Thus, though no trophies deck his car Of captured guns or banners torn, Men hailed him as they hail a star That comes with morn:

A star of brotherhood, not scorn,
A morn of loosing and release-
A fruitful time of oil and corn-
An Age of Peace!

Sleep then, O Dead beloved! and sleep
As one who, when his course is run,
May yet, in slumber, memory keep
Of duty done;

Sleep then, our England's King, as one Who knows the lofty aim and pure, Beyond all din of battles won,

Must still endure.

TO HUGH THOMSON

(WITH A COPY OF SIR JOHN GILBERT'S
SHAKESPEARE)

N Fifty-six, when GILBERT drew

IN

These brave conceptions, people knew Little that we to-day repeat

(Quoting the prophet in the street)

Of Value, Tone, and Point of View!

Their tastes were plain; their wants were few;
They liked red suns and skies of blue ...
They were so frankly incomplete
In Fifty-six!

And yet they prized their GILBERT too—
His Knights and Dames, his ruffling crew,
Where banners fly, and drums are beat,
And cloth-of-gold and drugget meet . . .
I was a lad then! Where were you
In Fifty-six?

1913 [1911].

TO TIME, THE TYRANT

"Ave, Imperator, senectus te salutat."

IME, in whose kingship is Song,

TIME,

What shall I bring to thee now, Weary of heart and of brow— Now, that the shadows are long?

Not with the young and the strong
Numbered am I. And I bow,
TIME!

Yet-let me stand in the throng;
Yet-let me hail and allow

Youth, that no Combat can cow, Strength, that is stronger than Wrong, TIME!

FOR THE BLINDED SOLDIERS

E that look on, with God's goodwill,

WE

Have one plain duty to fulfil: To drive-by all fair means-afar This hideous Juggernaut of War, And teach the Future not to kill.

But there's a plainer duty still:

We need to meet the instant ill,

To heal the wound, to hide the scar-
We that look on!

What timelier task for brain and quill
Than aiding eyes no light can thrill,
No sight of all good things that are,
No morning sky, no evening star-
Shall we not help with all our skill,
We that look on?

FOR

TO BELGIUM

OR Right, not Might, you fought. The foe,
Checked in his wild World-overthrow,

Ravaged, with his remorseless band,
Your ancient fanes and peaceful land,
Thinking to crush you at a blow.

You are not crushed, as well we know.
If you are trodden 'tis to grow;
Nor can they fail at last who stand
For Right, not Might!

God speed you, Belgium! Time will show
How large a debt to you we owe.

To you through all reverses grand—
Men stretch to-day a grateful hand...
God speed you still-in weal and woe-
For Right, not Might.