English

Where are those others? — the men who stood
In the first wild spate of the German flood,
And paid full price with their heart's best blood
For the saving of you and me:
French's Contemptibles, haggard and lean,
Allenby's lads of the cavalry screen,
Gunners who fell in Battery L,
And Guardsmen of Landrecies?

Where are those others who fought and fell,
Outmanned, outgunned and scant of shell,
On the deadly curve of the Ypres hell,
Barring the coast to the last?
Where are our laddies who died out there,

Daughters of the Pilgrim-Sires!
Dwellers by their mould'ring graves!
Watchers of their altar-fires!
Look upon your country's slaves.

And can ye behold, unmov'd,
All the crushing weight of grief,
That their aching hearts have prov'd,
And refuse to send relief?

Are not woman's pulses warm,
Beating in that anguish'd breast?
Is it not a sister's form,

Once in my heyday of cricket,
Oh, day I shall ever recall!
I captured that glorious wicket,
The greatest, the grandest of all.

Before me he stands like a vision,
Bearded and burly and brown,
A smile of good-humoured derision
As he waits for the first to come down.

A statue from Thebes or from Cnossus,
A Hercules shrouded in white,
Assyrian Bull-like Colossus,
He stands in his might.

With the beard of a Goth or a Vandal,
His bat hanging ready and free,

" Which of these four, " the Angel said,
" Will be your life-long choice,
The maiden with the kindest heart,
Or with the sweetest voice,
Or she who has the dearest form,
With every gentle grace,
Or she who shows the noblest soul
Upon the loveliest face? "

Lost in deepest thought I sat,
And viewed these maidens four,
And first chose this and then chose that,
And doubted more and more;
A kindly heart is treasure trove,
A perfect voice is rare,
A graceful form is Heaven's gift

First begin
Taking in.
Cargo stored,
All aboard,
Think about
Giving out.
Empty ship,
Useless trip!

Never strain
Weary brain.
Hardly fit,
Wait a bit!
After rest
Comes the best.
Sitting still,
Let it fill;
Never press;
Never stress
Always shows.
Nature knows.

Critics kind,
Never mind!
Critics flatter,
No matter!
Critics curse,
None the worse!
Critics blame,
All the same!
Do your best.
Hang the rest!

You hearts that beat with feelings nice
Come vibrate now with mine,
And with a tear of sympathy
Bedew the captive's shrine,
Nor blush to shew the crystal drop,
Which pity bids to dawn,
More balmy than the morning dew,
That gilds the spangled lawn.

The flutt'ring starling touch'd the key
By which our heart-strings beat,
Whilst busy fancy brought to view,
The wretched captive's fate:
The portrait struck the trembling cords,
That thrill thro' nature's frame;
Whilst sighs responsive from his cell,

Let the soldier look big with his sword and cockade,
And the courtier exult in his birth-day brocade,
With blessings less splendid quite happy I'd be,
Let content, sweet content, be the portion for me,

Tho' no gilded vase can be found in my store,
Nor my snug tables groan with the Mexican ore,
If a friend will but bless, and a competence I,
Content, sweet content, will all splendour out vie.

Let the patriot loud boast of his virtuous career,
And swear, than his life, that his country's more deaf,

The raging tempest, roaring seas,
Have trump'd the tar's renown,
As if our land's-men liv'd at ease,
Nor toil'd for glory's crown;
But sure they too may loyal prove,
And feel the gentle flame of love.

The foaming billows dreadful swell,
The tar's repose alarms;
The bugle sounding for his knell,
The land's-man wakes to arms;
Not for himself the crown to wear
But for his country, and the fair.

The rampart's crested top he mounts,
Midst cannon's dreadful roar,

" And this, " quoth he " thou faithful friend,
" I'd gladly share with thee;
" But soon, too soon! has been thy end
" Oppress'd by care and me. "
I thought such tender traits of woe,
Bespoke a parent's care,
'Twas nature bade the current flow
To mourn his ass sincere.

The bridle by his side he laid,
Which e'er anon he view'd,
And then a silent tribute paid,
But still his dirge pursu'd;
Then pensive from his scrip he took
His small, but grateful store,
With anxious grief his head he shook,

My country! guilty as thou art,
I love thee even yet,
Though not with all my heart;
For I can ne'er forget,
That Afric's children groan in chains,
Beneath thy peaceful shade,
And thou, unblushing, wear'st the stains,
That Slavery's blood has made.

Weep — weep, my country! — or thy blood,
May yet efface the wrong;
Let grief come o'er thee, like a flood,
And pour thy vales along;
Oh! we would have our country FREE
And PURE as blush of morn; —
Would have unsullied LIBERTY