Sir Henry Newbolt: Все стихи поэта

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Fidele's Grassy Tomb

The Squire sat propped in a pillowed chair,

His eyes were alive and clear of care,

But well he knew that the hour was come

To bid good-bye to his ancient home.

He looked on garden, wood, and hill,

He looked on the lake, sunny and still:

The last of earth that his eyes could see

Was the island church of Orchardleigh.

by Sir Henry Newbolt

The Fighting Téméraire

It was eight bells ringing,

For the morning watch was done,

And the gunner's lads were singing

As they polished every gun.

It was eight bells ringing,

And the gunner's lads were singing,

For the ship she rode a-swinging,

As they polished every gun.

by Sir Henry Newbolt

Victoria Regina

A thousand years by sea and land

Our race hath served the island kings,

But not by custom's dull command

To-day with song her Empire rings:

Not all the glories of her birth,

Her armed renown and ancient throne,

Could make her less the child of earth

Or give her hopes beyond our own:

by Sir Henry Newbolt

Farewell

Mother, with unbowed head

Hear thou across the sea

The farewell of the dead,

The dead who died for thee.

Greet them again with tender words and grave,

For saving thee, themselves they could not save.

To keep the house unharmed

Their fathers built so fair,

by Sir Henry Newbolt

Ionicus

With failing feet and shoulders bowed

Beneath the weight of happier days,

He lagged among the heedless crowd,

Or crept along suburban ways.

But still through all his heart was young,

A courage, a pride, a rapture, sprung

Of the strength and splendour of England's war.

From ill-requited toil he turned

by Sir Henry Newbolt

A Ballad of John Nicholson

It fell in the year of Mutiny,

At darkest of the night,

John Nicholson by Jalándhar came,

On his way to Delhi fight.

And as he by Jalándhar came,

He thought what he must do,

And he sent to the Rajah fair greeting,

To try if he were true.

by Sir Henry Newbolt

"The Old and Bold"

When England sets her banner forth

And bids her armour shine,

She'll not forget the famous North,

The lads of moor and Tyne;

And when the loving-cup's in hand

And Honour leads the cry,

They know not old Northumberland

Who'll pass her memory by.

by Sir Henry Newbolt

A Letter From the Front

I was out early to-day, spying about

From the top of a haystack — such a lovely morning —

And when I mounted again to canter back

I saw across a field in the broad sunlight

A young Gunner Subaltern, stalking along

With a rook-rifle held at the read, and — would you believe it? —

A domestic cat, soberly marching beside him.

So I laughed, and felt quite well disposed to the youngster,

by Sir Henry Newbolt

Clifton Chapel

This is the Chapel: here, my son,

Your father thought the thoughts of youth,

And heard the words that one by one

The touch of Life has turn’d to truth.

Here in a day that is not far,

You too may speak with noble ghosts

Of manhood and the vows of war

You made before the Lord of Hosts.

by Sir Henry Newbolt

The Vigil

England! where the sacred flame

Burns before the inmost shrine,

Where the lips that love thy name

Consecrate their hopes and thine,

Where the banners of thy dead

Weave their shadows overhead,

Watch beside thine arms to-night,

Pray that God defend the Right.

by Sir Henry Newbolt

The War Films

O living pictures of the dead,

O songs without a sound,

O fellowship whose phantom tread

Hallows a phantom ground —

How in a gleam have these revealed

The faith we had not found.

We have sought God in a cloudy Heaven,

We have passed by God on earth:

by Sir Henry Newbolt

Drake's Drum

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away,

(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)

Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,

An' dreamin' arl the time O' Plymouth Hoe.

Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,

Wi' sailor lads a-dancing' heel-an'-toe,

An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin',

He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

by Sir Henry Newbolt