IV. EPICEDIA

TWO DAYS (February 15—September 28, 1894)

To V. G.

That day we brought our Beautiful One to lie In the green peace within your gates, he came To give us greeting, boyish and kind and shy, And, stricken as we were, we blessed his name: Yet, like the Creature of Light that had been ours, Soon of the sweet Earth disinherited, He too must join, even with the Year’s old flowers, The unanswering generations of the Dead. So stand we friends for you, who stood our friend Through him that day; for now through him you know That though where love was, love is till the end, Love, turned of death to longing, like a foe, Strikes: when the ruined heart goes forth to crave Mercy of the high, austere, unpitying Grave.

IN MEMORIAM THOMAS EDWARD BROWN

(Ob. October 30, 1897)

He looked half-parson and half-skipper: a quaint, Beautiful blend, with blue eyes good to see, And old-world whiskers. You found him cynic, saint, Salt, humourist, Christian, poet; with a free, Far-glancing, luminous utterance; and a heart Large as St. Francis’s: withal a brain Stored with experience, letters, fancy, art, And scored with runes of human joy and pain. Till six-and-sixty years he used his gift, His gift unparalleled, of laughter and tears, And left the world a high-piled, golden drift Of verse: to grow more golden with the years, Till the Great Silence fallen upon his ways Break into song, and he that had Love have Praise.

IN MEMORIAM GEORGE WARRINGTON STEEVENS

London, December 10, 1869. Ladysmith, January 15, 1900.

We cheered you forth—brilliant and kind and brave. Under your country’s triumphing flag you fell. It floats, true Heart, over no dearer grave— Brave and brilliant and kind, hail and farewell!

LAST POST

The day’s high work is over and done, And these no more will need the sun: Blow, you bugles of England, blow! These are gone whither all must go, Mightily gone from the field they won. So in the workaday wear of battle, Touched to glory with God’s own red, Bear we our chosen to their bed. Settle them lovingly where they fell, In that good lap they loved so well; And, their deliveries to the dear Lord said, And the last desperate volleys ranged and sped, Blow, you bugles of England, blow Over the camps of her beaten foe— Blow glory and pity to the victor Mother, Sad, O, sad in her sacrificial dead!

Labour, and love, and strife, and mirth, They gave their part in this goodly Earth— Blow, you bugles of England, blow!— That her Name as a sun among stars might glow, Till the dusk of Time, with honour and worth: That, stung by the lust and the pain of battle, The One Race ever might starkly spread, And the One Flag eagle it overhead! In a rapture of wrath and faith and pride, Thus they felt it, and thus they died; So to the Maker of homes, to the Giver of bread, For whose dear sake their triumphing souls they shed, Blow, you bugles of England, blow, Though you break the heart of her beaten foe, Glory and praise to the everlasting Mother, Glory and peace to her lovely and faithful dead!

IN MEMORIAM REGINAE DILECTISSIMAE VICTORIAE

(May 24, 1819—January 22, 1901)

Sceptre and orb and crown, High ensigns of a sovranty containing The beauty and strength and state of half a World, Pass from her, and she fades Into the old, inviolable peace.

I

She had been ours so long She seemed a piece of England: spirit and blood And message England’s self, Home-coloured, England in look and deed and dream; Like the rich meadows and woods, the serene rivers, And sea-charmed cliffs and beaches, that still bring A rush of tender pride to the heart That beats in England’s airs to England’s ends: August, familiar, irremovable, Like the good stars that shine In the good skies that only England knows: So that we held it sure God’s aim, God’s will, God’s way, When Empire from her footstool, realm on realm, Spread, even as from her notable womb Sprang line on line of Kings; For she was England—England and our Queen.

II

O, she was ours! And she had aimed And known and done the best And highest in time: greatly rejoiced, Ruled greatly, greatly endured. Love had been hers, And widowhood, glory and grief, increase In wisdom and power and pride, Dominion, honour, children, reverence: So that, in peace and war Innumerably victorious, she lay down To die in a world renewed, Cleared, in her luminous umbrage beautified For Man, and changing fast Into so gracious an inheritance As Man had never dared Imagine. Think, when she passed, Think what a pageant of immortal acts, Done in the unapproachable face Of Time by the high, transcending human mind, Shone and acclaimed And triumphed in her advent! Think of the ghosts, Think of the mighty ghosts: soldiers and priests, Artists and captains of discovery, God’s chosen, His adventurers up the heights Of thought and deed—how many of them that led The forlorn hopes of the World!— Her peers and servants, made the air Of her death-chamber glorious! Think how they thronged About her bed, and with what pride They took this sister-ghost Tenderly into the night! O, think— And, thinking, bow the head In sorrow, but in the reverence that makes The strong man stronger—this true maid, True wife, true mother, tried and found An hundred times true steel, This unforgettable woman was your Queen!

III

Tears for her—tears! Tears and the mighty rites Of an everlasting and immense farewell, England, green heart of the world, and you, Dear demi-Englands, far-away isles of home, Where the old speech is native, and the old flag Floats, and the old irresistible call, The watch-word of so many ages of years, Makes men in love With toil for the race, and pain, and peril, and death! Tears, and the dread, tremendous dirge Of her brooding battleships, and hosts Processional, with trailing arms; the plaint— Measured, enormous, terrible—of her guns; The slow, heart-breaking throb Of bells; the trouble of drums; the blare Of mourning trumpets; the discomforting pomp Of silent crowds, black streets, and banners-royal Obsequious! Then, these high things done, Rise, heartened of your passion! Rise to the height Of her so lofty life! Kneel, if you must; But, kneeling, win to those great altitudes On which she sought and did Her clear, supernal errand unperturbed! Let the new memory Be as the old, long love! So, when the hour Strikes, as it must, for valour of heart, Virtue, and patience, and unblenching hope, And the inflexible resolve That, come the World in arms, This breeder of nations, England, keeping the seas Hers as from God, shall in the sight of God Stand justified of herself Wherever her unretreating bugles blow! Remember that she lived That this magnificent Power might still perdure— Your friend, your passionate servant, counsellor, Queen.

IV

Be that your chief of mourning—that!— England, O Mother, and you, The daughter Kingdoms born and reared Of England’s travail and sweet blood; And never will you lands, The live Earth over and round, Wherethrough for sixty royal and radiant years Her drum-tap made the dawns English—Never will you So fittingly and well have paid your debt Of grief and gratitude to the souls That sink in England’s harness into the dream: ‘I die for England’s sake, and it is well’: As now to this valiant, wonderful piece of earth, To which the assembling nations bare the head, And bend the knee, In absolute veneration—once your Queen.

Sceptre and orb and crown, High ensigns of a sovranty empaling The glory and love and praise of a whole half-world, Fall from her, and, preceding, she departs Into the old, indissoluble Peace.

EPILOGUE

Into a land Storm-wrought, a place of quakes, all thunder-scarred, Helpless, degraded, desolate, Peace, the White Angel, comes. Her eyes are as a mother’s. Her good hands Are comforting, and helping; and her voice Falls on the heart, as, after Winter, Spring Falls on the World, and there is no more pain. And, in her influence, hope returns, and life, And the passion of endeavour: so that, soon, The idle ports are insolent with keels; The stithies roar, and the mills thrum With energy and achievement; weald and wold Exult; the cottage-garden teems With innocent hues and odours; boy and girl Mate prosperously; there are sweet women to kiss; There are good women to breed. In a golden fog, A large, full-stomached faith in kindliness All over the world, the nation, in a dream Of money and love and sport, hangs at the paps Of well-being, and so Goes fattening, mellowing, dozing, rotting down Into a rich deliquium of decay.

Then, if the Gods be good, Then, if the Gods be other than mischievous, Down from their footstools, down With a million-throated shouting, swoops and storms War, the Red Angel, the Awakener, The Shaker of Souls and Thrones; and at her heel Trail grief, and ruin, and shame! The woman weeps her man, the mother her son, The tenderling its father. In wild hours, A people, haggard with defeat, Asks if there be a God; yet sets its teeth, Faces calamity, and goes into the fire Another than it was. And in wild hours A people, roaring ripe With victory, rises, menaces, stands renewed, Sheds its old piddling aims, Approves its virtue, puts behind itself The comfortable dream, and goes, Armoured and militant, New-pithed, new-souled, new-visioned, up the steeps To those great altitudes, whereat the weak Live not. But only the strong Have leave to strive, and suffer, and achieve.

Worthing, 1901.

Printed by T. and A. Constable, (late) Printers to Her Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press