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.

June 6, 1862

April 19, 1938

English

Henry John Newbolt

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Hymn

In The Time Of War And Tumults

O Lord Almighty, Thou whose hands
    Despair and victory give;
In whom, though tyrants tread their lands,
    The souls of nations live;

Thou wilt not turn Thy face away
    From those who work Thy will,
But send Thy peace on hearts that pray,
    And guard Thy people still.

Remember not the days of shame,
    The hands with rapine dyed,
The wavering will, the baser aim,
    The brute material pride:

Remember, Lord, the years of faith,
    The spirits humbly brave,
The strength that died defying death,
    The love that loved the slave:

The race that strove to rule Thine earth
    With equal laws unbought: .
Who bore for Truth the pangs of birth,
    And brake the bonds of Though...

Henry John Newbolt

Il Santo

    Alas! alas! what impious hands are these?
    They have cut down my dark mysterious trees,
    Defied the brooding spell
    That sealed my sacred well,
    Broken my fathers' fixed and ancient bars,
    And on the mouldering shade
    Wherein my dead were laid
    Let in the cold clear aspect of the stars.

    Slumber hath held the grove for years untold:
    Is there no reverence for a peace so old?
    Is there no seemly awe
    For bronze-engraven law,
    For dust beatified and saintly name?
    When they shall see the shrine
    Princes have held divine,
    Will they not bow before the eternal flame?

    Vain! vain! the wind of heaven for ages long
    Hath whispered manhood, "Let thine arm be strong!
    Hew down and fling awa...

Henry John Newbolt

Imogen

(A Lady of Tender Age)

Ladies, where were your bright eyes glancing,
    Where were they glancing yester-night?
Saw ye Imogen dancing, dancing,
    Imogen dancing all in white?
    Laughed she not with a pure delight,
    Laughed she not with a joy serene,
Stepped she not with a grace entrancing,
    Slenderly girt in silken sheen?

All through the night from dusk to daytime
    Under her feet the hours were swift,
Under her feet the hours of play-time
    Rose and fell with a rhythmic lift:
    Music set her adrift, adrift,
    Music eddying towards the day
Swept her along as brooks in May-time
    Carry the freshly falling May.

Ladies, life is a changing measure,
    Youth is a lilt that endeth soon;
Pluck ye never so fast at ...

Henry John Newbolt

In July

His beauty bore no token,
    No sign our gladness shook;
With tender strength unbroken
    The hand of Life he took:
But the summer flowers were falling,
    Falling and fading away,
And mother birds were calling,
        Crying and calling
    For their loves that would not stay.

He knew not Autumn's chillness,
    Nor Winter's wind nor Spring's.
He lived with Summer's stillness
    And sun and sunlit things:
But when the dusk was falling
    He went the shadowy way,
And one more heart is calling,
        Crying and calling
    For the love that would not stay.

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

Ireland, Ireland

Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland,
    Down thy valleys green and sad,
Still thy spirit wanders wailing,
    Wanders wailing, wanders mad.

Long ago that anguish took thee,
    Ireland, Ireland, green and fair,
Spoilers strong in darkness took thee,
    Broke thy heart and left thee there.

Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland,
    Still thy spirit wanders mad;
All too late they love that wronged thee,
    Ireland, Ireland, green and sad.

Henry John Newbolt

Laudabunt Alii

(After Horace)

Let others praise, as fancy wills,
    Berlin beneath her trees,
Or Rome upon her seven hills,
    Or Venice by her seas;
Stamboul by double tides embraced,
Or green Damascus in the waste.

For me there's nought I would not leave
    For the good Devon land,
Whose orchards down the echoing cleeve
    Bedewed with spray-drift stand,
And hardly bear the red fruit up
That shall be next year's cider-cup.

You too, my friend, may wisely mark
    How clear skies follow rain,
And, lingering in your own green park
    Or drilled on Laffan's Plain,
Forget not with the festal bowl
To soothe at times your weary soul.

When Drake must bid to Plymouth Hoe
    Good-bye for many a day,
And some were sad and feared ...

Henry John Newbolt

Love and Grief.

    One day, when Love and Summer both were young,
        Love in a garden found my lady weeping;
    Whereat, when he to kiss her would have sprung,
        I stayed his childish leaping.

    "Forbear," said I, "she is not thine to-day;
        Subdue thyself in silence to await her;
    If thou dare call her from Death's side away
        Thou art no Love, but traitor.

    Yet did he run, and she his kiss received,
        "She is twice mine," he cried, "since she is troubled;
    I knew but half, and now I see her grieved
        My part in her is doubled."

Henry John Newbolt

Master And Man

Do ye ken hoo to fush for the salmon?
    If ye'll listen I'll tell ye.
Dinna trust to the books and their gammon,
    They're but trying to sell ye.
Leave professors to read their ain cackle
    And fush their ain style;
Come awa', sir, we'll oot wi' oor tackle
    And be busy the while.

'Tis a wee bit ower bright, ye were thinkin'?
    Aw, ye'll no be the loser;
'Tis better ten baskin' and blinkin'
    Than ane that's a cruiser.
If ye're bent, as I tak it, on slatter,
    Ye should pray for the droot,
For the salmon's her ain when there's watter,
    But she's oors when it's oot.

Ye may just put your flee-book behind ye,
    Ane hook wull be plenty;
If they'll no come for this, my man, mind ye,
    They'll no come for twenty.
...

Henry John Newbolt

Messmates

He gave us all a good-bye cheerily
    At the first dawn of day;
We dropped him down the side full drearily
    When the light died away.
It's a dead dark watch that he's a-keeping there,
And a long, long night that lags a-creeping there,
Where the Trades and the tides roll over him
    And the great ships go by.

He's there alone with green seas rocking him
    For a thousand miles round;
He's there alone with dumb things mocking him,
    And we're homeward bound.
It's a long, lone watch that he's a-keeping there,
And a dead cold night that lags a-creeping there,
While the months and the years roll over him
    And the great ships go by.

I wonder if the tramps come near enough
    As they thrash to and fro,
And the battle-ships' bells rin...

Henry John Newbolt

Midway

    Turn back, my Soul, no longer set
        Thy peace upon the years to come
    Turn back, the land of thy regret
        Holds nothing doubtful, nothing dumb.

    There are the voices, there the scenes
        That make thy life in living truth
    A tale of heroes and of queens,
        Fairer than all the hopes of youth.

Henry John Newbolt

Minora Sidera

(The Dictionary Of National Biography)

Sitting at times over a hearth that burns
    With dull domestic glow,
My thought, leaving the book, gratefully turns
    To you who planned it so.

Not of the great only you deigned to tell---
    The stars by which we steer---
But lights out of the night that flashed, and fell
    Tonight again, are here.

Such as were those, dogs of an elder day,
    Who sacked the golden ports,
And those later who dared grapple their prey
    Beneath the harbour forts:

Some with flag at the fore, sweeping the world
    To find an equal fight,
And some who joined war to their trade, and hurled
    Ships of the line in flight.

Whether their fame centuries long should ring
    They cared not over-muc...

Henry John Newbolt

Moonset

Past seven o'clock: time to be gone;
Twelfth-night's over and dawn shivering up:
A hasty cut of the loaf, a steaming cup,
Down to the door, and there is Coachman John.

Ruddy of cheek is John and bright of eye;
But John it appears has none of your grins and winks;
Civil enough, but short: perhaps he thinks:
Words come once in a mile, and always dry.

Has he a mind or not? I wonder; but soon
We turn through a leafless wood, and there to the right,
Like a sun bewitched in alien realms of night,
Mellow and yellow and rounded hangs the moon.

Strangely near she seems, and terribly great:
The world is dead: why are we travelling still?
Nightmare silence grips my struggling will;
We are driving for ever and ever to find a gate.

"When you come to...

Henry John Newbolt

Mors Janua

    Pilgrim, no shrine is here, no prison, no inn:
        Thy fear and thy belief alike are fond:
    Death is a gate, and holds no room within:
        Pass--to the road beyond.

Henry John Newbolt

Nel Mezzo Del Cammin

    Whisper it not that late in years
    Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter,
    Life be freed of tremor and tears,
    Heads be wiser and hearts be lighter.
    Ah! but the dream that all endears,
    The dream we sell for your pottage of truth--
    Give us again the passion of youth,
    Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter.

Henry John Newbolt

Nel Mezzo Del Cammin

Whisper it not that late in years
Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter,
Life be freed of tremor and tears,
Heads be wiser and hearts be lighter.
Ah! but the dream that all endears,
The dream we sell for your pottage of truth---
Give us again the passion of youth,
Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter.

Henry John Newbolt

Northumberland

"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.

When Nelson sailed for Trafalgar
    With all his country's best,
He held them dear as brothers are,
    But one beyond the rest.
For when the fleet with heroes manned
    To clear the decks began,
The boast of old Northumberland
    He sent to lead the van.


Himself by Victory's bulwarks stood
    And cheered to see the sight;
"That noble fellow Collingwood,
    How bold he goes to fight!"
Love, that the league of Ocean spanned,<...

Henry John Newbolt

O Pulchritudo

O Saint whose thousand shrines our feet have trod
    And our eyes loved thy lamp's eternal beam,
Dim earthly radiance of the Unknown God,
    Hope of the darkness, light of them that dream,
Far off, far off and faint, O glimmer on
Till we thy pilgrims from the road are gone.

O Word whose meaning every sense hath sought,
    Voice of the teeming field and grassy mound,
Deep-whispering fountain of the wells of thought,
    Will of the wind and soul of all sweet sound,
Far off, far off and faint, O murmur on
Till we thy pilgrims from the road are gone.

Henry John Newbolt

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