The Vagabond And Other Poems From Punch Part 2

KILLED IN ACTION

RUPERT is dead, and RUPERT was my friend; "Only surviving son of"--so it ran-- "Beloved husband" and the rest of it.

But six months back I saw him full of life, Ardent for fighting; now he lies at ease In some obscure but splendid field of France, His strivings over and his conflicts done.

He was a fellow of most joyous moods And quaint contrivings, ever on the point Of shaking fame and fortune by the hand But always baulked of meeting them at last.

He could not brook--and always so declared-- The weak pomposities of little men, Scorned all the tin-G.o.ds of our petty world, And plunged headlong into imprudences, And smashed conventions with a reckless zeal, Holding his luck and not himself to blame For aught that might betide when reckoning came.

But he was true as steel and staunch as oak.

And if he pledged his word he bore it out Unswerving to the finish, and he gave Whate'er he had of strength to help a friend.

When the great summons came he rushed to arms, Counting no cost and all intent to serve His country and to prove himself a man.

Yet he could laugh at all his ardour too And find some fun in glory, as a child Laughs at a bauble but will guard it well.

Now he is fall'n, and on his s.h.i.+ning brow Glory has set her everlasting seal.

I like to think how cheerily he talked Amid the ceaseless tumult of the guns, How, when the word was given, he stood erect, Sprang from the trench and, shouting to his men, Led them forthright to where the sullen foe Waited their coming; and his brain took fire, And all was exultation and a high Heroic ardour and a pulse of joy.

"Forward!" his cry rang out, and all his men Thundered behind him with their eyes ablaze, "Forward for England! Clear the beggars out!

Remember--" and death found him, and he fell Fronting the Germans, and the rush swept on.

Thrice blessed fate! We linger here and droop Beneath the heavy burden of our years, And may not, though we envy, give our lives For England and for honour and for right; But still must wear our weary hours away, While he, that happy fighter, in one leap, From imperfection to perfection borne, Breaks through the bonds that bound him to the earth.

Now of his failures is a triumph made; His very faults are into virtues turned; And, reft for ever from the haunts of men, He wears immortal honour and is joined With those who fought for England and are dead.

EPITAPH

FOR AN ENGLISH SOLDIER AND AN INDIAN SOLDIER BURIED TOGETHER IN FRANCE

When the fierce bugle thrilled alarm, From lands apart these fighters came.

An equal courage nerved each arm, And stirred each generous heart to flame.

Now, greatly dead, they lie below; Their creed or language no man heeds, Since for their colour they can show The blood-red blazon of their deeds!

TO FLIGHT-LIEUTENANT ROBINSON, V.C.

You with the hawk's eyes and the nerves of steel, How was it with you when the hurried word Roused you and sent you swiftly forth to deal A blow for justice? Sure your pulses stirred, And all your being leapt to meet the call Which bade you strike nor spare Where poised in air Murder and ravening flame were hid intent to fall.

Alone upon your fearful task you flew, Where in the vault of heaven the high stars swing, Alone and upward, lost to mortal view, Winding about the a.s.sa.s.sin craft a ring Of fateful motion, till at last you sped Through the far tracts of gloom The bolt of doom, Shattering the dastard foe to earth with all his dead.

For this we thank you, and we bid you know That henceforth in the air, by day or night, A myriad hopes of ours, where'er you go, Rise as companions of your soaring flight; And well we know that when there comes the need A host of men like you, As staunch, as true, Will rush to prove the daring of the island breed.

PAGAN FANCIES

Blow, Father Triton, blow your wreathed horn Cheerly, as is your wont, and let the blast Circle our island on the breezes borne; Blow, while the s.h.i.+ning hours go swiftly past.

Rise, Proteus, from the cool depths rise, and be A friend to them that breast your ancient sea.

I shall be there to greet you, for I tire Of the dull meadows and the crawling stream.

Now with a heart uplifted and a-fire I come to greet you and to catch the gleam Of jocund Nereids tossing in the air The sportive tresses of their amber hair.

High on a swelling upland I shall stand Stung by the buffets of the wind-borne spray; Or join the troops that sport upon the sand, With shouts and laughter wearing out the day; Or pace apart and listen to the roar Of the great waves that beat the crumbling sh.o.r.e.

Then, when the children all are lapped in sleep The pretty Nymphlets of the sea shall rise, And we shall know them as they flit and creep And peep and glance and murmur lullabies; While the pale moon comes up beyond the hill, And Proteus rests and Triton's horn is still.

ROBIN, THE SEA-BOY

Ho, ruddy-cheeked boys and curly maids, Who deftly ply your pails and spades, All you who st.u.r.dily take your stand On your pebble-b.u.t.tressed forts of sand, And thence defy With a fearless eye And a burst of rollicking high-pitched laughter The stealthy trickling waves that lap you And the crested breakers that tumble after To souse and batter you, sting and sap you-- All you roll-about rackety little folk, Down-again, up-again, not-a-bit brittle folk, Attend, attend, And let each girl and boy Join in a loud "Ahoy!"

For, lo, he comes, your tricksy little friend, From the clear caverns of his crystal home Beyond the tossing ridges of the foam: Planner of sandy romps and wet delights, Robin the Sea-boy, prince of ocean-sprites, Is come, is come to lead you in your play And fill your hearts with mirth and jocund sport to-day!

What! Can't you see him? There he stands On a sheer rock and lifts his hands, A little lad not three feet high, With dancing mischief in his eye.

His body gleams against the light, A clear-cut shape of dazzling white Set off and topped by golden hair That streams and tosses in the air.

A moment poised, he dares the leap And cuts the wind and cleaves the deep.

Down through the emerald vaults self-hurled That roof the sea-G.o.d's awful world.

Another moment sees him rise And beat the salt spray from his eyes.

He b.r.e.a.s.t.s the waves, he spurns their blows; Then, like a rocket, up he goes, Up, up to where the gusty wind With all its wrath is left behind; Still up he soars and high and high A speck of light that dots the sky.

Then watch him as he slowly droops Where the great sea-birds wheel their troops.

Three broad-winged gulls, himself their lord, He hitches to a silken cord, Bits them and bridles them with skill And bids them draw him where he will.

Above the tumult of the sh.o.r.es He floats, he stoops, he darts, he soars; From near and far he calls the rest And waves them forward for a quest; Then straight, without a check, he speeds Across the azure tracts and leads With apt reproof and cheering words As on a chase his cry of birds.

And when he has finished his airy fun And all his flights and his swoops are done He will drop to the sh.o.r.e and lend a hand In building a castle of weed and sand.

He will cover with flints its frowning face To keep the tide in its proper place, And the waves shall employ their utmost damp art In vain to abolish your moated rampart.

And n.o.body's nurse shall make a fuss, As is far too often the case with us; Instead of the usual how-de-do She will give us praise when we get wet through; In fact she will smile and think it better When we get as wet as we like and wetter.

As for eating too much, you can safely risk it With chocolate, lollipop, cake, and biscuit, And your mother will revel with high delight In the state of her own one's appet.i.te.

Great sh.e.l.ls there shall be of a rainbow hue To be found and gathered by me and you; Wonderful nets for the joy of making 'em.

And scores of shrimps for the trouble of taking 'em; In fact it isn't half bad--now is it?-- When Robin the Sea-boy pays his visit.

And perhaps he will tire of his shape and habit And change and turn to a frisky rabbit, A plump young gadabout cheerful fellow With a twitching nose and a coat of yellow, And never the smallest trace of fear From his flas.h.i.+ng scut to his flattened ear.

But, lo, there's a hint of coming rain, So, presto, Robin is back again.

He lifts his head and he c.o.c.ks his eye And waves his hand and prepares to fly-- "Good-bye, Robin, good-bye, good-bye!"

THE BIRTHDAY

Sweetheart, where all the dancing joys compete Take now your choice; the world is at your feet, All turned into a gay and s.h.i.+ning pleasance, And every face has smiles to greet your presence.

Treading on air, Yourself you look more fair; And the dear Birthday-elves unseen conspire To flush your cheeks and set your eyes on fire.

Mayhap they whisper what a birthday means That sets you spinning through your pretty teens.

A slim-grown shape adorned with golden s.h.i.+mmers Of tossing hair that streams and waves and glimmers, Lo, how you run In mere excess of fun, Or change to silence as you stand and hear Some kind old tale that moves you to a tear.