Collected Poems 1897 - 1907, by Henry Newbolt Part 10

Earth-home, birth-home, with love remember yet The sons in exile on the eternal sea.

Hope The Hornblower

"Hark ye, hark to the winding horn; Sluggards, awake, and front the morn!

Hark ye, hark to the winding horn; The sun's on meadow and mill.

Follow me, hearts that love the chase; Follow me, feet that keep the pace: Stirrup to stirrup we ride, we ride, We ride by moor and hill."

Huntsman, huntsman, whither away?

What is the quarry afoot to-day?

Huntsman, huntsman, whither away, And what the game ye kill?

Is it the deer, that men may dine?

Is it the wolf that tears the kine?

What is the race ye ride, ye ride, Ye ride by moor and hill?

"Ask not yet till the day be dead What is the game that's forward fled, Ask not yet till the day be dead The game we follow still.

An echo it may be, floating past; A shadow it may be, fading fast: Shadow or echo, we ride, we ride, We ride by moor and hill"

O Pulchritudo

O Saint whose thousand shrines our feet have trod And our eyes loved thy lamp's eternal beam, Dim earthly radiance of the Unknown G.o.d, Hope of the darkness, light of them that dream, Far off, far off and faint, O glimmer on Till we thy pilgrims from the road are gone.

O Word whose meaning every sense hath sought, Voice of the teeming field and gra.s.sy mound, Deep-whispering fountain of the wells of thought, Will of the wind and soul of all sweet sound, Far off, far off and faint, O murmur on Till we thy pilgrims from the road are gone.

In July

His beauty bore no token, No sign our gladness shook; With tender strength unbroken The hand of Life he took: But the summer flowers were falling, Falling and fading away, And mother birds were calling, Crying and calling For their loves that would not stay.

He knew not Autumn's chillness, Nor Winter's wind nor Spring's.

He lived with Summer's stillness And sun and sunlit things: But when the dusk was falling He went the shadowy way, And one more heart is calling, Crying and calling For the love that would not stay.

From Generation To Generation

O Son of mine, when dusk shall find thee bending Between a gravestone and a cradle's head--- Between the love whose name is loss unending And the young love whose thoughts are liker dread,--- Thou too shalt groan at heart that all thy spending Cannot repay the dead, the hungry dead.

When I Remember

When I remember that the day will come For this our love to quit his land of birth, And bid farewell to all the ways of earth With lips that must for evermore be dumb,

Then creep I silent from the stirring hum, And shut away the music and the mirth, And reckon up what may be left of worth When hearts are cold and love's own body numb.

Something there must be that I know not here, Or know too dimly through the symbol dear; Some touch, some beauty, only guessed by this--- If He that made us loves, it shall replace, Beloved, even the vision of thy face And deep communion of thine inmost kiss.

Rondel*

Though I wander far-off ways, Dearest, never doubt thou me:

Mine is not the love that strays, Though I wander far-off ways:

Faithfully for all my days I have vowed myself to thee: Though I wander far-off ways, Dearest, never doubt thou me.

* This and the two following pieces are from the French of Wenceslas, Duke of Brabant and Luxembourg, who died in 1384.

Rondel

Long ago to thee I gave Body, soul, and all I have--- Nothing in the world I keep:

All that in return I crave Is that thou accept the slave Long ago to thee I gave--- Body, soul, and all I have.

Had I more to share or save, I would give as give the brave, Stooping not to part the heap; Long ago to thee I gave Body, soul, and all I have--- Nothing in the world I keep.

Balade

I cannot tell, of twain beneath this bond, Which one in grief the other goes beyond,--- Narcissus, who to end the pain he bore Died of the love that could not help him more; Or I, that pine because I cannot see The lady who is queen and love to me.

Nay--for Narcissus, in the forest pond Seeing his image, made entreaty fond, "Beloved, comfort on my longing pour": So for a while he soothed his pa.s.sion sore; So cannot I, for all too far is she--- The lady who is queen and love to me.

But since that I have Love's true colours donned, I in his service will not now despond, For in extremes Love yet can all restore: So till her beauty walks the world no more All day remembered in my hope shall be The lady who is queen and love to me.