Happy were both, of peaceful mien, Contented as mankind longeth to be, Not merry as children are; And show’d no fear of the Fiends’ pursuit, As ever those demons clutched in vain; And I, who had fear’d awhile to see Such gentleness in such jeopardy, Lost fear myself; for I saw the foes Were slipping aback and had no hold On the round Earth that sped its course. The painted figures never could move, But the artist’s mind was there: The longer I look’d the more I knew They were falling, falling away below To the darkness out of sight. _December 16, 1913._ “WAKE UP, ENGLAND!”[A] Thou careless, awake! Thou peacemaker, fight! Stand England for honour And God guard the Right! Thy mirth lay aside, Thy cavil and play; The fiend is upon thee And grave is the day. * * * Through fire, air and water Thy trial must be; But they that love life best Die gladly for thee. * * * Much suffering shall cleanse thee But thou through the flood Shalt win to salvation, To beauty through blood. Up, careless, awake! Ye peacemakers, fight! Stand England for honour, And God guard the Right! _August, 1914._ [A] See notes at end of volume. LORD KITCHENER. Unflinching hero, watchful to foresee And face thy country’s peril wheresoe’er, Directing war and peace with equal care, Till by long toil ennobled thou wert he Whom England call’d and bade “Set my arm free To obey my will and save my honour fair"-- What day the foe presumed on her despair And she herself had trust in none but thee: Among Herculean deeds the miracle That mass’d the labour of ten years in one Shall be thy monument. Thy work is done Ere we could thank thee; and the high sea-swell Surgeth unheeding where thy proud ship fell By the lone Orkneys, at the set of sun. ODE ON THE TERCENTENARY COMMEMORATION OF SHAKESPEARE, 1916. Kind dove-wing’d Peace, for whose green olive-crown The noblest kings would give their diadems, Mother who hast ruled our home so long, How suddenly art thou fled! Leaving our cities astir with war; And yet on the fair fields deserted Lingerest, wherever the gaudy seasons Deck with excessive splendour The sorrow-stricken year, Where cornlands bask and high elms rustle gently, And still the unweeting birds sing on by brae and bourn.