Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 158

844. England, My England

WHAT have I done for you, England, my England?

What is there I would not do, England, my own?

With your glorious eyes austere, As the Lord were walking near, Whispering terrible things and dear As the Song on your bugles blown, England-- Round the world on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful sun, England, my England, Match the master-work you've done, England, my own?

When shall he rejoice agen Such a breed of mighty men As come forward, one to ten, To the Song on your bugles blown, England-- Down the years on your bugles blown?

Ever the faith endures, England, my England:-- 'Take and break us: we are yours, England, my own!

Life is good, and joy runs high Between English earth and sky: Death is death; but we shall die To the Song on your bugles blown, England-- To the stars on your bugles blown!'

They call you proud and hard, England, my England: You with worlds to watch and ward, England, my own!

You whose mail'd hand keeps the keys Of such teeming destinies, You could know nor dread nor ease Were the Song on your bugles blown, England, Round the Pit on your bugles blown!

Mother of s.h.i.+ps whose might, England, my England, Is the fierce old Sea's delight, England, my own, Chosen daughter of the Lord, Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword, There 's the menace of the Word In the Song on your bugles blown, England-- Out of heaven on your bugles blown!

Edmund Gosse. b. 1849

845. Revelation

INTO the silver night She brought with her pale hand The topaz lanthorn-light, And darted splendour o'er the land; Around her in a band, Ringstraked and pied, the great soft moths came flying, And flapping with their mad wings, fann'd The flickering flame, ascending, falling, dying.

Behind the th.o.r.n.y pink Close wall of blossom'd may, I gazed thro' one green c.h.i.n.k And saw no more than thousands may,-- Saw sweetness, tender and gay,-- Saw full rose lips as rounded as the cherry, Saw braided locks more dark than bay, And flas.h.i.+ng eyes decorous, pure, and merry.

With food for furry friends She pa.s.s'd, her lamp and she, Till eaves and gable-ends Hid all that saffron sheen from me: Around my rosy tree Once more the silver-starry night was s.h.i.+ning, With depths of heaven, dewy and free, And crystals of a carven moon declining.

Alas! for him who dwells In frigid air of thought, When warmer light dispels The frozen calm his spirit sought; By life too lately taught He sees the ecstatic Human from him stealing; Reels from the joy experience brought, And dares not clutch what Love was half revealing.

Robert Louis Stevenson. 1850-1894

846. Romance

I WILL make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at morning and star-s.h.i.+ne at night.

I will make a palace fit for you and me, Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom, And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

And this shall be for music when no one else is near, The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!

That only I remember, that only you admire, Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

Robert Louis Stevenson. 1850-1894

847. In the Highlands

IN the highlands, in the country places, Where the old plain men have rosy faces, And the young fair maidens Quiet eyes; Where essential silence cheers and blesses, And for ever in the hill-recesses Her more lovely music Broods and dies--

O to mount again where erst I haunted; Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted, And the low green meadows Bright with sward; And when even dies, the million-tinted, And the night has come, and planets glinted, Lo, the valley hollow Lamp-bestarr'd!

O to dream, O to awake and wander There, and with delight to take and render, Through the trance of silence, Quiet breath!

Lo! for there, among the flowers and gra.s.ses, Only the mightier movement sounds and pa.s.ses; Only winds and rivers, Life and death.

Robert Louis Stevenson. 1850-1894

848. Requiem

UNDER the wide and starry sky Dig the grave and let me lie: Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he long'd to be; Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill.

T. W. Rolleston. b. 1857

849. The Dead at Clonmacnois FROM THE IRISH OF ANGUS O'GILLAN

IN a quiet water'd land, a land of roses, Stands Saint Kieran's city fair; And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations Slumber there.

There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the n.o.blest Of the clan of Conn, Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham And the sacred knot thereon.

There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara, There the sons of Cairbre sleep-- Battle-banners of the Gael that in Kieran's plain of crosses Now their final hosting keep.

And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia, And right many a lord of Breagh; Deep the sod above Clan Creide and Clan Conaill, Kind in hall and fierce in fray.

Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter In the red earth lies at rest; Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers, Many a swan-white breast.

John Davidson. 1857-1909

850. Song

THE boat is chafing at our long delay, And we must leave too soon The spicy sea-pinks and the inborne spray, The tawny sands, the moon.

Keep us, O Thetis, in our western flight!

Watch from thy pearly throne Our vessel, plunging deeper into night To reach a land unknown.

John Davidson. 1857-1909

851. The Last Rose

'O WHICH is the last rose?'

A blossom of no name.

At midnight the snow came; At daybreak a vast rose, In darkness unfurl'd, O'er-petall'd the world.

Its odourless pallor Blossom'd forlorn, Till radiant valour Establish'd the morn-- Till the night Was undone In her fight With the sun.