(WRITTEN FOR THE RELIEF FUND OF THE CRIMEAN VETERANS.)

I

When the last charge sounds And the battle thunders o'er the plain, Thunders o'er the trenches where the red streams flow, Will it not be well with us, Veterans, veterans, If, beneath your torn old flag, we burst upon the foe?

II

When the last post sounds And the night is on the battle-field, Night and rest at last from all the tumult of our wars, Will it not be well with us, Veterans, veterans, If, with duty done like yours, we lie beneath the stars?

III

When the great reveille sounds For the terrible last Sabaoth, All the legions of the dead shall hear the trumpet ring!

Will it not be well with us, Veterans, veterans, If, beneath your torn old flag, we rise to meet our King?

THE QUEST RENEWED

It is too soon, too soon, though time be brief, Quite to forswear thy quest, O Light, whose farewell dyes the falling leaf, Fades thro' the fading west.

Thou'rt flown too soon! I stretch my hands out still, O, Light of Life, to Thee, Who leav'st an Olivet in each far blue hill, A sorrow on every sea.

It is too soon, here while the loud world roars For wealth and power and fame, Too soon quite to forget those other sh.o.r.es Afar, from whence I came;

Too soon even to forget the first dear dream Dreamed far away, when tears could freely flow; And life seemed infinite, as that sky's great gleam Deepened, to which I go;

Too soon even to forget the fluttering fire And those old books beside the friendly hearth, When time seemed endless as my own desire, And angels walked our earth;

Too soon quite to forget amid the throng What once the silent hills, the sounding beach Taught me--where singing was the prize of song, And heaven within my reach.

It is too soon amid the cynic sneers, The sophist smiles, the greedy mouths and hands, Quite to forget the light of those dead years And my lost mountain-lands;

Too soon to lose that everlasting hope (For so it seemed) of youth in love's pure reign, Though while I linger on this darkening slope Nought seems quite worth the pain.

It is too soon for me to break that trust, O, Light of Light, flown far past sun and moon, Burn back thro' this dark panoply of dust; Or let me follow--soon.

THE LIGHTS OF HOME

Pilot, how far from home?-- Not far, not far to-night, A flight of spray, a sea-bird's flight, A flight of tossing foam, And then the lights of home!--

And, yet again, how far?

And seems the way so brief?

Those lights beyond the roaring reef Were lights of moon and star, Far, far, none knows how far!

Pilot, how far from home?-- The great stars pa.s.s away Before Him as a flight of spray, Moons as a flight of foam!

I see the lights of home.

NEW POEMS

'TWEEN THE LIGHTS

"The Nine men's morrice is filled up with mud ...

From our debate, from our dissension."

--SHAKESPEARE

I

Fairies, come back! We have not seen Your dusky foot-prints on the green This many a year. No frolic now Shakes the dew from the hawthorn-bough.

Never a man and never a maid Spies you in the blue-bell shade; Yet, where the nine men's morrice stood, Our spades are clearing out the mud.

_Chorus._--_Come, little irised heralds, fling Earth's Eden-gates apart, and sing The bright eyes and the cordial hand Of brotherhood thro' all our land._

II

Fairies, come back! Our pomp of gold, Our blazing noon, grows grey and old; The scornful glittering ages wane: Forgive, forget, come back again.

This is our England's Hallowe'en!

Come, trip it, trip it o'er the green, Trip it, amidst the roaring mart, In the still meadows of the heart.

_Come, little irised heralds, fling Earth's Eden-gates apart, and sing The bright eyes and the cordial hand Of brotherhood thro' all our land._

III

Fairies, come back! Once more the gleams Of your lost Eden haunt our dreams, Where Evil, at the touch of Good, Withers in the Enchanted Wood: Fairies, come back! Drive gaunt Despair And Famine to their ghoulish lair!

Tap at each heart's bright window-pane Thro' merry England once again.

_Come, little irised heralds, fling Earth's Eden-gates apart, and sing The bright eyes and the cordial hand Of brotherhood thro' all our land._

IV

Fairies, come back! And, if you bring That long-expected song to sing, Ciss needs not, ere she welcomes you, To find a sixpence in her shoe!