, and we bid you know
       That henceforth in the air, by day or night,
     A myriad hopes of ours, where'er you go,
       Rise as companions of your soaring flight;
     And well we know that when there comes the need
         A host of men like you,
           As staunch, as true,
     Will rush to prove the daring of the island breed.