Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I. M. FREDERICK HUGH SHERSTON ROBERTS, V.C. LIEUTENANT, KING'S ROYAL RIFLE CORPS (Simla 8th January 1872: Chieveley Camp 16th December 1899) AND THE MANY VALIANT SOULS WHOSE PASSING FOR ENGLAND'S SAKE HAS THRILLED THE ENDS OF THE WORLD WITH PAIN AND PRIDE

June 1900.

227

PROLOGUE

When the wind storms by with a shout, and the stern sea caves
Rejoice in the tramp and the roar of onsetting waves,
Then, then it comes home to the heart that the top of life
Is the passion that burns the blood in the act of strife—
Till you pity the dead down there in their quiet graves.

But to drowse with the fen behind and the fog before,
When the rain-rot spreads, and a tame sea mumbles the shore,
Not to adventure, none to fight, no right and no wrong,
Sons of the Sword heart-sick for a stave of your sire's old song—
O, you envy the blesséd dead that can live no more!

March 1891.

228

I
REMONSTRANCE

Hitch, blunder, check—
Each is a new disaster,
And it is who shall bleat and scrawl
The feebler and the faster.
Where is our ancient pride of heart?
Our faith in blood and star?
Who but would marvel how we came
If this were all we are?

Ours is the race
That tore the Spaniard's ruff,
That flung the Dutchman by the breech,
The Frenchman by the scruff;
Through his diurnal round of dawns
Our drum-tap squires the sun;
And yet, an old mad burgher-man
Can put us on the run!

Rise, England, rise!
But in that calm of pride,
That hardy and high serenity,
That none may dare abide;
So front the realms, your point abashed;
So mark them chafe and foam;
And, if they challenge, so, by God,
Strike, England, and strike home!

December 1899.

229

II
THE MAN IN THE STREET

‘Death in the right cause, death in the wrong
cause, trumpets of victory, groans of defeat’:
Yes; and it's better to go for the Abbey than
chuck your old bones out in the street.

Life is a march and a battle (there's some of us
make it a kind of review);
But how if you never get out on parade, and
there 's not any fighting to do?

Hands in your pockets, eyes on the pavement,
where in the world is the fun of it all?
But a row—but a rush—but a face for your fist.
Then a crash through the dark—and a fall;

And they carry you—where? Does it matter
a straw? You can look at them out of your pride;
For you've had your will of a new front door,
and your foot on the mat inside.

In fact, you've done a pitch for yourself, and it
seems, but it isn't, a parcel of stuff,
For nobody knows, nor looks your way, nor cares
—but you know, and that's enough.

‘Death in the wrong cause, death in the right’:
O, it's plain as a last year's comic song!
For the thing is, give us a cause, and we'll risk
our skins for it, cheerfully, right or wrong.

230

And if, please God, it's the Rag of Rags, that
sends us roaring into the fight,
O, we'll go in a glory, dead certain sure that
we're utterly bound to be right!

October 1892.

III
PRO REGE NOSTRO

What have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the song on your bugles blown,
England—
Round the world on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you 've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England—
Down the years on your bugles blown?

Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:—

231

‘Take and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!
Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England—
To the stars on your bugles blown!’

They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies,
You could know nor dread nor ease,
Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England—
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!

Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown,
England—
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!

January 1892.

232

IV
THE LEVY OF SHIELDS

Edward the Prince, here in Canterbury Minster,
Between his deathless Victories, under his triumphing shield,
Sleeps these five hundred years,
Like his archers of Poitiers—
O, the dear, immortal Namelesses of that transcending field!
And out in the working world, out in Canterbury Barracks,
You hear the drums of England beat, the bugle of England blow
Notes of empery that break
Like a song for England's sake
On your dream of the mighty captain that had led you long ago.

Yet, if he pass, in his Canterbury Chapel,
The mortal part of him a strew of venerable dust,
With John Chandos and his peers,
And the armours of Poitiers,
Still he and his valiant lieges are as fire upon their trust;
For—O, the dreadful English drums, the rending English bugles!—
South, and West, and North, and East, on all the winds that blow
Round the quarterings on the card,
Greatly willing, hurrying hard,
Storms the soul of the Black Prince with all the fury of long ago.

March 1900.

233

V
MUSIC HALL

(OLD BURDEN)

Storm along, John! Though you faltered at first,
Caught in an ambush, and held to the worst,
All the old Counties were hard on the spot,
For they hadn't a son but rejoiced in his lot.
You had only to cart 'em some thousands of miles;
So you fell to your work with the calmest of smiles,
And, each with her battles, your ships you sent on,
Till you beggared the record—Hi! Storm along, John!

Storm along, John! Storm along, John!
Frenchman and Russian and Dutchman and Don
Know the seas yours from the Coast to Canton!
Storm along, storm along, storm along, John!

Storm along, John! There was work to be done
With a foe in full blast ere you 'd sighted a gun!
Came, the news came, that you reeled in the brunt,
And at home, in a flash, it was ‘Who 's for the front?’
And your whelps overseas, John—the whelps that you knew
For the native, original pattern true-blue—

234

O, your whelps wanted blooding, they cried to come on,
And—Hark to them chorusing:—‘Storm along, John!’

Storm along, John! Storm along, John!
Half the world's yours, and the rest may look on,
Mum, at the rip from Quebec to Ceylon . . .
Storm along, storm along, storm along, John!

Storm along, John! All your Britains are out:
Melbourne and Sydney got up with a shout;
Wellington, Ottawa, Brisbane, their best
Send, with Cape Town and the riding Nor'-West.
Horses, men, guns for you! India's aflame!
How the lads of Natal have been playing the game!
From Gib to Vancouver, from Thames to Yukon,
The live air is loud with you—Storm along, John!

Storm along, John! Storm along, John!
Not in the best of the years that are gone
Has the star which is yours thus tremendously shone!
Storm along, storm along, storm along, John!

January 1900.

VI
A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE

Sons of Shannon, Tamar, Trent,
Men of the Lothians, men of Kent,
Essex, Wessex, shore and shire,
Mates of the net, the mine, the fire,

235

Lads of desk and wheel and loom,
Noble and trader, squire and groom,
Come where the bugles of England play,
Over the hills and far away!

Southern Cross and Polar Star—
Here are the Britains bred afar;
Serry, O serry them, fierce and keen,
Under the flag of the Empress-Queen;
Shoulder to shoulder down the track,
Where, to the unretreating Jack,
The victor bugles of England play
Over the hills and far away!

What if the best of our wages be
An empty sleeve, a stiff-set knee,
A crutch for the rest of life—who cares,
So long as the One Flag floats and dares?
So long as the One Race dares and grows?
Death—what is death but God's own rose?
Let but the bugles of England play
Over the hills and far away!

March 1900.

VII
‘OUR CHIEF OF MEN’

Did he say to himself, did he say at the start:—
‘I 'll take this thing in hand,
And in England's name, for a dead boy's sake,
I 'll make them understand.

236

‘They have given us war, good war so far as
their burgher souls knew how:
In a dead boy's name, and for England's sake,
I 'll set my hand to the plow.

‘They have beaten us, trapped us, foiled and
fouled, been with us like a disease,
But as yet they know but the best of the brew;
they shall learn the taste of the lees?’

Did he promise thus in the thought of his dead?
We must do as we must—not will!
If he did, by the Lord he has kept his word, for
they 've had of him thrice their fill.

By the dismal fords, the thankless hills, the deso-
late, half-dead flats
He has shepherded them like silly sheep, and
cornered them like rats.

He has driven and headed them strength by
strength, as a hunter deals with his deer,
And has filled the place of the heart in their
breast with a living devil of fear.

They have seen themselves out-marched, out-
fought, out-captained early and late.
They've scarce a decent town to their name but
he's ridden in at the gate.

Desert and distance, treason and drought, he has
mopped them up as he went,
And only those he must shed in the rush of his
swoops were discontent.

237

Patient, hardy, masterful, merciful, high, irre-
sistible, just,
For a dead man's sake, and in England's name,
he has done as he would and must.

So three times three, and nine times nine, and a
hundred times and ten,
England, you, and you junior Englands, all, hats
off to our Chief of Men!

May 1900.

VIII
‘A HEALTH UNTO HER MAJESTY’

(MAY 24, 1900)

August in children, victories, years,
Grown venerable in storms of cheers,
Widow and Empress, friend and Queen,
Resolute, vigilant, careful, keen,
Ever as fire to find and take
The only way for your Kingdom's sake,
True to your course as a star is true,
Here 's to our sovereign—you, Ma'am, you!

You in whose life are shown in deed
All the high virtues of the breed,
All the high qualities of the blood,
Energy, patience, hardihood,
Strength in purpose, pride in strife,
Disdain of death and trust in life,
Heart to dare and resolve to do,
Here 's to our England—you, Ma'am, you!

238

Maker of Armies, Builder of Ships,
Mother of Nations, on whose lips
The words, ‘My People,’ shining forth,
Set in one battle South and North,
In a glory of steel, with East and West,
To march and starve with a desperate zest,
And die in their boots, so they pull things through,
Here 's to our Empire—you, Ma'am, you!

IX
LAST POST

The day's high work is over and done,
And these no more will need the sun:
Blow, you bugles of England, blow!
These are gone whither all must go,
Mightily gone from the field they won.
So in the workaday wear of battle,
Touched to glory with God's own red,
Bear we our chosen to their bed!
Settle them lovingly where they fell,
In that good lap they loved so well;
And, their deliveries to the dear Lord said,
And the last desperate volleys ranged and sped,
Blow, you bugles of England, blow,
Over the camps of her beaten foe—
Blow glory and pity to the victor Mother,
Sad, O sad in her sacrificial dead!

239

Labour, and love, and strife, and mirth,
They gave their part in this kindly earth—
Blow, you bugles of England, blow!—
That her Name as a sun among stars might glow,
Till the dusk of time, with honour and worth:
That, stung by the lust and the pain of battle,
The One Race ever might starkly spread,
And the One Flag eagle it overhead!
In a rapture of wrath and faith and pride,
Thus they felt it, and thus they died;
So to the Maker of homes, to the Giver of bread,
For whose dear sake their triumphing souls they shed,
Blow, you bugles of England, blow,
Though you break the heart of her beaten foe,
Glory and praise to the everlasting Mother,
Glory and peace to her lovely and faithful dead!

April 1900.

240

EPILOGUE

Into a land
Storm-wrought, a place of quakes, all thunder-scarred,
Helpless, degraded, desolate,
Peace, the White Angel, comes.
Her eyes are as a mother's. Her good hands
Are comforting, and helping; and her voice
Falls on the heart, as, after Winter, Spring
Falls on the World, and there is no more pain.
And, in her influence, hope returns, and life,
And the passion of endeavour: so that, soon,
The idle ports are insolent with keels;
The stithies roar, and the mills thrum
With energy and achievement; weald and wold
Exult; the cottage-garden teems
With innocent hues and odours; boy and girl
Mate prosperously; there are sweet women to kiss;
There are good women to breed. In a golden fog,
A large, full-stomached faith in kindliness
All over the world, the nation, in a dream
Of money and love and sport, hangs at the paps
Of well-being, and so
Goes fattening, mellowing, dozing, rotting down
Into a rich deliquium of decay.

Then, if the Gods be good,
Then, if the Gods be other than mischievous,
Down from their footstools, down

241

With a million-throated shouting, swoops and storms
War, the Red Angel, the Awakener,
The Shaker of Souls and Thrones; and at her heel
Trail grief, and ruin, and shame!
The woman weeps her man, the mother her son,
The tenderling its father. In wild hours,
A people, haggard with defeat,
Asks if there be a God; yet sets it teeth,
Faces calamity, and goes into the fire
Another than it was. And in wild hours
A people, roaring ripe
With victory, rises, menaces, stands renewed,
Sheds its old piddling aims,
Approves its virtue, puts behind itself
The comfortable dream, and goes,
Armoured and militant,
New-pithed, new-souled, new-visioned, up the steeps
To those great altitudes, whereat the weak
Live not. But only the strong
Have leave to strive, and suffer, and achieve.

Worthing, 1901.

242

ENVOY

These to the glory and praise of the green land
That bred my women, and that holds my dead,
England, and with her the strong broods that stand
Wherever her fighting lines are pushed or spread!
They call us proud?—Look at our English Rose!
Shedders of blood?—Where hath our own been spared?
Shopkeepers?—Our accompt the high God knows.
Close?—In our bounty half the world hath shared.
They hate us, and they envy? Envy and hate
Should drive them to the Pit's edge?—Be it so!
That race is damned which misesteems its fate,
And this, in God's good time, they all shall know,
And know you too, you good green England, then—
Mother of mothering girls and governing men!

June 1900.