―――― Oxford is evermore the same, Unto the uttermost verge of time, Though grave-dust choke the sons of men, And silence wait upon the rime. “O, one came down from Seven Hills” _O, one_ came down from seven hills And crossèd seven streams: All in his hands were thyme and grass And in his eyes were dreams: He passèd by a seven fields With early dews all grey And entered in the stricken town About the break of day. “O you old men that stand and talk About the market-place, There is much trouble in your eyes And anguish in your face: O woman in a silent room Within a silent house, There is no pleasure in your voice Or peace upon your brows.” “O how should such as we rejoice Who weep that others die, Who quake, and curse ourselves, and watch The vengeful hours go by? O better far to fly the grief That wounds, and never kills; O better far to fly the town And seek the seven hills——” “I will go pray the seven gods Who keep the seven hills That they do grant your city peace, And easement of her ills.” “Nay, rather pray the seven gods To launch the latest pain; For there be many things to do Ere we see peace again.” “Then I’ll go praise the seven gods With hymns and chauntings seven, Such as shall split the mountain-tops And shrivel up blue heaven: That there be men who mock at threats And wag their heads at strife, Love home above their own hearts’ blood And honour more than life.” Sonnet to the British Navy _Lest_ force aspire to brand an alien name Upon the immortal empire of the free: Lest fire and sword and slaughter strive to tame This isle, was ne’er so tamed, and ne’er shall be. Ye guard the ocean barrier, undismayed ’Midst hidden perils for a brave man’s fears, In iron craft that many smiths have made With peaceful labour in the old, dead years. In a small vessel, of one Smith ill-wrought I must soon venture on another deep, And dare, with little hope, and little thought Of praise and honour and untroubled sleep: So, as each sails upon his perilous sea, I pray High God He strengthen you, and me. The Last Meeting _We_ who are young, and have caught the splendour of life, Hunting it down the forested ways of the world, Do we not wear our hearts like a banner unfurled (Crowned with a chaplet of love, shod with the sandals of strife)? Now not a lustre of pain, nor an ocean of tears Nor pangs of death, nor any other thing That the old tristful gods on our heads may bring Can rob us of this one hour in the midst of the years. The New Age and the Old _Like_ the small source of a smooth-flowing river, Like the pale dawn of a wonderful day, Comes the New Age, from High God, the good giver, Comes with the shouts of the children at play: