16. HE FELL AMONG THIEVES

"Ye have robbed," said he, "ye have slaughtered and made an end, Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead; What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?" "Blood for our blood," they said.

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He laughed: "If one may settle the score for five, I am ready; but let the reckoning stand till day: I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive." "You shall die at dawn," said they.

He flung his empty revolver down the slope, He climb'd 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 Yassin river sullenly flows; He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills, Or the far Afghan snows.

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 hid the loved and honoured dead; The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark, The brasses 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.

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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 dais serene.

He watch'd the liner's stem ploughing the foam, He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; He heard her passengers' 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 ruin'd camp below the wood; He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet; His murderers round him stood.

Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast, The blood-red snow-peaks chilled to a dazzling white; He turn'd, 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 pass the voices one by one Faded, and the hill slept.

Henry Newbolt.

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16. ENGLAND

Shall we but turn from braggart pride Our race to cheapen and defame? Before the world to wail, to chide, And weakness as with vaunting claim? Ere the hour strikes, to abdicate The steadfast spirit that made us great, And rail with scolding tongues at fate?

If England's heritage indeed Be lost, be traded quite away For fatted sloth and fevered greed; If, inly rotting, we decay; Suffer we then what doom we must, But silent, as befits the dust Of them whose chastisement was just.

But rather, England, rally thou Whatever breathes of faith that still Within thee keeps the undying vow And dedicates the constant will. For such yet lives, if not among The boasters, or the loud of tongue, Who cry that England's knell is rung.

The fault of heart, the small of brain, In thee but their own image find; Beyond such thoughts as these contain A mightier Presence is enshrined. Nor meaner than their birthright grown Shall these thy latest sons be shown, So thou but use them for thine own.

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By those great spirits burning high In our home's heaven, that shall be stars To shine, when all is history And rumour of old, idle wars; By all those hearts which proudly bled To make this rose of England red; The living, the triumphant dead;

By all who suffered and stood fast That Freedom might the weak uphold, And in men's ways of wreck and waste Justice her awful flower unfold; By all who out of grief and wrong In passion's art of noble song Made Beauty to our speech belong;

By those adventurous ones who went Forth overseas, and, self-exiled, Sought from far isle and continent Another England in the wild, For whom no drums beat, yet they fought Alone, in courage of a thought Which an unbounded future wrought;

Yea, and yet more by those to-day Who toil and serve for naught of gain, That in thy purer glory they May melt their ardour and their pain; By these and by the faith of these, The faith that glorifies and frees, Thy lands call on thee, and thy seas.

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If thou hast sinned, shall we forsake Thee, or the less account us thine? Thy sores, thy shames on us we take. Flies not for us thy famed ensign? Be ours to cleanse and to atone; No man this burden bears alone; England, our best shall be thine own.

Lift up thy cause into the light! Put all the factious lips to shame! Our loves, our faiths, our hopes unite And strike into a single flame! Whatever from without betide, O purify the soul of pride In us; thy slumbers cast aside; And of thy sons be justified!

Laurence Binyon.