Not now to name even Those dearer, more divine boons whose haven the heart is. . . . . . . . . . . . As sure as what is most sure, sure as that spring primroses Shall new-dapple next year, sure as to-morrow morning, Amongst come-back-again things, things with a revival, things with a recovery, Thy name . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _59_ WHAT shall I do for the land that bred me, Her homes and fields that folded and fed me?-- Be under her banner and live for her honour: Under her banner I'll live for her honour. CHORUS. Under her banner live for her honour. Not the pleasure, the pay, the plunder, But country and flag, the flag I am under-- There is the shilling that finds me willing To follow a banner and fight for honour. CH. We follow her banner, we fight for her honour. Call me England's fame's fond lover, Her fame to keep, her fame to recover. Spend me or end me what God shall send me, But under her banner I live for her honour. CH. Under her banner we march for her honour. Where is the field I must play the man on? O welcome there their steel or cannon. Immortal beauty is death with duty, If under her banner I fall for her honour. CH. Under her banner we fall for her honour. _60_ THE times are nightfall, look, their light grows less; The times are winter, watch, a world undone: They waste, they wither worse; they as they run Or bring more or more blazon man's distress. And I not help. Nor word now of success: All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one-- Work which to see scarce so much as begun Makes welcome death, does dear forgetfulness. Or what is else? There is your world within. There rid the dragons, root out there the sin. Your will is law in that small commonweal . . . _61 Cheery Beggar_ BEYOND Magdalen and by the Bridge, on a place called there the Plain, In Summer, in a burst of summertime Following falls and falls of rain, When the air was sweet-and-sour of the flown fineflower of Those goldnails and their gaylinks that hang along a lime; . . . . . . . . The motion of that man's heart is fine Whom want could not make pine, pine That struggling should not sear him, a gift should cheer him Like that poor pocket of pence, poor pence of mine. . . . . . . . . _62_ DENIS, whose motionable, alert, most vaulting wit Caps occasion with an intellectual fit. Yet Arthur is a Bowman: his three-heeled timber'll hit The bald and bold blinking gold when all's done Right rooting in the bare butt's wincing navel in the sight of the sun. . . . . . . . . _63_ THE furl of fresh-leaved dogrose down His cheeks the forth-and-flaunting sun Had swarthed about with lion-brown Before the Spring was done.