Poems by William Ernest Henley Part 22

Thus under the constraint of Night These gross and simple creatures, Each in his scores of rings, which rings are years, A servant of the Will!

And G.o.d, the Craftsman, as He walks The floor of His workshop, hearkens, full of cheer In thus accomplis.h.i.+ng The aims of His miraculous artistry.

XXV

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 mailed 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!

EPILOGUE

These, to you now, O, more than ever now - Now that the Ancient Enemy Has pa.s.sed, and we, we two that are one, have seen A piece of perfect Life Turn to so ravis.h.i.+ng a shape of Death The Arch-Discomforter might well have smiled In pity and pride, Even as he bore his lovely and innocent spoil From those home-kingdoms he left desolate!

Poor windlestraws On the great, sullen, roaring pool of Time And Chance and Change, I know!

But they are yours, as I am, till we attain That end for which me make, we two that are one: A little, exquisite Ghost Between us, smiling with the serenest eyes Seen in this world, and calling, calling still In that clear voice whose infinite subtleties Of sweetness, thrilling back across the grave, Break the poor heart to hear: - 'Come, Dadsie, come!

Mama, how long--how long!'

July 1897.