The School At War

All night before the brink of death
    In fitful sleep the army lay,
For through the dream that stilled their breath
    Too gauntly glared the coming day.

But we, within whose blood there leaps
    The fulness of a life as wide
As Avon's water where he sweeps
    Seaward at last with Severn's tide,

We heard beyond the desert night
    The murmur of the fields we knew,
And our swift souls with one delight
    Like homing swallows Northward flew.

We played again the immortal games,
    And grappled with the fierce old friends,
And cheered the dead undying names,
    And sang the song that never ends;

Till, when the hard, familiar bell
    Told that the summer night was late,
Where long ago we said farewell
    We said farewell by the old gate.

"O Captains unforgot," they cried,
    "Come you again or come no more,
Across the world you keep the pride,
    Across the world we mark the score."

Henry John Newbolt

Sir Henry John Newbolt was an English poet and author, famous for his ballads such as 'Vitaï Lampada'. He graduated from Oxford and was called to the bar, but he is better remembered for his literary contributions than his legal career. Newbolt served as a government advisor on military and naval literature during World War I. He was knighted in 1915 for his services to literature. Newbolt's work often reflected themes of patriotism and duty.

Henry John Newbolt

Songs of the Fleet - Farewell

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

Commemoration

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

The King Of England

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

Devon

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

English

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The Schoolfellow

Our game was his but yesteryear;
    We wished him back; we could not know
The self-same hour we missed him here
    He led the line that broke the foe.

Blood-red behind our guarded posts
    Sank as of old and dying day;
The battle ceased; the mingled hosts
    Weary and cheery went their way:

"To-morrow well may bring," we said,
    "As fair a fight, as clear a sun."
Dear lad, before the world was sped,
    For evermore thy goal was won.

Henry John 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,
    His mood a joy that nought could mar,
A courage, a pride, a rapture, sprung
    Of the strength and splendour of England's war.

From ill-requited toil he turned
    To ride with Picton and with Pack,
Among his grammars inly burned
    To storm the Afghan mountain-track.
When midnight chimed, before Quebec
    He watched with Wolfe till the morning star;
At noon he saw from Victory's deck
    The sweep and splendour of England's war.

Beyond the book his teaching sped,
    He left on whom he taught the trace
Of kinship with the deathless dead...

Henry John Newbolt

The New School

(For My Mother)



The halls that were loud with the merry tread of young and careless feet
Are still with a stillness that is too drear to seem like holiday,
And never a gust of laughter breaks the calm of the dreaming street
Or rises to shake the ivied walls and frighten the doves away.

The dust is on book and on empty desk, and the tennis-racquet and balls
Lie still in their lonely locker and wait for a game that is never played,
And over the study and lecture-room and the river and meadow falls
A stern peace, a strange peace, a peace that War has made.

For many a youthful shoulder now is gay with an epaulet,
And the hand that was deft with a cricket-bat is defter with a sword,
And some of the lads will laugh to-day where the trench is red and wet,
A...

Alfred Joyce Kilmer

The Death Of Admiral Blake

(August 7th, 1657)

Laden with spoil of the South, fulfilled with the glory of achievement,
    And freshly crowned with never-dying fame,
Sweeping by shores where the names are the names of the victories of England,
    Across the Bay the squadron homeward came.

Proudly they came, but their pride was the pomp of a funeral at midnight,
    When dreader yet the lonely morrow looms;
Few are the words that are spoken, and faces are gaunt beneath the torchlight
    That does but darken more the nodding plumes.

Low on the field of his fame, past hope lay the Admiral triumphant,
    And fain to rest him after all his pain;
Yet for the love that he bore to his own land, ever unforgotten,
    He prayed to see the western hills again.

Fainter than stars in a sk...

Henry John Newbolt

The Best School of All

It's good to see the school we knew,
    The land of youth and dream.
To greet again the rule we knew
    Before we took the stream:
Though long we've missed the sight of her,
    Our hearts may not forget;
We've lost the old delight of her,
    We keep her honour yet.

        We'll honour yet the school we knew,
            The best school of all:
        We'll honour yet the rule we knew,
            Till the last bell call.
        For working days or holidays,
            And glad or melancholy days,
    They were great days and jolly days
            At the best school of all.

The stars and sounding vanities
    That half the crowd bewitch,
What are they but inanities
    To him that treads the pitch?
And where's the welth ...

Henry John Newbolt

Vitaï Lampada

There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night---
    Ten to make and the match to win---
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
    An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
    Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote---
    "Play up! play up! and play the game!"

The sand of the desert is sodden red,---
    Red with the wreck of a square that broke;---
The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
    And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
    And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks,
    "Play up! play up! and play the game!"

This is the word that year by year,
    While i...

Henry John Newbolt