 | Poems: New and Old |  |
93
Clifton Chapel
Thirty-five Old Cliftonian officers served in the campaign of 1897 on the Indian Frontier, of whom twenty-two were mentioned in despatches, and six recommended for the Distinguished Service Order. Of the three hundred Cliftonians who served in the war in South Africa, thirty were killed in action and fourteen died of wounds or fever.
“Clifton, remember these thy sons who fell
Fighting far over sea;
For they in a dark hour remembered well
Their warfare learned of thee.”
Fighting far over sea;
For they in a dark hour remembered well
Their warfare learned of thee.”
More than 3,000 have served in the Great War, of whom over 500 have been killed in four years. Their honours are past count.
“From the great Marshal to the last recruit
These, Clifton, were thy self, thy spirit in deed,
Thy flower of chivalry, thy fallen fruit,
And thine immortal seed.”
These, Clifton, were thy self, thy spirit in deed,
Thy flower of chivalry, thy fallen fruit,
And thine immortal seed.”
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 turned 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.
Your father thought the thoughts of youth,
And heard the words that one by one
The touch of Life has turned 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—
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.
Is His, Who built the world of strife,
Who gave His children Pain for friend,
And Death for surest hope of life.
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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 periit:
Sed miles, sed pro patriâ.”
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 periit:
Sed miles, sed pro patriâ.”
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