English Roses by F. Harald Williams [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] |
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| I. |
| II. |
THE POET'S SWAN SONG. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | English Roses |  |
THE POET'S SWAN SONG.
This is the last song but not the past song
Wrought by the Poet, made for the Masses,
Breathing the salt sea, bringing the man's plea
Broader than classes.
Might of the mountains, sweep of the sky,
Murmur of fountains asking reply
Chanted by king Love, sweet as the ring dove
Cooing thereby.
Such is the Fate gift, such is the State gift
Greeting far times,
Rushing of storm wind, fragrance of old Ind,
Mingling all chimes.
Wrought by the Poet, made for the Masses,
Breathing the salt sea, bringing the man's plea
Broader than classes.
Might of the mountains, sweep of the sky,
Murmur of fountains asking reply
Chanted by king Love, sweet as the ring dove
219
Such is the Fate gift, such is the State gift
Greeting far times,
Rushing of storm wind, fragrance of old Ind,
Mingling all chimes.
“I on these lute strings ere they are mute strings,
Strike as the Master only is able
Music, to lead right parties that seek night,
Worshipping fable.
Open the porches out of the dark
Bright as with torches, safe as an Ark,
Showing me true things meant for a clue, things
Whereto we hark.
Follow the creed on, helping our need on
Over a way
Rugged with sharp flint, many a blood print—
Ending in day.
Strike as the Master only is able
Music, to lead right parties that seek night,
Worshipping fable.
Open the porches out of the dark
Bright as with torches, safe as an Ark,
Showing me true things meant for a clue, things
Whereto we hark.
Follow the creed on, helping our need on
Over a way
Rugged with sharp flint, many a blood print—
Ending in day.
“Stand by the old Book, stand by the gold Book
Giving us statutes of the Creator
Fresh from Divine art, serve with a glad heart
The Legislator.
Gospels are many, Truth is but one
Fairer than any, and for all done;
Lifting to stature, full as God's Nature,
Liberty's son.
Hold to the pure Fact, rest on secure Fact,
Written in Blood;
Carry the Cross still, over the high hill,
Over the flood.
Giving us statutes of the Creator
Fresh from Divine art, serve with a glad heart
The Legislator.
Gospels are many, Truth is but one
Fairer than any, and for all done;
Lifting to stature, full as God's Nature,
Liberty's son.
Hold to the pure Fact, rest on secure Fact,
Written in Blood;
Carry the Cross still, over the high hill,
Over the flood.
“Honour the best way, honour the blest way
Trodden by brave men winning or trying,
Crowned through grim pain, loving to get gain
Though but by dying.
Fashions are sorrow, eaten with blight;
Work for the morrow and the new might
Shed on the toilers, leaving the spoilers
Passing delight.
Thus shall ye draw yet, thus have as law yet
Ocean's wild breath;
And, whatso'er be, life would remain free—
Victor of death.”
Trodden by brave men winning or trying,
Crowned through grim pain, loving to get gain
Though but by dying.
Fashions are sorrow, eaten with blight;
Work for the morrow and the new might
Shed on the toilers, leaving the spoilers
Passing delight.
Thus shall ye draw yet, thus have as law yet
220
And, whatso'er be, life would remain free—
Victor of death.”
| English Roses | |