"When Lieutenant Murray fell, the only words he spoke were, Forward, Grenadiers!'"--'Press Telegram'.

Here they halted, here once more Hand from hand was rent; Here his voice above the roar Rang, and on they went.

Yonder out of sight they crossed, Yonder died the cheers; One word lives where all is lost-- "Forward, Grenadiers!"

This alone he asked of fame, This alone of pride; Still with this he faced the flame, Answered Death, and died.

Crest of battle sunward tossed, Song of the marching years, This shall live though all be lost-- "Forward, Grenadiers!"

{89}.

'The Schoolfellow'

Our game was his but yesteryear; We wished him back; we could not know The selfsame hour we missed him here He led the line that broke the foe.

Blood-red behind our guarded posts Sank as of old the dying day; The battle ceased; the mingled hosts Weary and cheery went their way:

"To-morrow well may bring," we said, "As fair a fight, as clear a sun."

Dear lad, before the word was sped, For evermore thy goal was won.

{90}.

'On Spion Kop'

Foremost of all on battle's fiery steep Here VERTUE fell, and here he sleeps his sleep.*

A fairer name no Roman ever gave To stand sole monument on Valour's grave.

* Major N. H. Vertue, of the Buffs, Brigade-Major to General Woodgate, was buried where he fell, on the edge of Spion Kop, in front of the British position.

{91}.

'The School at War'

All night before the brink of death In fitful sleep the army lay, For through the dream that stilled their breath Too gauntly glared the coming day.

But we, within whose blood there leaps The fulness of a life as wide As Avon's water where he sweeps Seaward at last with Severn's tide,

We heard beyond the desert night The murmur of the fields we knew, And our swift souls with one delight Like homing swallows Northward flew.

We played again the immortal games, And grappled with the fierce old friends, And cheered the dead undying names, And sang the song that never ends;

Till, when the hard, familiar bell Told that the summer night was late, Where long ago we said farewell We said farewell by the old gate.

{92}.

"O Captains unforgot," they cried, "Come you again or come no more, Across the world you keep the pride, Across the world we mark the score."

{93}.

'By the Hearth-Stone'

By the hearth-stone She sits alone, The long night bearing: With eyes that gleam Into the dream Of the firelight staring.

Low and more low The dying glow Burns in the embers; She nothing heeds And nothing needs-- Only remembers.

{94}.

'Peace'

(1902).

No more to watch by Night's eternal sh.o.r.e, With England's chivalry at dawn to ride; No more defeat, faith, victory--O! no more A cause on earth for which we might have died.

{95}.

'April on Waggon Hill'

Lad, and can you rest now, There beneath your hill?

Your hands are on your breast now, But is your heart so still?

'Twas the right death to die, lad, A gift without regret, But unless truth's a lie, lad, You dream of Devon yet.

Ay, ay, the year's awaking, The fire's among the ling, The beechen hedge is breaking, The curlew's on the wing; Primroses are out, lad, On the high banks of Lee, And the sun stirs the trout, lad, From Brendon to the sea.

I know what's in your heart, lad,-- The mare he used to hunt-- And her blue market-cart, lad, With posies tied in front--

{96}.

We miss them from the moor road, They're getting old to roam, The road they're on's a sure road And nearer, lad, to home.

Your name, the name they cherish?

'Twill fade, lad, 'tis true: But stone and all may perish With little loss to you.

While fame's fame you're Devon, lad, The Glory of the West; Till the roll's called in heaven, lad, You may well take your rest.

{97}.

'Commemoration'

I sat by the granite pillar, and sunlight fell Where the sunlight fell of old, And the hour was the hour my heart remembered well, And the sermon rolled and rolled As it used to roll when the place was still unhaunted, And the strangest tale in the world was still untold.

And I knew that of all this rushing of urgent sound That I so clearly heard, The green young forest of saplings cl.u.s.tered round Was heeding not one word: Their heads were bowed in a still serried patience Such as an angel's breath could never have stirred.