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For southern wind and east wind meet Where, girt and crowned by sword and
fire, England with bare and bloody feet
Climbs the steep road of wide empire.
For some are by the Delhi walls,
And many in the Afghan land, And many where the Ganges falls
Through seven mouths of shifting sand.
O lonely Himalayan height,
Gray pillar of the Indian sky, Where saw'st thou last in clanging fight
Our winged dogs of Victory ?
The almond groves of Samarcand,
Bokhara, where red lilies blow, And Oxus, by whose yellow sand
The grave white-turbaned merchants go ;
And some in Russian waters lie,
And others in the seas which are The portals to the East, or by
The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar. O wandering graves ! O restless sleep!
O silence of the sunless day!
Give up your prey! Give up your prey ! And those whose wounds are never healed,
Whose weary race is never won, O Cromwell's England ! must thou yield
For every inch of ground a son ? Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned
head, Change thy glad song to song of pain ; Wind and wild wave have got thy dead,
And will not yield them back again.
And on from thence to Ispahan,
The gilded garden of the sun, Whence the long dusty caravan
Brings cedar and vermilion ; And that dread city of Cabool
Set at the mountain's scarpèd feet, Whose marble tanks are ever full
With water for the noonday heat,
Where through the narrow straight Bazaar
A little maid Circassian
Unto some old and bearded khan,
Wave and wild wind and foreign shore
Possess the flower of English land Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more,
Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.
Here have our wild war-eagles flown,
And flapped wide wings in fiery fight; But the sad dove, that sits alone
In England — she hath no delight.
What profit now that we have bound
The whole round world with nets of gold, If hidden in our heart is found
The care that groweth never old ?
In vain the laughing girl will lean
To greet her love with love-lit eyes : Down in some treacherous black ravine,
Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.
What profit that our galleys ride,
Pine-forest like, on every main ? Ruin and wreck are at our side,
Grim warders of the House of pain.
And many a million thoughts will go to-day The curious handiwork of Eastern hands, from south to north;
The little carts ambled by humpbacked Old heads will muse on churches old, where
beeves, bells will ring to-day
The narrow outrigged native boat which The very bells, perchance, which tolled cleaves, their fathers to the clay.
Unscathed, the surf outside the coral
strands. And now, good-night! and I shall dream Love we the blaze of color, the rich red that I am with you all,
Of broad tiled-roof and turban, the bright Watching the ruddy embers gleam athwart
green the panelled hall;
Of plantain-frond and paddy-field, nor Nor care I if I dream or not, though sev
dread ered by the foam,
The fierceness of the noon. The sky serene, My heart is always in the spot which was The chill-less air, quaint sights, and tropic my childhood's home.
trees, Seem like a dream fulfilled of lotus-ease.
SUNSET ON THE CUNIMBLA
FROM THE DRAMA OF
I will taste your rosebud lips
I sat upon a windy mountain height,
crest, Leaving chill shade ; but looking down, my
sight Beheld the vale still bathed in his warm
light And of the perfect peace of eve pos
sessed, No wave upon the forest on its breast And all its park-like glades with sunshine
bright. It put me into mind of the old
On my bosom you
In a bumper of your breath
Then come kiss me, mistress Beauty,
Touch not that maid : Love we the warmth and light of tropic She is a flower, and changeth but to fade. lands,
Fragrant is she, and fair The strange bright fruit, the feathery fan- As any shape that haunts this lower air ; spread leaves,
In form as graceful and as free The glowing mornings and the mellow As honeysuckles and the lilies be ; eves,
Insensible, and shrinking from caress The strange shells scattered on the golden As flowers, which you peril when you sands,
Hard sheath and scanty fare,
Yet forced on every side To break apart and share
Small gifts it fain would hide.
KNOWLEDGE AFTER DEATH
Nimble and light of limb,
To run, to ride, to swim :
But now from the heart of joy,
Take the thanks of a boy.
Siccine separat amara mors ?
now doors? Must we, supplanted by ourselves in the
course, Changelings, become as they who know at
last A river's secret, never having cast One guess, or known one doubt, about its
source ? Is it so bitter? Does not knowledge here Forget her gradual growth, and how each
day Seals up the sum of each world-conscious
soul ? So, though our ghosts forget us, waste no
tear ; We being ourselves would gladly be as
they, And we being they are still ourselves made
Jesu, King and Lord,
Whose are my foes to fight,
Swift, and sharp, and bright.
And conquer if I can,
Take the strength of a man.
Spirit of Love and Truth,
Breathing in grosser clay,
Delight of men in the fray,
From pain, strife, wrong, to be free
Take my spirit to Thee.
John William Mackail
AN ETRUSCAN RING Then seeing the stone complete to his de
And dark Egyptian symbols fabulous, WHERE, girt with orchard and with olive- He drew through it the delicate golden yard,
wire, The white 'hill-fortress glimmers on the And bent the fastening ; and the Etrurian
hill, Day after day an ancient goldsmith's Sank behind Ilva, and the work was done.
skill Guided the copper graver, tempered hard By some lost secret, while he shaped the sard
What dark-haired daughter of a Lucumo Slowly to beauty, and his tiny drill, Bore on her slim white finger to the Edged with corundum, ground its way
This the first gift her Tyrrhene lover The gem lay perfect for the ring to
Those five-and-twenty centuries ago ?