Part 2 (1/2)

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.