 | Newdigate Prize Poem |  |
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TO
W. B. RICHMOND,
SLADE PROFESSOR OF FINE ART IN THE UNIVERSITY.
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[Not that I knew to sing of him aright—]
Not that I knew to sing of him aright—For all the unsung hero-lives of old
Shall find no hero-singer now, to mould
And carve the sculptured epic of their might;
But rather that this tale of mine re-told,—
These stray thoughts gathered on an autumn night,—
Have grown, like him, a little over-bold
To crave some fleeting favour in your sight;
And chiefly for his own name's sake, whose sires
Were sires of mine, along the windy ways,
And stormy Western shores—let those dead days
Re-dawn to hearten all faint hope that tires,
And breathe on others as they breathed on me,
Like some glad wind blown shoreward from the sea.
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RALEIGH.
“With eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific.”
—Keats.
He stared at the Pacific.”
—Keats.
These flowers of mine I lay about thy feet,
Here, where the old world and the new world meet,
Although no echo of dead years shall wake,
Sweet eldersinger, for a new song's sake;
And in the dreamless quiet of thy sleep,
Thou wouldst not heed though many eyes should weep.
Yet, ere the red forgetful poppies wave,
And grow too wild upon thy nameless grave,
Among those laurels that have crowned thee long
Shall we not wreathe a greener growth of song,
And, for those unforgotten days and dead,
Bind up new garlands for thy goodly head,
Thine own sea's weeds and love's white-hearted flowers?
Here, where the old world and the new world meet,
Although no echo of dead years shall wake,
Sweet eldersinger, for a new song's sake;
And in the dreamless quiet of thy sleep,
Thou wouldst not heed though many eyes should weep.
Yet, ere the red forgetful poppies wave,
And grow too wild upon thy nameless grave,
Among those laurels that have crowned thee long
Shall we not wreathe a greener growth of song,
And, for those unforgotten days and dead,
Bind up new garlands for thy goodly head,
Thine own sea's weeds and love's white-hearted flowers?
The moon is high above the hundred towers,
Here, where his name is a green memory yet,
For all the moons, the many suns that set;
Here, where all echo of the world seems strange,
Where the old shadows fall, and few things change;
There is a silence on the sleeping town,
The far-off sounds of revelry die down
Toward the tower by the marshy stream:
On such a star-night, some dim old-world dream
Steals o'er the middle murmur of our ways,
Like a cool wind that breathes on summer-days,—
A restful dream to weary hearts, that tire
Of a dark future and a vain desire.
Therefore, because our light is all too wide
Which the soul drinks, and is not satisfied,
From the full fierceness of strange suns that burn,
From all the longing of their lives, men turn
To lie a little while in cool long grass,
To close the eyes a-dreaming, and so pass
Into the quiet twilight of lost years,
To find a little respite from their tears.
Here, where his name is a green memory yet,
For all the moons, the many suns that set;
Here, where all echo of the world seems strange,
Where the old shadows fall, and few things change;
There is a silence on the sleeping town,
The far-off sounds of revelry die down
Toward the tower by the marshy stream:
On such a star-night, some dim old-world dream
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Like a cool wind that breathes on summer-days,—
A restful dream to weary hearts, that tire
Of a dark future and a vain desire.
Therefore, because our light is all too wide
Which the soul drinks, and is not satisfied,
From the full fierceness of strange suns that burn,
From all the longing of their lives, men turn
To lie a little while in cool long grass,
To close the eyes a-dreaming, and so pass
Into the quiet twilight of lost years,
To find a little respite from their tears.
How has the world awoken! We who live
To gather up the gifts that these years give,
These lives of ours, born to a lordlier star
In a world's garden, where all flowers are,
How little reck we of the patient toil,
The lifelong labour in a thankless soil,
To sow a seed that other men might reap!
The loveless lives, the long hours robbed from sleep,
The rest that never came on earth, and then
The silent death, unrecompensed of men.
Those great, sad souls,—like solemn stars that rise
Beyond the after glory of wild skies,
Unchanged for ever, though new suns may set,
And the mad world grow weary and forget.
To gather up the gifts that these years give,
These lives of ours, born to a lordlier star
In a world's garden, where all flowers are,
How little reck we of the patient toil,
The lifelong labour in a thankless soil,
To sow a seed that other men might reap!
The loveless lives, the long hours robbed from sleep,
The rest that never came on earth, and then
The silent death, unrecompensed of men.
Those great, sad souls,—like solemn stars that rise
Beyond the after glory of wild skies,
Unchanged for ever, though new suns may set,
And the mad world grow weary and forget.
These were his years to live in and to know,
Which we but dream of in the long ago:
And I would pass with him awhile, and tread
The dim re-peopled pageants of the dead,
And hang in wonder on the silver mouth
Of that sweet singer of the singing south,
In the white city by the sea, where still
His unforgotten song-dreams rise and fill
Some echo through those shadowy walls of time;
Or where the Arno winds away, to climb
To that high hill-side garden, where the skies
Were not too wide for those all-searching eyes,
The spirit that was not of earth, who saw
The round world ordered under one great law,
Who learned the secret of the sun, and so
Came nigh to death, for having dared to know.
Which we but dream of in the long ago:
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The dim re-peopled pageants of the dead,
And hang in wonder on the silver mouth
Of that sweet singer of the singing south,
In the white city by the sea, where still
His unforgotten song-dreams rise and fill
Some echo through those shadowy walls of time;
Or where the Arno winds away, to climb
To that high hill-side garden, where the skies
Were not too wide for those all-searching eyes,
The spirit that was not of earth, who saw
The round world ordered under one great law,
Who learned the secret of the sun, and so
Came nigh to death, for having dared to know.
And not alone in those south lands the birth
Of new life dawned upon his wakened earth.
Like some white star, born out of sullen seas,
Climbing in darkness, till a fierce wind frees
Her skyward road, and the black clouds are riven,
And tossed and whirled along the windy heaven,
Till in deep skies, where no cloud clings or mars,
Her light shines out above the other stars;
This isle of ours, the wild waves girdle round,
Broke through the silence of the years,—her sound
Went out into wide lands, a name blown forth
On all the stormy whirlwinds of the North,—
Though the whole world withstood her, and alone.
For there were gathered round the white Queen's throne
All loyal hearts of England's chivalry,—
Our sires, who caught the spirit of the sea.
Not for a throne's sake, but a queen's, they passed
Into the storm and battle, and made fast
Their hearts' true homage on her loyal love;
Therefore those names of theirs have passed above
All other names,—those giants, who unfurled
Their sails against the morning of the world!
When little England rose and stretched her hands,
Guiding, not grasping, to the lordless lands,
And learned the lesson of the years—to make
Such trial of men's hearts, those bars to break
That sunder lands, to conquer space and time,
Strange seas to traverse, and wild ways to climb,
To open wide the far highways, that lead
To where all fetters of the world are freed.
Of new life dawned upon his wakened earth.
Like some white star, born out of sullen seas,
Climbing in darkness, till a fierce wind frees
Her skyward road, and the black clouds are riven,
And tossed and whirled along the windy heaven,
Till in deep skies, where no cloud clings or mars,
Her light shines out above the other stars;
This isle of ours, the wild waves girdle round,
Broke through the silence of the years,—her sound
Went out into wide lands, a name blown forth
On all the stormy whirlwinds of the North,—
Though the whole world withstood her, and alone.
For there were gathered round the white Queen's throne
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Our sires, who caught the spirit of the sea.
Not for a throne's sake, but a queen's, they passed
Into the storm and battle, and made fast
Their hearts' true homage on her loyal love;
Therefore those names of theirs have passed above
All other names,—those giants, who unfurled
Their sails against the morning of the world!
When little England rose and stretched her hands,
Guiding, not grasping, to the lordless lands,
And learned the lesson of the years—to make
Such trial of men's hearts, those bars to break
That sunder lands, to conquer space and time,
Strange seas to traverse, and wild ways to climb,
To open wide the far highways, that lead
To where all fetters of the world are freed.
Oh, those great lives of theirs! grown dim and old,
With half the wonder of their years untold!
There was the fiery Essex, who defied
Her woman's love, and having spurned it, died;
Yet, dying, knew she loved him,—she, a Queen!
There were the old sea-captains, who had seen
The isles and wonders of the unknown West,
And one who wore for ever on his breast
A token clasped by those white hands of hers,—
The flower and type of all true mariners.
There that fair soul, who by Love's shrine had kneeled,
With Petrarch and Boccace, and saw revealed
Love's heaven, as in a dream of faery-land.
And he who held him ever by the hand,—
Our Spenser's friend, whose name shall be the light
On these weak words of mine, the perfect knight,
The sweet-voiced singer, though long years of wrong
Have clouded o'er the fulness of his song,
And that loud note grew lingering and low.
With half the wonder of their years untold!
There was the fiery Essex, who defied
Her woman's love, and having spurned it, died;
Yet, dying, knew she loved him,—she, a Queen!
There were the old sea-captains, who had seen
The isles and wonders of the unknown West,
And one who wore for ever on his breast
A token clasped by those white hands of hers,—
The flower and type of all true mariners.
There that fair soul, who by Love's shrine had kneeled,
With Petrarch and Boccace, and saw revealed
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And he who held him ever by the hand,—
Our Spenser's friend, whose name shall be the light
On these weak words of mine, the perfect knight,
The sweet-voiced singer, though long years of wrong
Have clouded o'er the fulness of his song,
And that loud note grew lingering and low.
But once, and twice, amid the ebb and flow
Of many decads, moves the mighty soul
Of sundered peoples, with the storm and roll
Of battle, all the thunder of swift feet,
In the death-grapple, where the nations meet.
The cry that arms the weak against the strong!
The blood that thrills for right against the wrong!
The old oppressions broken and discrowned,
The high made lowly, and the bonds unbound;
Till, from the wreck and havoc of her strife
The old world wakens, and a holier life
Dawns on the morrow of brave hearts that bleed
Till all her sons are fetterless and freed.
Of many decads, moves the mighty soul
Of sundered peoples, with the storm and roll
Of battle, all the thunder of swift feet,
In the death-grapple, where the nations meet.
The cry that arms the weak against the strong!
The blood that thrills for right against the wrong!
The old oppressions broken and discrowned,
The high made lowly, and the bonds unbound;
Till, from the wreck and havoc of her strife
The old world wakens, and a holier life
Dawns on the morrow of brave hearts that bleed
Till all her sons are fetterless and freed.
For this they armed to battle, and in vain
Were all thy white-winged argosies, O Spain!
In vain the slave-king's slaves kneel down and whine
To every saint, and shriek at every shrine,
And priests' lips hiss their curses at the land
That went to fight with freedom in her hand,
With simple courage for her only shield,
Though all the seas were one wide battle-field,
And half a world against her, sending forth
Our old child-hearted heroes of the North;
Those stubborn hands that hurled the conquering Dane
Back to his rock-built fastnesses again,
And broke the serried lances of Poictiers.
Where are the silent singers of dead years,
To tell that stormy story? who shall write
The hundred battles of that twelve days' fight?
Till God's red lightnings hurled them back, and flung
The wrecks of galleons, where the dying clung,
Back, back into an endless waste of waves,
And a red sea went rolling o'er their graves.
Were all thy white-winged argosies, O Spain!
In vain the slave-king's slaves kneel down and whine
To every saint, and shriek at every shrine,
And priests' lips hiss their curses at the land
That went to fight with freedom in her hand,
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Though all the seas were one wide battle-field,
And half a world against her, sending forth
Our old child-hearted heroes of the North;
Those stubborn hands that hurled the conquering Dane
Back to his rock-built fastnesses again,
And broke the serried lances of Poictiers.
Where are the silent singers of dead years,
To tell that stormy story? who shall write
The hundred battles of that twelve days' fight?
Till God's red lightnings hurled them back, and flung
The wrecks of galleons, where the dying clung,
Back, back into an endless waste of waves,
And a red sea went rolling o'er their graves.
Long, long in vain the waiting mothers kneel
In the white palaces of far Castile.
Weep, wide brown eyes that watch along the shore:
Your dark-haired lovers shall return no more.
Only, it may be, on the rising tide
The shattered hull of one proud bark may glide,
To moor at even on a smooth bay's breast,
Where the south mountains lean toward the West;
A wraith of battle with her broken spars,
Between the water's shimmer, and the stars'.
In the white palaces of far Castile.
Weep, wide brown eyes that watch along the shore:
Your dark-haired lovers shall return no more.
Only, it may be, on the rising tide
The shattered hull of one proud bark may glide,
To moor at even on a smooth bay's breast,
Where the south mountains lean toward the West;
A wraith of battle with her broken spars,
Between the water's shimmer, and the stars'.
These memories waken in the still moonlight.—
It was a night like this, an autumn night,
Where warm winds lingered, and the moon was late;
There passed out through the old grey water-gate
A dreamer of strange dreams,
—to drift adown
The shadowy river, through the sleeping town,—
Drift down to Deptford on the swift ebb-tide;
And slowly, one by one, the red lights died
In overhanging gables,—strangely still,
Save where some watchman's far-off cry rang shrill
On the deep silence, or a soft-toned bell
From the far distance tolled a long farewell;
While the late moon rose seaward, and the gleam
Played round the pinnace, as it broke the stream.—
One dreamer more that followed the fair quest,
That golden hand had beckoned from the West;
And fettered childhood's fancy, where his home,
Set by the low cliffs leaning to the foam,
Saw all the wild Atlantic's surges sweep
From shoreless Westward seas, and laugh and leap
On our white rocks of England: he had played
Through the rent caverns that their sport had made,
Or wantoned in the happy waves, and caught
Their own free spirit, learned the lore they taught.
There was a story in their restless beat
That flung frail shells and corals at his feet.
“We have been there, we have been there,” they said.
He only saw the grey-green distance spread
Its gleam of tremulous waters heavenward, wide
Under the red sun's setting, and the tide
Fell back to follow westward, and the wind
Went laughing Westward, and left him behind.
It was a night like this, an autumn night,
Where warm winds lingered, and the moon was late;
There passed out through the old grey water-gate
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The shadowy river, through the sleeping town,—
Drift down to Deptford on the swift ebb-tide;
And slowly, one by one, the red lights died
In overhanging gables,—strangely still,
Save where some watchman's far-off cry rang shrill
On the deep silence, or a soft-toned bell
From the far distance tolled a long farewell;
While the late moon rose seaward, and the gleam
Played round the pinnace, as it broke the stream.—
One dreamer more that followed the fair quest,
That golden hand had beckoned from the West;
And fettered childhood's fancy, where his home,
Set by the low cliffs leaning to the foam,
Saw all the wild Atlantic's surges sweep
From shoreless Westward seas, and laugh and leap
On our white rocks of England: he had played
Through the rent caverns that their sport had made,
Or wantoned in the happy waves, and caught
Their own free spirit, learned the lore they taught.
There was a story in their restless beat
That flung frail shells and corals at his feet.
“We have been there, we have been there,” they said.
He only saw the grey-green distance spread
Its gleam of tremulous waters heavenward, wide
Under the red sun's setting, and the tide
Fell back to follow westward, and the wind
Went laughing Westward, and left him behind.
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Ah, Heaven! to have such hope at heart once more!
To leave the heart-ache on the fading shore,
And feel the freedom of the seas, to chase
Wild winds, and taste their salt breath in the face,
Where the waves wafted, and to steer at last
Where never bark of the old-world had past,
Up foam-fringed channels of deep-sounding bays
Into the heart of undiscovered ways.
To leave the heart-ache on the fading shore,
And feel the freedom of the seas, to chase
Wild winds, and taste their salt breath in the face,
Where the waves wafted, and to steer at last
Where never bark of the old-world had past,
Up foam-fringed channels of deep-sounding bays
Into the heart of undiscovered ways.
Ah, me! The cool, delicious nights! the sleep
In the long rasses, while the blue stars peep
Through fretful branches of the tangled trees;
And all the lowlands are pale phosphor seas,
With myriad fire-flies, and the fairy light
Which the stars lend these revellers of night.
The circles of the moon! the great world-calm!
Only the giant branches of the palm
For ever swinging on the scented wind;
The endless silver river traced behind
Under the misty moonlight, lost so far,
Where the blue mountain wondered at the star;
And hear the waters washing on the sand,
And all the awe and wonder of a land
Where never foot, save of the wild deer, trod
To break the silence of the peace of God.
In the long rasses, while the blue stars peep
Through fretful branches of the tangled trees;
And all the lowlands are pale phosphor seas,
With myriad fire-flies, and the fairy light
Which the stars lend these revellers of night.
The circles of the moon! the great world-calm!
Only the giant branches of the palm
For ever swinging on the scented wind;
The endless silver river traced behind
Under the misty moonlight, lost so far,
Where the blue mountain wondered at the star;
And hear the waters washing on the sand,
And all the awe and wonder of a land
Where never foot, save of the wild deer, trod
To break the silence of the peace of God.
Those many days along that winding stream
They passed, and all was as a drowsy dream;
The hum of insects on the air, the sound
Of lazy ripples lapping round and round;
The strange wood-growths, the green, the golden red,
And the blue glory burning overhead;—
Till on the fifteenth day toward sunset
Their river-ways grew fuller, broader yet,
The mountains leaned back lowlier,—and for land
Great rushes mast high and white banks of sand,—
Till in the sedge the waters lost the shore,
And on their waiting ears broke all the roar
As of wild rapids bursting to be free,
And far before them spread a gleaming sea,
The Westward-hurrying Orenoque,—the sun
Went down the mountains, and the West was won.
They passed, and all was as a drowsy dream;
The hum of insects on the air, the sound
Of lazy ripples lapping round and round;
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And the blue glory burning overhead;—
Till on the fifteenth day toward sunset
Their river-ways grew fuller, broader yet,
The mountains leaned back lowlier,—and for land
Great rushes mast high and white banks of sand,—
Till in the sedge the waters lost the shore,
And on their waiting ears broke all the roar
As of wild rapids bursting to be free,
And far before them spread a gleaming sea,
The Westward-hurrying Orenoque,—the sun
Went down the mountains, and the West was won.
Ah, fatal dream! For all the brave lives lost,
To find those fairy havens, countless cost
Of untold tears, and all the dark deeds done!
Fair fatal dream! still waiting to be won!—
It broke his fiery spirit at the last,
When in the evening of his life he passed
Once more to follow in the red sun's wake.
Ah, Golden City in the silver lake,
Fair dream he died for! will they find thee yet
Far, far, beyond the twilight of Sunset,
Beyond the silence of untrodden ways,
Fenced by the mountains, in a pathless maze
Of woods and winding waters, there it gleams,
As I have seen it in a hundred dreams!
Faint rustlings of gold leaves and golden flowers
Wrought in a subtle imagery of ours,—
And there for ever on his golden throne
The exiled monarch of the summer-zone
Waits for the promise of his land's release.
To find those fairy havens, countless cost
Of untold tears, and all the dark deeds done!
Fair fatal dream! still waiting to be won!—
It broke his fiery spirit at the last,
When in the evening of his life he passed
Once more to follow in the red sun's wake.
Ah, Golden City in the silver lake,
Fair dream he died for! will they find thee yet
Far, far, beyond the twilight of Sunset,
Beyond the silence of untrodden ways,
Fenced by the mountains, in a pathless maze
Of woods and winding waters, there it gleams,
As I have seen it in a hundred dreams!
Faint rustlings of gold leaves and golden flowers
Wrought in a subtle imagery of ours,—
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The exiled monarch of the summer-zone
Waits for the promise of his land's release.
“The golden city which is in breadth a three days' journey ... which had all kinds of flowers and trees of gold and silver.
“And there sits the Inca to this day covered with gold-dust from head to foot, waiting for the fulfilment of the ancient prophecy ...... that heroes should come up out of the West, and lead him back across the forests to the kingdom of Peru, and restore him to the glory of his forefathers.”
—Westward Ho!
Far better to have died, and be at peace
When hope was ended,—to have found fair rest
And slept for ever in thine own far West,
By Orenoque,—where giant tree-ferns wave
O'er the long grasses of that nameless grave,
The first-fruits of thy love, the bright swift form
Who dearly died in battle and in storm;—
Far better so, and yet it might not be,
Those twelve years' chains had hardly left him free;
When hope was ended,—to have found fair rest
And slept for ever in thine own far West,
By Orenoque,—where giant tree-ferns wave
O'er the long grasses of that nameless grave,
The first-fruits of thy love, the bright swift form
Who dearly died in battle and in storm;—
Far better so, and yet it might not be,
Those twelve years' chains had hardly left him free;
For now no more were the glad years of old,
Dead with the lives they looked on; time had told
The number of their days, and he alone
Of all true hearts that gathered round her throne
Was left to fall on bitter days, and break
His heart in prison, and for England's sake,
Until the long, laborious life should end,
A traitor's death, and only death to friend.
Dead with the lives they looked on; time had told
The number of their days, and he alone
Of all true hearts that gathered round her throne
Was left to fall on bitter days, and break
His heart in prison, and for England's sake,
Until the long, laborious life should end,
A traitor's death, and only death to friend.
And what of those who toiled and dared with thee
To wrest and win the freedom of the sea?
Their names are written in the blood they gave,
And the whole world is every hero's grave;
But some are nameless,—where the tropic sky
Of the great sun-land burns, their white bones lie;
Some in the great seas, many a fathom deep,
Far o'er their heads the solemn waters sweep,
Safe from the world, forgotten and asleep.
And where the dungeon-palace waits till years
Shall hide its silent evidence of tears,
The stones are holy for those feet of thine.
Ah, grey-grown prison-walls! are ye the shrine
Where freedom crowns her heroes,—in all lands
And years? is this their guerdon at her hands,—
This fair reward for him that travaileth,
A crown of sorrows and a shameful death?
To wrest and win the freedom of the sea?
Their names are written in the blood they gave,
And the whole world is every hero's grave;
But some are nameless,—where the tropic sky
Of the great sun-land burns, their white bones lie;
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Far o'er their heads the solemn waters sweep,
Safe from the world, forgotten and asleep.
And where the dungeon-palace waits till years
Shall hide its silent evidence of tears,
The stones are holy for those feet of thine.
Ah, grey-grown prison-walls! are ye the shrine
Where freedom crowns her heroes,—in all lands
And years? is this their guerdon at her hands,—
This fair reward for him that travaileth,
A crown of sorrows and a shameful death?
Night once more now, and by the window-bars
A face looked on the river and the stars,—
Those stars that changed not in their happy skies;
And in the weary watching of his eyes
The grey walls parted, and he seemed to be
Borne down that silent current to the sea;
To ease the longing on his heart, once more
To hear the free waves beating on the shore,
To feel once more their cool, delicious breath,
And sink for ever to the dreams of death.
A face looked on the river and the stars,—
Those stars that changed not in their happy skies;
And in the weary watching of his eyes
The grey walls parted, and he seemed to be
Borne down that silent current to the sea;
To ease the longing on his heart, once more
To hear the free waves beating on the shore,
To feel once more their cool, delicious breath,
And sink for ever to the dreams of death.
All things were ended now, the fierce, vain strife
Where no hope heartened, the desire of life.
All ended now,—save only memories past
Of other years, that lingered fair at last
Around the fadeless image of one face
In his heart's heart, in love's most holy place.
But now they parted, and the last caress,
The last long kiss that ever love shall press
Is on his lips for ever,—they, whose love
Was born in bitterness, and passed above
Man's questioning, the only sweet spring song
For all the winter that has been so long.
“Be of good heart,” he answered to her sighs,
“Wait yet a little,”—but those sweetest eyes
Were very wide and tearful; “no seas part
Where death shall close all wanderings, dear heart,
Where never love grows cold, or old, or tired,
But new and true, and lasting and desired;
No bitter heart's-pain at a wounding word,
No prison-walls, no wasted hopes deferred,
No weary, stormy ways, no blinding foam,
But in the endless summer of God's home
Love finds its long fulfilment and its rest.”
Where no hope heartened, the desire of life.
All ended now,—save only memories past
Of other years, that lingered fair at last
Around the fadeless image of one face
In his heart's heart, in love's most holy place.
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The last long kiss that ever love shall press
Is on his lips for ever,—they, whose love
Was born in bitterness, and passed above
Man's questioning, the only sweet spring song
For all the winter that has been so long.
“Be of good heart,” he answered to her sighs,
“Wait yet a little,”—but those sweetest eyes
Were very wide and tearful; “no seas part
Where death shall close all wanderings, dear heart,
Where never love grows cold, or old, or tired,
But new and true, and lasting and desired;
No bitter heart's-pain at a wounding word,
No prison-walls, no wasted hopes deferred,
No weary, stormy ways, no blinding foam,
But in the endless summer of God's home
Love finds its long fulfilment and its rest.”
So all the stars went fading down the West.
They brought him to the Palace-yard at morn,—
The hair well greyed now, very tired and worn
With many years and battles,—and great peace
In those soft eyes that waited for release.
Still straight and tall, with the old fearless air,
And that strange beauty of his face, as fair
As once when in old time his name was sweet
In all men's ears, and at his lady's feet
Men held him happy once, when hope was high.
They brought the old man at the end to die,—
He who had fought their battles, and set free
For English sails the highways of the sea.
Once more he spoke,—those words that yet shall move
On doubting hearts a long return of love;
Then all was ended, and the last word said;
He bowed the sorrows of his perfect head,
And passed where never any troublous days
Shall touch him now, nor any blame nor praise;
But on the other side of Death's far shore,
He knows that dream of his is now a dream no more.
They brought him to the Palace-yard at morn,—
The hair well greyed now, very tired and worn
With many years and battles,—and great peace
In those soft eyes that waited for release.
Still straight and tall, with the old fearless air,
And that strange beauty of his face, as fair
As once when in old time his name was sweet
In all men's ears, and at his lady's feet
Men held him happy once, when hope was high.
They brought the old man at the end to die,—
17
For English sails the highways of the sea.
Once more he spoke,—those words that yet shall move
On doubting hearts a long return of love;
Then all was ended, and the last word said;
He bowed the sorrows of his perfect head,
And passed where never any troublous days
Shall touch him now, nor any blame nor praise;
But on the other side of Death's far shore,
He knows that dream of his is now a dream no more.
| Newdigate Prize Poem | |