As if a door in heaven should be
Opened and then closed suddenly,
The vision came and went,

The light shone and was spent.

On England's annals, through the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,

That light its rays shall cast
From portals of the past.

A Lady with a Lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
A noble type of good,
Heroic womanhood.

Longfellow.

Havelock

E is gone.

Heaven's will is best:

Indian turf o'erlies his breast.
Ghoul in black, nor fool in gold
Laid him in yon hallowed mould.
Guarded to a soldier's grave

By the bravest of the brave,
He hath gained a nobler tomb
Than in old Cathedral gloom,
Nobler mourners paid the rite
Than the crowd that craves a sight,
England's banners o'er him waved-
Dead, he keeps the realm he saved.
Strew not on the hero's hearse
Garlands of a herald's verse:
Let us hear no words of Fame
Sounding loud a deathless name:
Tell us of no vauntful Glory
Shouting forth her haughty story.

All life long his homage rose
To far other shrine than those.
"In Hoc Signo" pale nor dim
Lit the battle-field for him,
And the prize he sought and won,
Was the crown for Duty done.

Anon. (1858).

Melville and Coghill

[Lieuts. Melville and Coghill of the 24th Foot saved the Colours after the Isandlwanha disaster in the Zulu war, 1879, and were found dead with them.]

D

EAD, with their eyes to the foe,

Dead, with the foe at their feet,
Under the sky laid low

Truly their slumber is sweet,

Though the wind from the Camp of the Slain Men blow, And the rain on the wilderness beat.

Dead, for they chose to die

When that wild race was run;
Dead, for they would not fly,

Deeming their work undone,

Nor cared to look on the face of the sky,
Nor loved the light of the sun.

Honour we give them, and tears,
And the flag they died to save,
Rent from the rain of the spears,

Wet from the war and the wave,

Shall waft men's thoughts through the dust of the years,

Back to their lonely grave.

Andrew Lang.

The Nile

UT of the unknown South,

Through the dark lands of drouth,

Far wanders ancient Nile in slumber gliding:

Clear-mirrored in his dream

The deeds that haunt his stream

Flash out and fade like stars in midnight sliding.

Long since, before the life of man

Rose from among the lives that creep,

With Time's own tide began

That still mysterious sleep,

Only to cease when Time shall reach the eternal deep.

From out his vision vast

The early gods have passed,

They waned and perished with the faith that made them; The long phantasmal line

Of Pharaohs crowned divine

Are dust among the dust that once obeyed them. Their land is one mute burial mound,

Save when across the drifted years

Some chant of hollow sound,

Some triumph blent with tears,

From Memnon's lips at dawn wakens the desert meres.

O Nile, and can it be

No memory dwells with thee

Of Grecian lore and the sweet Grecian singer?

The legions' iron tramp,

The Goths' wide-wandering camp,

Had these no fame that by thy shore might linger? Nay, then must all be lost indeed,

(B 838)

21

Lost too the swift pursuing might That cleft with passionate speed

Aboukir's tranquil night,

And shattered in mid-swoop the great world-eagle's flight.

Yet have there been on earth

Spirits of starry birth,

Whose splendour rushed to no eternal setting: They over all endure,

Their course through all is sure,

The dark world's light is still of their begetting. Though the long past forgotten lies,

Nile! in thy dream remember him, Whose like no more shall rise

Above our twilight's rim,

Until the immortal dawn shall make all glories dim.

For this man was not great

By gold or kingly state,

Or the bright sword, or knowledge of earth's wonder; But more than all his race

He saw life face to face,

And heard the still small voice above the thunder.

O river, while thy waters roll

By yonder vast deserted tomb,

There, where so clear a soul

So shone through gathering doom,

Thou and thy land shall keep the tale of lost Khartoum.

Henry Newbolt.

Shakespeare

THERS abide our question. Thou art free.
We ask and ask-Thou smilest and art still,
Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill,
Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty,

Planting his stedfast footsteps in the sea,
Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place,
Spares but the cloudy border of his base
To the foil'd searching of mortality;

And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure, Didst tread on earth unguess'd at.-Better so!

All pains the immortal spirit must endure,
All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow,
Find their sole speech in that victorious brow.

Matthew Arnold.

"When Burbadge Played"

W

HEN Burbadge played, the stage was bare
Of fount and temple, tower and stair;
Two backswords eked a battle out;
Two supers made a rabble rout;
The Throne of Denmark was a chair!

And yet, no less, the audience there
Thrilled through all changes of Despair,
Hope, Anger, Fear, Delight, and Doubt
When Burbadge played!