The Poetical Works of George Barlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

Our English manhood's still the same
As in the days of Waterloo;
The sons uphold their father's fame,
Beneath strange skies of burning blue.
The race is growing old, some say,
And half worn out and past its prime;
But English rifles volley “Nay,”
And English manhood conquers time.
Then fear not, and veer not
From duty's narrow way:
What men have done, can still be done,
And shall be done to-day!

The broad wild desert stretched away
For many and many a weary league;

278

Our soldiers suffered day by day,
Enduring hunger, thirst, fatigue.
But still, when their fierce foes they met,
They fought and conquered as of old:
The sun of England has not set;
Our nation's story is not told.
Then blench not, and quench not
High hope's glad golden ray:
What men have done, can still be done,
And shall be done to-day!

279

II. ENGLAND HO! FOR ENGLAND

A FEDERATION SONG

Old England needs her children,
She needs them every one,
From India's morning-bugle
To the last sunset-gun:
North, East, and South, she needs them,
And in the furthest West,
And where the Channel waters
Storm round her rocky breast.

The day is surely coming
When all alike she'll need,
All far-off true descendants
Of the old island-breed.

280

The day is surely coming
When all may have to strike
For England, ho! for England—
So all must fare alike!

“For England, ho! for England”—
The great deep-throated cry
Rings far across the waters;
A million mouths reply,
“For England, ho! for England,
Till England's work be done,—
And England's work is timeless
And measured by the sun.”

281

III. THE WORKMAN-KING

I'm only a working man, my boys,
I toil in the London smoke,
But when a holiday comes, my boys,
I cease to grind and choke.
The garden of England's mine, my boys,
Its valleys and woods and plains,
For the people rules the whole, my boys,
The people votes and reigns!

The democrat rules the whole, my boys,
The forests of larch and oak;
We never need cough and sniff, my boys,
In the great towns' soot and smoke.
The heather-bud swells on the moors and fells
And the sea is blue and wide;
Do you know how sweet the country smells?
You never can tell till you've tried!

282

A noble heritage this, my boys,
To possess and rule and sway!
Now the people votes and reigns, my boys,
We speak, and our lords obey.
The garden of England's ours, my boys,
But to rule ourselves remains,
For the man who governs and rules himself
Is ever the man who reigns—
The man who can govern and rule himself
Is ever the king who reigns!

283

IV. RETROSPECT

“O conquering poet, thou that hast
The whole world at thy feet,
What laurel-garlands crown thy past!
Is not the present sweet?

Poet.

“I'd fling away my crown of bay,
Lose it without one throe,
To feel beside my own to-day
The tender heart I flung away
Long, long ago!

“O statesman, thou that guidest things
With godlike strength of will,
Thou art more regal than earth's kings;
They hear thee, and are still.”

284

Statesman.

“I shape the world continually,
I lay its monarchs low,
And yet I'd give the world to see
The dead eyes smile that smiled at me
Long, long ago!”

“O warrior, thou that carriest high
Thy grey victorious head,
What pæans echo to the sky
At thy war-horse's tread!”

Warrior.
“I heed them not. I long to hear
The child's speech, soft and slow,
That used to sound upon mine ear,
So sweet, so pure, so silver-clear,
Many and many and many a year
Ago!”

285

V. TWO NESTS

In the leafless sycamore
Lo! a winter nest.
Round it all the ceaseless roar
Of the storm's unrest.
Here love's palace once was seen
Swinging to the breeze,
Roofed and guarded by the green,
Full of melodies.
Here the sunset loved to rest,
Smiling on the thrush's nest.

In yon London attic room
Once a painter wrought;
All our dense November gloom
Darkened not his thought.

286

Woman's love was here as well;
Woman's loving eyes
Met the painter's when they fell
From the pictured skies.
Love forsook his fiery quest,
Pausing at the painter's nest.

Both are changed alike to-day.
When the thrushes flew,
Sorrow turned the green leaves grey,
Robbed the heaven of blue.
Painter, sweetheart, both are dead,
But the room remains,
And an easel smeared with red,—
Dusty window panes.
Death destroys with equal zest
Painter's bower, or thrush's nest.

287

VI. THE PATHWAY OF LIFE

In every heart a story;
In every heart a grief;
The sorrow of a lifetime;
A pain or rapture brief.
Old hearts and young together,
All hearts alike, are one;
All harden in black weather,
All soften at the sun.

All hearts have had their burden;
Romance has come to most,
Has entered life with trumpets
And vanished like a ghost.

288

Each heart is like an album
With blossoms therein dried;
Sweet blossoms, pure love-blossoms,
That bloomed a day, then died.

Oh! brothers, Oh! strong brothers,
And sisters sad and sweet,
Wives, daughters, fathers, mothers,—
In suffering all can meet.
The path of pain in common
We all alike have trod,—
May that one pathway lead us,
Lead all alike to God!

289

VII. THE PILOT'S WIFE

“The moon shines out with here and there a star,
But furious cloud-ranks storm both stars and moon:
The mad sea drums upon the harbour-bar;
Will the tide slacken soon?
O Sea that took'st my youngest, wilt thou spare?”
—And the Sea answered through the black night-air,
“I took thy youngest. Shall I spare to-night?”

“The thundering breakers sweep and slash the sands;
To westward lo! one line of cream-white foam:
I raise to darkling heaven my helpless hands;
I watch within the home.
O Sea that took'st my eldest, wilt thou save?”
—And the Sea answered as from out a grave,
“I slew thine eldest son for my delight.”

290

“The giant waves plunge o'er the shingly beach;
The tawny-maned great lions of the sea
With pitiless roar howl down all human speech;
Is God far-off from me?
O Sea that slewest my sons, mine husband spare!”
—The Sea's wild laughter shook and rent the air:
Lo! on the beach a drowned face deadly white.

291

VIII. THE DEAD CHILD

But yesterday she played with childish things,
With toys and painted fruit.
To-day she may be speeding on bright wings
Beyond the stars! We ask. The stars are mute.

But yesterday her doll was all in all;
She laughed and was content.
To-day she will not answer, if we call:
She dropped no toys to show the road she went.

But yesterday she smiled and ranged with art
Her playthings on the bed.
To-day and yesterday are leagues apart!
She will not smile to-day, for she is dead.

292

IX. THE SHADOW AT THE DOOR

What adds a beauty to the rose?
The thought that, when the night-wind blows,
The petals white or petals pink
At his cold touch may fail and shrink.
This gives its beauty to the flower—
That it but blooms and lives one hour.
The sun gives charm. What gives it more?
The Shadow waiting at the door.

The sweetest hour may swiftly pass:
Brown are these blades, that once were grass.
Blue eyes, gold hair, they are but shows;
Death takes them, as it takes the rose.
Love draws such eager passionate breath
Because he's followed fast by death.
What makes us value Love's kiss more?
The deathlike Shadow at the door.

293

O love, our bower of love is sweet;
The white rug nestles round your feet.
Your brown eyes watch the bright fire's glow;
I watch your eyes. I love them so!
The pictures watch us from the wall:
I'm king, and you the queen of all.
Does aught else watch? Aye, one thing more:
That ghostlike Shadow at the door!

294

X. SADNESS AND GLADNESS

Our tired hearts gather sadness, as we grow
In care and thoughts and pain.
The sweet spring sunlight that once charmed us so
Will never gleam again.
The grey mists thicken as the sun declines:
A deepening shadow clothes the mountain pines.

But our tired heart sees not the whole of things.
Still over the brown stream
Flashes the kingfisher with rapid wings,
One sudden azure gleam.
Because our souls are weary or are sad,
We quite forget that half the world is glad!

295

Some lover just has won his lady's smile,
As we won long ago:
The wild hedge-blossoms cluster by the stile,
Gold buttercups a-row:
The silvery minnow darts along the stream:
Life is not all a trouble or a dream.

296

XI. NEAR AT HAND

The dead are with us through our nights and days;
They have not journeyed far,
Beyond the clouds, beyond the golden haze
That shrouds the furthest star.
Our earthly flowers
Are still to them most dear,
And still they hear
The songs of merry birds in hawthorn bowers.

Friends who have passed are never far away,
Beyond the warmth of June,
Beyond the sights and sounds and scents of May,
Beyond our waters' tune.
They linger still
To watch the white moon rise
Behind the hill,
And still take pleasure in the sunlit skies.

297

They nearest are, just when we need them most.
They help with living hands;
No spectral shape, no fruitless pallid ghost,
Peers from the unseen lands.
They watch and heed;
Their legions fill the air;
They never speed
Beyond the cry of pain, or reach of prayer.

298

XII. LOVE AND DEATH

An angel watched the world rejoicing:
The flowers sang in the morning light;
The blue sea sang its tender love-song
To golden-girdled stars at night.
All seemed so full of peace and gladness—
Till lo! a sudden ice-cold breath
Passed over hill and wave and meadow:
A stern voice whispered, “I am Death!”

Alas! in all that angel's dreaming
His loving heart had never dreamed
That only for one single moment
The fairy blossoms sang and gleamed.
He turned, and in despairing sadness
Would have resought the heavens above,
When, softly sounding through the shadows,
A sweet voice whispered, “I am Love!”

299

And then the angel saw that fairer
Than heaven with all its strifeless calm
Is earth, for Love makes sorrow lovely,
And plucks from grief the victor's palm.
Aye, Love with its undying sweetness
Can soothe the weary, cheer the lone:
If Death's voice threatens through the darkness,
Love whispers, “Death is overthrown!”