The Poetry Of Henry Newbolt: Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud and strong.

Then swiftly came John Nicholson Between the door and him, With anger smouldering in his eyes, That made the rubies dim. He held his wrath with a curb of iron That furrowed cheek and brow. We brook no doubt of our mastery, We rule until we die. When Mehtab Singh rode from the gate His chin was on his breast: The Captains said, "When the strong command Obedience is best. For a handful of seventy men in a barrack of mud, Foodless, waterless, dwindling one by one, Answered a thousand yelling for English blood With stormy volleys that swept them gunner from gun, And charge on charge in the glare of the Afghan sun, Till the walls were shattered wherein they couched at bay, And dead or dying half of the seventy lay.

Twice they had taken the cannon that wrecked their hold, Twice toiled in vain to drag it back, Thrice they toiled, and alone, wary and bold, Whirling a hurricane sword to scatter the rack, Hamilton, last of the English, covered their track. And the Guides looked down from their smouldering barrack again, And behold, a banner of truce, and a voice that spoke: We that live--do ye doubt that our hands are strong?

They that are fallen--ye know that their blood was bright! Think ye the Guides will barter for lust of the light The pride of an ancient people in warfare bred, Honour of comrades living, and faith to the dead? Gay goes the Gordon to a fight The bravest of the brave are at deadlock there, Highlanders!

There are bullets by the hundred buzzing in the air, There are bonny lads lying on the hillside bare; But the Gordons know what the Gordons dare When they hear the pipers playing! The happiest English heart today Gay goes the Gordon to a fight Is the heart of the Colonel, hide it as he may; Steady there! He sees his work and he sees his way, He knows his time and the word to say, And he's thinking of the tune that the Gordons play When he sets the pipers playing. Rising, roaring, rushing like the tide, Gay goes the Gordon to a fight They're up through the fire-zone, not be be denied; Bayonets!

Thirty bullets straight where the rest went wide, And thirty lads are lying on the bare hillside; But they passed in the hour of the Gordons' pride, To the skirl of the pipers' playing. 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? I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive. 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 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. He watched the liner's stem ploughing the foam, He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; He heard the 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 ruined 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 dazzling white: He turned, and saw the golden circle at last, Cut by the Eastern height. Over the pass the voices one by one Faded, and the hill slept. Ionicus 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. 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. 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: And hummed his music on the march to death.

Clifton Chapel This is the Chapel: Here in a day that is not far, You too may speak with noble 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: 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.

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God send you fortune: 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! The river of death has brimmed his banks, And England's far, and Honour a name, But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks, "Play up! This they all with a joyful mind Bear through life like a torch in flame, And falling fling to the host behind "Play up! Think that when to-morrow comes War shall claim command of all, Thou must hear the roll of drums, Thou must hear the trumpet's call.

Now, before they silence ruth, Commune with the voice of truth; England! Hast thou counted up the cost, What to foeman, what to friend? Glory sought is Honour lost, How should this be knighthood's end? Know'st thou what is Hatred's meed? What the surest gain of greed? Single-hearted, unafraid, Hither all thy heroes came, On this altar's steps were laid Gordon's life and Outram's fame. So shalt thou when morning comes Rise to conquer or to fall, Joyful hear the rolling drums, Joyful hear the trumpets call, Then let Memory tell thy heart: The Sailing Of The Long-Ships October, They saw the cables loosened, they saw the gangways cleared, They heard the women weeping, they heard the men that cheered; Far off, far off, the tumult faded and died away, And all alone the sea-wind came singing up the Bay.

Vincent, I came by Trafalgar, I swept from Torres Vedras to golden Vigo Bar, I saw the beacons blazing that fired the world with light When down their ancient highway your fathers passed to fight. Vincent it burns from Trafalgar; Mark as ye go the beacons that woke the world with light When down their ancient highway your fathers passed to fight. Drake at the last off Nombre lying, Knowing the night that toward him crept, Gave to the sea-dogs round him crying, This for a sign before he slept: What Devon hath kept Devon shall keep on tide or main; Call to the storm and drive them flying, Devon, O Devon, in wind and rain!

Battle and storm and the sea-dog's way! Drake from his long rest turned again, Victory lit thy steel with lightning, Devon, o Devon, in wind and rain! The Volunteer "He leapt to arms unbidden, Unneeded, over-bold; His face by earth is hidden, His heart in earth is cold. In yonder gray old hall what fires are glowing, What ring of festal light?

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! Crest of battle sunward tossed, Song of the marching years, This shall live though all be lost "Forward, Grenadiers! Blood-red behind our guarded posts Sank as of old and dying day; The battle ceased; the mingled hosts Weary and cheery went their way: 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.

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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.

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. Peace No more to watch by Night's eternal shore, With England's chivalry at dawn to ride; No more defeat, faith, victoryO! Your hands are on your breast now, But is your heart so still? 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 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? 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. 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 clustered 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. For some were already away to the hazardous pitch, Or lining the parapet wall, And some were in glorious battle, or great and rich, Or throned in a college hall: And among the rest was one like my own young phantom, Dreaming for ever beyond my utmost call.

And they stretched forth their hands, and the wind of the spirit took them Lightly as drifted leaves on an endless plain. We held by the game and hailed the team, For many could play where few could dream. City of Song shall stand alway. Some were for profit and some for pride, Long ago, long ago, Some for the flag they lived and died. The work of the world must still be done, And minds are many though truth be one. But a lad there was to his fellows sang, Long ago, long ago, And soon the world to his music rang.

Follow your Captains, crown your Kings, But what will ye give to the lad that sings? For the voice ye hear is the voice of home, Long ago, long ago, And the voice of Youth with the world to roam. The voice of passion and human tears, And the voice of the vision that lights the years. To greet again the rule we knew Before we took the stream: Though long we've missed the sight of her, Our hearts may not forget; We've lost the old delight of her, We keep her honour yet.

We'll honour yet the school we knew, The best school of all: We'll honour yet the rule we knew, Till the last bell call. For working days or holidays, And glad or melancholy days, They were great days and jolly days At the best school of all. The stars and sounding vanities That half the crowd bewitch, What are they but inanities To him that treads the pitch?

And where's the welth I'm wondering, Could buy the cheers that roll When the last charge goes thundering Towards the twilight goal? Then men that tanned the hide of us, Our daily foes and friends, They shall not lose their pride of us, Howe'er the journey ends. Their voice to us who sing of it, No more its message bears, But the round world shall ring of it, And all we are be theirs.

To speak of fame a venture is, There's little here can bide, But we may face the centuries, And dare the deepending tide: England Praise thou with praise unending, The Master of the Wine; To all their portions sending Himself he mingled thine: The sea-born flush of morning, The sea-born hush of night, The East wind comfort scorning, And the North wind driving right: The world for gain and giving, The game for man and boy, The life that joys in living, The faith that lives in joy.

Not all the glories of her birth, Her armed renown and ancient throne, Could make her less the child of earth Or give her hopes beyond our own: But stayed on faith more sternly proved And pride than ours more pure and deep, She loves the land our fathers loved And keeps the fame our sons shall keep. Lloyd, formed part of the Cycle of Song offered to Queen Victoria, of blessed and glorious memory, in celebration of her second Jubilee.

The King Of England June 24th, In that eclipse of noon when joy was hushed Like the bird's song beneath unnatural night, And Terror's footfall in the darkness crushed The rose imperial of our delight, Then, even then, though no man cried "He comes," And no man turned to greet him passing there, With phantom heralds challenging renown And silent-throbbing drums I saw the King of England, hale and fair, Ride out with a great train through London town.

Unarmed he rode, but in his ruddy shield The lions bore the dint of many a lance, And up and down his mantle's azure field Were strewn the lilies plucked in famous France. Before him went with banner floating wide The yeoman breed that served his honour best, And mixed with these his knights of noble blood; But in the place of pride His admirals in billowy lines abreast Convoyed him close like galleons on the flood. Full of a strength unbroken showed his face And his brow calm with youth's unclouded dawn, But round his lips were lines of tenderer grace Such as no hand but Time's hath ever drawn.

Surely he knew his glory had no part In dull decay, nor unto Death must bend, Yet surely too of lengthening shadows dreamed With sunset in his heart, So brief his beauty now, so near the end, And now so old and so immortal seemed. O King among the living, these shall hail Sons of thy dust that shall inherit thee: O King of men that die, though we must fail Thy life is breathed from thy triumphant sea.

O man that servest men by right of birth, Our hearts' content thy heart shall also keep, Thou too with us shalt one day lay thee down In our dear native earth, Full sure the King of England, while we sleep, For ever rides abroad, through London town. Clear-mirrored in his dream The deeds that haunt his stream Flash out and fade like stars in midnight sliding. Long since, before the life of man Rose from among the lives that creep, With Time's own tide began That still mysterious sleep, Only to cease when Time shall reach the eternal deep.

From out his vision vast The early gods have passed, They waned and perished with the faith that made them; The long phantasmal line Of Pharaohs crowned divine Are dust among the dust that once obeyed them. Their land is one mute burial mound, Save when across the drifted years Some chant of hollow sound, Some triumph blent with tears, From Memnon's lips at dawn wakens the desert meres. The legions' iron tramp, The Goths' wide-wandering camp, Had these no fame that by thy shore might linger?

Nay, then must all be lost indeed, Lost too the swift pursuing might That cleft with passionate speed Aboukir's tranquil night, And shattered in mid-swoop the great world-eagle's flight. Yet have there been on earth Spirits of starry birth, Whose splendour rushed to no eternal setting: They over all endure, Their course through all is sure, The dark world's light is still of their begetting.

Though the long past forgotten lies, Nile! For this man was not great By gold or kingly state, Or the bright sword, or knowledge of earth's wonder; But more than all his race He saw life face to face, And heard the still small voice above the thunder. O river, while thy waters roll By yonder vast deserted tomb, There, where so clear a soul So shone through gathering doom, Thou and thy land shall keep the tale of lost Khartoum.

There within when day was near to ending, By her lord a woman young and strong, By his chief a songman old and stricken Watched together till the hour of song. Dreamily the chief from out the songnet Drew his hand and touched the woman's head: Has a king no bride among the dead? If thou willest, here am I, thy songman; If thou lovest, here is she, thy bride. While the songman, far beneath the forest Sang of Srahmandazi all night through, "Lovely be thy name, O Land of shadows, Land of meeting, Land of all the true! Fast dawns the last dawn, and what shall comfort then The lonely hearts that roam the outer sea?

Gray wakes the daybreak, the shivering sails are set, To misty deeps The channel sweeps O Mother, think on us who think on thee! Earth-home, birth-home, with love remember yet The sons in exile on the eternal sea. Hope The Hornblower "Hark ye, hark to the winding horn; Sluggards, awake, and front the morn!

Hark ye, hark to the winding horn; The sun's on meadow and mill. Follow me, hearts that love the chase; Follow me, feet that keep the pace: Stirrup to stirrup we ride, we ride, We ride by moor and hill. What is the quarry afoot to-day? Huntsman, huntsman, whither away, And what the game ye kill? Is it the deer, that men may dine? Is it the wolf that tears the kine? What is the race ye ride, ye ride, Ye ride by moor and hill?

An echo it may be, floating past; A shadow it may be, fading fast: Shadow or echo, we ride, we ride, We ride by moor and hill" O Pulchritudo O Saint whose thousand shrines our feet have trod And our eyes loved thy lamp's eternal beam, Dim earthly radiance of the Unknown God, Hope of the darkness, light of them that dream, Far off, far off and faint, O glimmer on Till we thy pilgrims from the road are gone.

O Word whose meaning every sense hath sought, Voice of the teeming field and grassy mound, Deep-whispering fountain of the wells of thought, Will of the wind and soul of all sweet sound, Far off, far off and faint, O murmur on Till we thy pilgrims from the road are gone. But the summer flowers were falling, Falling and fading away, And mother birds were calling, Crying and calling For their loves that would not stay.

He knew not Autumn's chillness, Nor Winter's wind nor Spring's. He lived with Summer's stillness And sun and sunlit things: But when the dusk was falling He went the shadowy way, And one more heart is calling, Crying and calling For the love that would not stay. From Generation To Generation O Son of mine, when dusk shall find thee bending Between a gravestone and a cradle's head Between the love whose name is loss unending And the young love whose thoughts are liker dread, Thou too shalt groan at heart that all thy spending Cannot repay the dead, the hungry dead. When I Remember When I remember that the day will come For this our love to quit his land of birth, And bid farewell to all the ways of earth With lips that must for evermore be dumb, Then creep I silent from the stirring hum, And shut away the music and the mirth, And reckon up what may be left of worth When hearts are cold and love's own body numb.

Something there must be that I know not here, Or know too dimly through the symbol dear; Some touch, some beauty, only guessed by this If He that made us loves, it shall replace, Beloved, even the vision of thy face And deep communion of thine inmost kiss. Mine is not the love that strays, Though I wander far-off ways: Faithfully for all my days I have vowed myself to thee: Though I wander far-off ways, Dearest, never doubt thou me.

Had I more to share or save, I would give as give the brave, Stooping not to part the heap; Long ago to thee I gave Body, soul, and all I have Nothing in the world I keep. Balade I cannot tell, of twain beneath this bond, Which one in grief the other goes beyond, Narcissus, who to end the pain he bore Died of the love that could not help him more; Or I, that pine because I cannot see The lady who is queen and love to me.



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Nay--for Narcissus, in the forest pond Seeing his image, made entreaty fond, "Beloved, comfort on my longing pour": So for a while he soothed his passion sore; So cannot I, for all too far is she The lady who is queen and love to me. But since that I have Love's true colours donned, I in his service will not now despond, For in extremes Love yet can all restore: So till her beauty walks the world no more All day remembered in my hope shall be The lady who is queen and love to me.

The Last Word Before the April night was late A rider came to the castle gate; A rider breathing human breath, But the words he spoke were the words of Death. Sir Alain rose with lips that smiled, He kissed his wife, he kissed his child: Before the April night was late Sir Alain rode from the castle gate. He called his men-at-arms by name, But one there was uncalled that came: He bade his troop behind him ride, But there was one that rode beside.

Be wiser ere the night go by. A message late is a message lost; For all your haste the foe had crossed. With life and death they play their game, And life or death, the end's the same. Softly the April air below Carried the dream of buds that blow. Poets, English - 19th century - Biography. Poets, English - 20th century - Biography. Poetry is a fascinating use of language. With almost a million words at its command it is not surprising that these Isles have produced some of the most beautiful, moving and descriptive verse through the centuries. In this series we look at individual poets who have shaped and influenced their craft and cement their place in our heritage.

In this volume we look at the works of the English poet Henry John Newbolt. Born in Bilston, Wolverhampton on June 6th, The son of the vicar of St Mary's Church, the Rev. Henry Francis Newbolt, and his second wife, Emily. After his father's death, the family moved to Walsall, where Henry was educated. First at Queen Mary's Grammar School and then Caistor Grammar School, from where a scholarship took him to Clifton College, where he was head of the school and edited the school magazine.

He married Margaret Edina Duckworth of the prominent publishing family; they had two children; a boy, Francis and a daughter, Celia. However behind the prim Edwardian exterior lay a complicated domestic life: His wife had a long running lesbian affair with her childhood love, Ella Coltman, who accompanied them on their honeymoon.

The title is from a quotation by Lucretius meaning 'the torch of life'. It refers to how a schoolboy, a future soldier, learns selfless commitment to duty in cricket matches in the famous Close at Clifton College. Newbolt was knighted in and made a Companion of Honour in Ludwig van Beethoven German Composer. More Ludwig van Beethoven Quotes 0. More Joe Biden Quotes 0.

Full text of "Collected Poems - , by Henry Newbolt"

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Vitaï Lampada by Sir Henry Newbolt

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