He flung his empty revolver down the slope, He climbed alone to the Eastward edge of the trees; All night long in a dream untroubled of hope He brooded, clasping his knees.

He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills The ravine where the Ya.s.sin river sullenly flows; He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills, Or the far Afghan snows.

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He saw the April noon on his books aglow, The wistaria trailing in at the window wide; He heard his father's voice from the terrace below Calling him down to ride.

He saw the gray little church across the park, The mounds that hide the loved and honoured dead; The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark, The bra.s.ses black and red.

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 timbered roof, The long tables, and the faces merry and keen; The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof, The Dons on the das serene.

He watched the liner's stem ploughing the foam, He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; He heard her pa.s.sengers' voices talking of home, He saw the flag she flew.

And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet, And strode to his ruined camp below the wood; He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet; His murderers round him stood.

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Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast, The blood-red snow-peaks chilled to a dazzling white: He turned, and saw the golden circle at last, Cut by the Eastern height.

"O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun, I have lived, I praise and adore Thee."

A sword swept.

Over the pa.s.s the voices one by one Faded, and the hill slept.

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'Ionicus'

I live--I am old--I return to the ground-- Blow trumpets! and still I can dream to the sound.

WILLIAM CORY.

With failing feet and shoulders bowed Beneath the weight of happier days, He lagged among the heedless crowd, Or crept along suburban ways.

But still through all his heart was young, His mood a joy that nought could mar, A courage, a pride, a rapture, sprung Of the strength and splendour of England's war.

From ill-requited toil he turned To ride with Picton and with Pack, Among his grammars inly burned To storm the Afghan mountain-track.

When midnight chimed, before Quebec He watched with Wolfe till the morning star; At noon he saw from 'Victory's' deck The sweep and splendour of England's war.

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Beyond the book his teaching sped, He left on whom he taught the trace Of kinship with the deathless dead, And faith in all the Island Race.

He pa.s.sed: his life a tangle seemed, His age from fame and power was far; But his heart was high to the end, and dreamed Of the sound and splendour of England's war.

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'The Non-Combatant'

Among a race high-handed, strong of heart, Sea-rovers, conquerors, builders in the waste, He had his birth; a nature too complete, Eager and doubtful, no man's soldier sworn And no man's chosen captain; born to fail, A name without an echo: yet he too Within the cloister of his narrow days Fulfilled the ancestral rites, and kept alive The eternal fire; it may be, not in vain; For out of those who dropped a downward glance Upon the weakling huddled at his prayers, Perchance some looked beyond him, and then first Beheld the glory, and what shrine it filled, And to what Spirit sacred: or perchance Some heard him chanting, though but to himself, The old heroic names: and went their way: And hummed his music on the march to death.

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'Sacramentum Supremum'

MUKDEN, MARCH 6TH, 1905.

Ye that with me have fought and failed and fought To the last desperate trench of battle's crest, Not yet to sleep, not yet; our work is nought; On that last trench the fate of all may rest, Draw near, my friends; and let your thoughts be high; Great hearts are glad when it is time to give; Life is no life to him that dares not die, And death no death to him that dares to live.

Draw near together; none be last or first; We are no longer names, but one desire; With the same burning of the soul we thirst, And the same wine to-night shall quench our fire.

Drink! to our fathers who begot us men, To the dead voices that are never dumb; Then to the land of all our loves, and then To the long parting, and the age to come.

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'Clifton Chapel'

This is the Chapel: here, my son, Your father thought the thoughts of youth, And heard the words that one by one The touch of Life has turned to truth.

Here in a day that is not far, You too may speak with n.o.ble ghosts Of manhood and the vows of war You made before the Lord of Hosts.

To set the cause above renown, To love the game beyond the prize, To honour, while you strike him down, The foe that comes with fearless eyes; To count the life of battle good, And dear the land that gave you birth, And dearer yet the brotherhood That binds the brave of all the earth--

My son, the oath is yours; the end Is His, Who built the world of strife, Who gave His children Pain for friend, And Death for surest hope of life.

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To-day and here the fight's begun, Of the great fellowship you're free; Henceforth the School and you are one, And what You are, the race shall be.

G.o.d send you fortune: yet be sure, Among the lights that gleam and pa.s.s, You'll live to follow none more pure Than that which glows on yonder bra.s.s.

"'Que procul hinc'," the legend's writ,-- The frontier-grave is far away-- "'Qui ante diem periit: Sed miles, sed pro patri.'"

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'Vita Lampada'

There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night-- Ten to make and the match to win-- A b.u.mping 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!"

The sand of the desert is sodden red,-- Red with the wreck of a square that broke;-- The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead, And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.

The river of death has brimmed his banks, And England's far, and Honour a name, But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks: "Play up! play up! and play the game!"

This is the word that year by year, While in her place the School is set, Every one of her sons must hear, And none that hears it dare forget.

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