Sir Henry Newbolt(1862 - 1938 / Bilston / England)
- by Sir Henry Newbolt126
We loved our nightjar, but she would not stay with us. We had found her lying as dead, but soft and warm, Under the apple tree beside the old thatched wall. Two days we kept her in a basket by the fire, Fed her, and thought she well might live – till suddenly I the very moment of most confiding hope She arised herself all tense, qivered and drooped and died. Tears sprang into my eyes- why not? The heart of man Soon sets itself to love a living companion, The more so if by chance it asks some care of him. And this one had the kind of loveliness that goes Far deeper than the optic nerve- full fathom five To the soul'socean cave, where Wonder and Reason Tell their alternate dreams of how the world was made. So wonderful she was-her wings the wings of night But powdered here and therewith tiny golden clouds And wave-line markings like sea-ripples on the sand. O how I wish I might never forget that bird- Never! But even now, like all beauty of earth, She is fading from me into the dusk of Time.
- by Sir Henry Newbolt110
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 turn'd to truth. 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: the end Is His, Who built the world of strife, Who gave His children Pain for friend, And Death for surest hope of life. 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.
God send you fortune: yet be sure, Among the lights that gleam and pass, You'll live to follow none more pure Than that which glows on yonder brass: ‘Qui procul hinc,' the legend's writ,— The frontier-grave is far away— ‘Qui ante diem periit: Sed miles, sed pro patria.'
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