Their hearts; all hemlock-drunk, with growing wise: Hudson adrift; Defoe; the Wandering Jew; Tannhauser; Faust; Andrea; phantoms, all, In Masefield’s eyes you lodge; and to the wall I turn you,—hand a-tremble,—lest you make Of mine own stricken eyes a mirror, too. Wherein the sad world’s sadder for your sake. III HIS “DAUBER” O Masefield’s “Dauber!” You, who being dead, Yet speak: heroic, dauntless, flaming soul, Too suddenly snuffed out! Here take fresh toll Of cognizance, and, in your ocean bed, Serenely rest, assured that who has read What you would fain have pictured of the Pole Would gladly match your part against the whole Of many a modern artist, Paris-bred. And more than this: if you, indeed, are his, Then, by a dual truth, he, too, is yours; For, marked and credited by what endures, Were it the only thing, which bears his name, (O deathless Soul, I speak you true in this!) “The Dauber” has brought Masefield to his fame. IV HIS “GALLIPOLI” “Small wonder,” speaks my pensive self, “that he Whose passion ’tis to sing of men who fail,— (Belabored, broken by The Unseen Flail) Small wonder that be makes Gallipoli His fervent text, for could there be A costlier failure in Earth’s shuddering tale? Think of heroic Sulva’s bloody swale; Of Anzac’s tortured thirst and agony!” But as I read, protesting voices cry: “Not we, Not we, who fell among the daffodils, Who conquered Death among those blistered hills, And found our glory after mortal pain; Not we, who failed and lost Gallipoli; The sad, strange failure theirs who mourn in vain!” V HIS MEAD So, Masefield, have your royal words once more Called forth the praise of men, where praise is due; Your great elegiac, tragically true, Must leave all Britain prouder than before; And, in spite of all that breaking hearts deplore, And all that anguished consciences must rue, One arrowed gladness surely pierces through From London’s centre to Canadian shore: When England, sobbing, mourns Gallipoli, When warm tears flow for Rupert Brooke And all the splendid Youth her error took As hostage from the fields of daffodils, Let this a present, living solace be: You are not sleeping in those cruel hills! AMY BRIDGEMAN 1620-1920 Before him rolls the dark, relentless ocean; Behind him stretch the cold and barren sands; Wrapt in the mantle of his deep devotion The Pilgrim kneels, and clasps his lifted hands; “God of our fathers, who hast safely brought us Through seas and sorrows, famine, fire, and sword; Who, in Thy mercies manifold hast taught us To trust in Thee, our leader and our Lord; “God, who hast send Thy truth to shine before us, A fiery pillar, beaconing on the sea; God, who hast spread thy wings of mercy o’er us; God, who hast set our children’s children free, “Freedom Thy new-born nation here shall cherish; Grant us Thy covenant, changing, sure: Earth shall decay; the firmament shall perish; Freedom and Truth, immortal shall endure.”