Because you did not fear to love

With only loving for your gain, The tedious years have had no power Your sturdy cheerfulness to sour.

Comrade, because your soul was free,
Because in strife with gloom and wrong
Your ear and pen learnt mastery,

Because your heart was blithe and strong, Therefore for us these songs of yours

Breathe of the beauty that endures.

Sydney Olivier.

"In After Days"

N after days when grasses high
O'ertop the stone where I shall lie,
Though ill or well the world adjust
My slender claim to honoured dust,
I shall not question or reply.

I shall not see the morning sky;
I shall not hear the night-wind sigh;
I shall be mute, as all men must
In after days!

But yet, now living, fain were I
That some one then should testify,
Saying "He held his pen in trust
To Art, not serving shame or lust".
Will none? Then let my memory die
In after days!

Austin Dobson.

The Scholar

Y days among the Dead are past;
Around me I behold,

M

Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old;

My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;

And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,

My cheeks have often been bedewed
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
I live in long past years,

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears,

And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead; anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on

Through all Futurity;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.

Southey.

W

Ionicus

ITH failing feet and shoulders bowed
Beneath the weight of happier days,
He lagged among the heedless crowd,
Or crept along suburban ways.

But still through all his heart was young,

His mood a joy that naught could mar,

A courage, a pride, a rapture, sprung

Of the strength and splendour of England's war.

From ill-requited toil he turned

To ride with Picton and with Pack, Among his grammars inly burned

To storm the Afghan mountain-track. When midnight chimed, before Quebec

He watched with Wolfe till the morning star;

At noon he saw from Victory's deck

The sweep and splendour of England's war.

Beyond the book his teaching sped,

He left on whom he taught the trace
Of kinship with the deathless dead,
And faith in all the Island Race.
He passed: his life a tangle seemed,

His age from fame and power was far;
But his heart was high to the end, and dreamed
Of the sound and splendour of England's war.
Henry Newbolt.

Founder's Day

Eton, 1891

HRIST and His Mother, heavenly Maid,
Mary, in whose fair name was laid
Eton's corner, bless our youth

With truth, and purity, mother of truth!

O ye, 'neath breezy skies of June

By silver Thames's lulling tune,

In shade of willow or oak, who try
The golden gates of Poesy;

Or on the tabled sward all day
Match your strength in England's play,
Scholars of Henry, giving grace
To toil and force in game or race;

Exceed the prayer and keep the fame
Of him, the sorrowful king, who came
Here in his realm a realm to found,
Where he might stand for ever crowned.

Or whether with naked bodies flashing
Ye plunge in the lashing weir; or dashing
The oars of cedar skiffs, ye strain
Round the rushes and home again;—

Or what pursuit soe'er it be

That makes your mingled presence free,
When by the School-gate 'neath the limes.
Ye muster waiting the lazy chimes;

May Peace, that conquereth sin and death,
Temper for you her sword of faith;

Crown with honour the loving eyes,

And touch with mirth the mouth of the wise.

Here is eternal Spring: for you

The very stars of Heaven are new,
And aged Fame again is born
Fresh as a peeping flower of morn.

For you shall Shakespeare's scene unroll,
Mozart shall steal your ravished soul,
Homer his bardic hymn rehearse,
Virgil recite his maiden verse.—

Now learn, love, have, do, be the best;
Each in one thing excel the rest:

Strive; and hold fast this truth of heaven

To him that hath shall more be given.

Slow on your dial the shadows creep, So many hours for food and sleep,

So many hours till study tire,

So

many hours for heart's desire.

These suns and moons shall memory save,
Mirrors bright for her magic cave;
Wherein may steadfast eyes behold
A self that groweth never old.

O in such prime enjoy your lot,
And when ye leave regret it not;
With wishing gifts in festal state
Pass ye the angel-sworded gate.

Then to the world let shine your light,
Children in play be lions in fight,
And match with red immortal deeds
The victory that made ring the meads: