Collected Poems 1897 - 1907, by Henry Newbolt Part 3

Vae Victis

Beside the placid sea that mirrored her With the old glory of dawn that cannot die, The sleeping city began to moan and stir, As one that fain from an ill dream would fly; Yet more she feared the daylight bringing nigh Such dreams as know not sunrise, soon or late,--- Visions of honour lost and power gone by, Of loyal valour betrayed by factious hate, And craven sloth that shrank from the labour of forging fate.

They knew and knew not, this bewildered crowd, That up her streets in silence hurrying pa.s.sed, What manner of death should make their anguish loud, What corpse across the funeral pyre be cast, For none had spoken it; only, gathering fast As darkness gathers at noon in the sun's eclipse, A shadow of doom enfolded them, vague and vast, And a cry was heard, unfathered of earthly lips, "What of the ships, O Carthage? Carthage, what of the ships?"

They reached the wall, and nowise strange it seemed To find the gates unguarded and open wide; They climbed the shoulder, and meet enough they deemed The black that shrouded the seaward rampart's side And veiled in drooping gloom the turrets' pride; But this was nought, for suddenly down the slope They saw the harbour, and sense within them died; Keel nor mast was there, rudder nor rope; It lay like a sea-hawk's eyry spoiled of life and hope.

Beyond, where dawn was a glittering carpet, rolled From sky to sh.o.r.e on level and endless seas, Hardly their eyes discerned in a dazzle of gold That here in fifties, yonder in twos and threes, The ships they sought, like a swarm of drowning bees By a wanton gust on the pool of a mill-dam hurled, Floated forsaken of life-giving tide and breeze, Their oars broken, their sails for ever furled, For ever deserted the bulwarks that guarded the wealth of the world.

A moment yet, with breathing quickly drawn And hands agrip, the Carthaginian folk Stared in the bright untroubled face of dawn, And strove with vehement heaped denial to choke Their sure surmise of fate's impending stroke; Vainly--for even now beneath their gaze A thousand delicate spires of distant smoke Reddened the disc of the sun with a stealthy haze, And the smouldering grief of a nation burst with the kindling blaze.

"O dying Carthage!" so their pa.s.sion raved, "Would nought but these the conqueror's hate a.s.suage?

If these be taken, how may the land be saved Whose meat and drink was empire, age by age?"

And bitter memory cursed with idle rage The greed that coveted gold beyond renown, The feeble hearts that feared their heritage, The hands that cast the sea-kings' sceptre down And left to alien brows their famed ancestral crown.

The endless noon, the endless evening through, All other needs forgetting, great or small, They drank despair with thirst whose torment grew As the hours died beneath that stifling pall.

At last they saw the fires to blackness fall One after one, and slowly turned them home, A little longer yet their own to call A city enslaved, and wear the bonds of Rome, With weary hearts foreboding all the woe to come.

Minora Sidera

(The Dictionary Of National Biography)

Sitting at times over a hearth that burns With dull domestic glow, My thought, leaving the book, gratefully turns To you who planned it so.

Not of the great only you deigned to tell--- The stars by which we steer--- But lights out of the night that flashed, and fell Tonight again, are here.

Such as were those, dogs of an elder day, Who sacked the golden ports, And those later who dared grapple their prey Beneath the harbour forts:

Some with flag at the fore, sweeping the world To find an equal fight, And some who joined war to their trade, and hurled Ships of the line in flight.

Whether their fame centuries long should ring They cared not over-much, But cared greatly to serve G.o.d and the king, And keep the Nelson touch;

And fought to build Britain above the tide Of wars and windy fate; And pa.s.sed content, leaving to us the pride Of lives obscurely great.

Laudabunt Alii

(After Horace)

Let others praise, as fancy wills, Berlin beneath her trees, Or Rome upon her seven hills, Or Venice by her seas; Stamboul by double tides embraced, Or green Damascus in the waste.

For me there's nought I would not leave For the good Devon land, Whose orchards down the echoing cleeve Bedewed with spray-drift stand, And hardly bear the red fruit up That shall be next year's cider-cup.

You too, my friend, may wisely mark How clear skies follow rain, And, lingering in your own green park Or drilled on Laffan's Plain, Forget not with the festal bowl To soothe at times your weary soul.

When Drake must bid to Plymouth Hoe Good-bye for many a day, And some were sad and feared to go, And some that dared not stay, Be sure he bade them broach the best, And raised his tankard with the rest.

"Drake's luck to all that sail with Drake For promised lands of gold!

Brave lads, whatever storms may break, We've weathered worse of old!

To-night the loving-cup we'll drain, To-morrow for the Spanish Main!"

Admiral Death

Boys, are ye calling a toast to-night?

(Hear what the sea-wind saith) Fill for a b.u.mper strong and bright, And here's to Admiral Death!

He's sailed in a hundred builds o' boat, He's fought in a thousand kinds o' coat, He's the senior flag of all that float, And his name's Admiral Death!

Which of you looks for a service free?

(Hear what the sea-wind saith) The rules o' the service are but three When ye sail with Admiral Death.

Steady your hand in time o' squalls, Stand to the last by him that falls, And answer clear to the voice that calls, "Ay, Ay! Admiral Death!"

How will ye know him among the rest?

(Hear what the sea-wind saith) By the glint o' the stars that cover his breast Ye may find Admiral Death.

By the forehead grim with an ancient scar, By the voice that rolls like thunder far, By the tenderest eyes of all that are, Ye may know Admiral Death.

Where are the lads that sailed before?

(Hear what the sea-wind saith) Their bones are white by many a sh.o.r.e, They sleep with Admiral Death.

Oh! but they loved him, young and old, For he left the laggard, and took the bold, And the fight was fought, and the story's told, And they sleep with Admiral Death.

Homeward Bound

After long labouring in the windy ways, On smooth and shining tides Swiftly the great ship glides, Her storms forgot, her weary watches past; Northward she glides, and through the enchanted haze Faint on the verge her far hope dawns at last.

The phantom sky-line of a shadowy down, Whose pale white cliffs below Through sunny mist aglow, Like noon-day ghosts of summer moonshine gleam--- Soft as old sorrow, bright as old renown, There lies the home, of all our mortal dream.

Gillespie.

Riding at dawn, riding alone, Gillespie left the town behind; Before he turned by the Westward road A horseman crossed him, staggering blind.

"The Devil's abroad in false Vellore, The Devil that stabs by night," he said, "Women and children, rank and file, Dying and dead, dying and dead."