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Where is her ladyhood? Not here, With the power of wings deployed
Not among modern kinds of men;

In lelightfullest air,
But in the stony fields, where clear Yea, thus among things enjoyed
Through the thin trees, the skies appear, Is kindness rare.
In delicate spare soil and fen,
And slender landscape and austere. For even the weak with surprise

Spread wings, utter song,
THE SHEPHERDESS

They can launch

in this blue they can

rise, She walks the lady of my delight – In this kindness are strong,

A shepherdess of sheep; Her flocks are thoughts, she keeps them They can launch like a ship into calm, white,

Which was penn'd up by storm, She guards them from the steep;

Which sails for the islands of balm
She feeds them on the fragrant height, Luxuriant and warm.

And folds them in for sleep.
She roams maternal hills and bright,

HENRY NEWBOLT
Dark valleys safe and deep;
Into that tender breast at night

MESSMATES
The chastest stars may peep.
She walks — the lady of my delight -

He gave us all a goodbye cheerily
A shepherdess of sheep.

At the first dawn of day;

We dropped him down the side full She holds her little thoughts in sight,

drearily Though gay they run and leap;

When the light died away. She is so circumspect and right;

It's a dead dark watch that he's a-keeping She has her soul to keep.

there, She walks — the lady of my delight - – And a long, long night that lags a-creepA shepherdess of sheep.

ing there, Where the Trades and the tides roll over

him
T. STURGE MOORE

And the great ships go by.
KINDNESS

He's there alone with green seas rocking Of the beauty of kindness I speak,

him Of a smile, of a charm

For a thousand miles around; On the face it is pleasure to meet,

He's there alone with dumb things mockThat gives no alarm!

ing him,

And we're homeward bound. Of the soul that absorbeth itself

It's a long, lone watch that he's a-keepIn discovering good,

ing there, Of that power which outlasts health, And a dead cold night that lags a-creeping As the spell of a wood

there, Outlasts the sad fall of the leaves,

While the months and the years

roll over And in winter is fine,

him

And the great ships go by.
And from snow and from frost receives
A garment divine.

I wonder if the tramps come near enough Oh! well may the lark sing of this,

As they thrash to and fro, As through rents of huge cloud And the battle-ships' bells ring clear It breaks on blue gulfs that are bliss,

enough For they make its heart proud

To be heard down below;

a

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Homeward over the downs we went
Soaked to the heart with sweet content;
April's anger is swift to fall,
April's wonder is worth it all.

He saw the School Close, sunny and green, The runner beside him, the stand by

the parapet wall, The distant tape, and the crowd roaring

between, His own name over all.

He saw the dark wainscot and timber'd An' the shore-lights flashin', and the roof,

night-tide dashin', The long tables, and the faces merry He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et and keen,

long ago. The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof,

Drake he was a Devon man an' rüled The Dons on the daïs serene.

the Devon seas,

(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?), He watch'd the liner's stem ploughing Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi

’ the foam,

heart at ease, He felt her trembling speed and the

An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth thrash of her screw;

Hoe. He heard the passengers' voices talking “Take my drum to England, hang et by of home,

the shore, He saw the flag she flew.

Strike et when your powder's runnin'

low; And now it was dawn. He rose strong

If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port

o' Heaven, on his feet,

An' drum them up the channel as we And strode to his ruin'd camp below

drummed them long ago." the woods; He drank the breath of the morning cool

Drake he's in his hammock till the great and sweet,

Armadas come, His murderers round him stood.

(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),

Slung atween the round shot, listenin' Light on the Laspur hills was broadening

for the drum, fast,

An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth The blood-red snow-peaks chill’d to a

Hoe. dazzling white; He turn'd and saw the golden circle at

Call him on the deep sea, call him up the last,

Sound, Cut by the Eastern height.

Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;

Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old “O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth

flag flyin'

They shall find him ware an' wakin', I have lived, I praise and adore thee." as they found him long ago !

A sword swept.
Over the pass the voices one by one
Faded, and the hill slept.

VITAI LAMPADA

and sun,

DRAKE'S DRUM

DRAKE he's in his hammock an' a thou

sand mile away,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),
Slung atween the round shot in Nombre

Dios Bay
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth

Hoe.
Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie

the ships,
Wi' sailor-lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,

THERE's a breathless hush in the Close

tonight Ten to make and the match to win A bumping pitch and a blinding light,

An hour to play and the last man in. And it's not for the sake of a ribboned

coat, Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, But his Captain's hand on his shoulder

smote “Play up! play up! and play the

game!

game!”

The sand of the desert is sodden red, God send you fortune: yet be sure, Red with the wreck of a square that Among the lights that gleam and broke;

pass, The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel You'll live to follow none more pure dead,

Than that which glows on yonder And the regiment blind with dust and

brass. smoke.

Qui procul hinc," the legend's writ. The river of death has brimmed his banks, The frontier-grave is far away

And England's far, and Honour a name, Qui ante diem periit:
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the Sed miles, sed pro patria."

ranks:
“Play up! play up! and play the
game!"

ALFRED NOYES
This is the word that year by year,

THE MOON IS UP
While in her place the School is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,

The moon is up: the stars are bright: And none that hears it dare forget.

The wind is fresh and free! This they all with a joyful mind

We're out to seek for gold to-night Bear through life like a torch in flame,

Across the silver sea! And falling fling to the host behind

The world was growing grey and old : "Play up! play up! and play the

Break out the sails again!
We're out to seek a Realm of Gold

Beyond the Spanish Main.
CLIFTON CHAPEL

We're sick of all the cringing knees,
This is the Chapel : here, my son,

The courtly smiles and lies ! Your father thought the thoughts of God, let thy singing Channel breeze youth,

Lighten our hearts and eyes! And heard the words that one by one

Let love no more be bought and sold The touch of Life has turned to truth.

For earthly loss or gain; Here in a day that is not far,

We're out to seek an Age of Gold
You too may speak with noble ghosts

Beyond the Spanish Main.
Of manhood and the vows of war
You made before the Lord of Hosts.

Beyond the light of far Cathay,
To set the cause above renown,

Beyond all mortal dreams, To love the game beyond the prize,

Beyond the reach of night and day To honour, while you strike him down,

Our El Dorado gleams, The foe that comes with fearless eyes ;

Revealing - as the skies unfold To count the life of battle good,

A star without a stain, And dear the land that gave you birth,

The Glory of the Gates of Gold And dearer yet the brotherhood

Beyond the Spanish Main. That binds the brave of all the earth

A SONG OF ENGLAND My son, the oath is yours: the end

Is His, Who built the world of strife, There is a song of England that none Who gave His children Pain for friend,

shall ever sing; And Death for surest hope of life.

So sweet it is and fleet it is To-day and here the fight's begun,

That none whose words are not as fleet Of the great fellowship you're free;

as birds upon the wing, Henceforth the School and you are one, And regal as her mountains, And what You are the race shall be.

And radiant as the fountains

Of rainbow-coloured sea-spray that every By the tenderest hands in England, hard wave can fling

and blistered hands of England; Against the cliffs of England, the sturdy And from the restful sighing cliffs of England,

Of the sleepers that are lying Could more than seem to dream of it, With the arms of God around them on Or catch one flying gleam of it,

the night's contented breast. Above the seas of England that never

There is a song of England that wanders cease to sing.

in the wind;

So sad it is and glad it is There is a song of England that only That men who hear it madden and their lovers know;

eyes are wet and blind, So rare it is and fair it is,

For the lowlands and the highlands Oh, like a fairy rose it is upon a drift of Of the unforgotten islands, snow,

For the Islands of the Blessèd, and the So cold and sweet and sunny,

rest they cannot find So full of hidden honey,

As they grope in dreams to England and So like a flight of butterflies where rose the love they left in England; and lily blow

Little feet that danced to meet them, Along the lanes of England, the leafy And the lips that used to greet them, lanes of England;

And the watcher at the window in the When flowers are at their vespers

home they left behind. And full of little whispers,

There is a song of England that thrills The boys and girls of England shall sing

the beating blood it as they go.

With burning cries and yearning

Tides of hidden aspiration hardly known There is a song of England that only love

or understood; may sing,

Aspirations of the creature So sure it is and pure it is;

Tow'rds the unity of Nature; And seaward with the seamew it spreads Sudden chivalries revealing whence the a whiter wing,

longing is renewed And with the skylark hovers

In the men that live for England, live Above the tryst of lovers,

and love and die for England: Above the kiss and whisper that led the By the light of their desire lovely Spring

They shall blindly blunder higher Through all the glades of England, the To a wider, grander Kingdom and a ferny glades of England,

deeper, nobler Good. Until the way enwound her

There is a song of England that only God With sprays of May, and crowned

can hear; her

So gloriously victorious, With stars of frosty blossom in a merry

It soars above the choral stars that sing morris-ring

the Golden Year;

Till even the cloudy shadows There is a song of England that haunts That wander o'er her meadows her hours of rest;

In silent purple harmonies declare His The calm of it and balm of it

glory there, Are breathed from every hedgerow that Along the hills of England, the billowy

, blushes to the West :

hills of England, From cottage doors that nightly

While heaven rolls and ranges Cast their welcome out so brightly

Through all the myriad changes On the lanes where laughing children are That mirror God in music to the mortal lifted and caressed

eye and ear.

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