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 in her place the School is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
    And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
    Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind---
    "Play up! play up! and play the game!"

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

The Only Son

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

The King Of England

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

Minora Sidera

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

The Volunteer

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

English

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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 far...

Henry John Newbolt

The Echo

Of A Ballad Sung By H. Plunket Greene To His Old School

Twice three hundred boys were we,
        Long ago, long ago,
Where the Downs look out to the Severn Sea.
        Clifton for aye!
We held by the game and hailed the team,
For many could play where few could dream.
        City of Song shall stand alway.

Some were for profit and some for pride,
        Long ago, long ago,
Some for the flag they lived and died.
        Clifton for aye!
The work of the world must still be done,
And minds are many though truth be one.
        City of Song shall stand alway.

But a lad there was to his fellows sang,
        Long ago, long ago,
And soon the world to his music rang.
        Clifton for aye!
Follow your Captains, crown your Kings,...

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

A Song Of Exmoor

The Forest above and the Combe below,
    On a bright September morn!
He's the soul of a clod who thanks not God
    That ever his body was born!
So hurry along, the stag's afoot,
    The Master's up and away!
Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through
From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

        So hurry along, the stag's afoot,
            The Master's up and away!
        Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through
            From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

Hark to the tufters' challenge true,
    'Tis a note that the red-deer knows!
His courage awakes, his covert he breaks,
    And up for the moor he goes!
He's all his rights and seven on top,
    His eye's the eye of a king,
And he'll beggar the pride of some that ride
    Before he leaves the l...

Henry John Newbolt

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

Arms And The Man. - The Beginning Of The End.

As some spent gladiator, struck by Death,
Whose reeling vision scarce a foe defines,
For one last effort gathers all his breath,
England draws in her lines.

Her blood-red flag floats out full fair, but flows
O'er crumbling bastions, in fictitious state:
Who stands a siege Cornwallis full well knows,
        Plays at a game with Fate.

Siege means surrender at the bitter end,
From Ilium downward such the sword-made rule,
With few exceptions, few indeed amend
    This law in any school!

The student who for these has ever sought
'Mid his exceptions Cæsar counts as one,
Besieger and besieged he, victor, fought
Under a Gallic sun.

For Vircinget'rex failed, but at the wall:
He strove and failed gilded by Glory's rays
So that true sol...

James Barron Hope