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Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, here the lion-guarded gate.
Not to-night in Locksley Hall - to-morrow you, you come so late.

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Wreck'd your train -or all but wreck'd? a shatter'd wheel? a vicious boy Good, this forward, you that preach it, is it well to wish you joy?

Is it well that while we range with Science, glorying in the Time,
City children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime?

There among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet,
Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the thousand on the street.

There the Master scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily bread,
There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead.

There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across the rotted floor,
And the crowded couch of incest in the warrens of the poor.

Nay, your pardon, cry your 'forward,' yours are hope and youth, but I— Eighty winters leave the dog too lame to follow with the cry,

Lame and old, and past his time, and passing now into the night;
Yet I would the rising race were half as eager for the light.

Light the fading gleam of Even? light the glimmer of the dawn?
Aged eyes may take the growing glimmer for the gleam withdrawn.

Far away beyond her myriad coming changes earth will be
Something other than the wildest modern guess of you and me.

Earth may reach her earthly-worst, or if she gain her earthly-best,
Would she find her human offspring this ideal man at rest?

Forward then, but still remember how the course of Time will swerve,
Crook and turn upon itself in many a backward streaming curve.

Not the Hall to-night, my grandson! Death and Silence hold their own. Leave the Master in the first dark hour of his last sleep alone.

Worthier soul was he than I am, sound and honest, rustic Squire,
Kindly landlord, boon companion — youthful jealousy is a liar.

Cast the poison from your bosom, oust the madness from your brain.
Let the trampled serpent show you that you have not lived in vain.

Youthful! youth and age are scholars yet but in the lower school,
Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool.

Yonder lies our young sea-village-Art and Grace are less and less:
Science grows and Beauty dwindles - roofs of slated hideousness!

There is one old Hostel left us where they swing the Locksley shield,
Till the peasant cow shall butt the Lion passant' from his field.

Poor old Heraldry, poor old History, poor old Poetry, passing hence,
In the common deluge drowning old political common-sense!

Poor old voice of eighty crying after voices that have fled!
All I loved are vanish'd voices, all my steps are on the dead.

All the world is ghost to me, and as the phantom disappears,
Forward far and far from here is all the hope of eighty years.

In this Hostel I remember I repent it o'er his grave-
Like a clown-by chance he met me - I refused the hand he gave.

From that casement where the trailer mantles all the mouldering bricks -
I was then in early boyhood, Edith but a child of six —

While I shelter'd in this archway from a day of driving showers -
Peept the winsome face of Edith like a flower among the flowers.

Here to-night! the Hall to-morrow, when they toll the Chapel bell!
Shall I hear in one dark room a wailing, 'I have loved thee well.'

Then a peal that shakes the portal - one has come to claim his bride,
Her that shrank, and put me from her, shriek'd, and started from my side-

Silent echoes! You, my Leonard, use and not abuse your day,
Move among your people, know them, follow him who led the way,

Strove for sixty widow'd years to help his homelier brother men,
Served the poor, and built the cottage, raised the school, and drain'd the fen.

Hears he now the Voice that wrong'd him? who shall swear it cannot be? Earth would never touch her worst, were one in fifty such as he.

Ere she gain her Heavenly-best, a God must mingle with the game:
Nay, there may be those about us whom we neither see nor name,

Felt within us as ourselves, the Powers of Good, the Powers of Ill,
Strowing balm, or shedding poison in the fountains of the Will.

Follow you the Star that lights a desert pathway, yours or mine.
Forward, till you see the highest Human Nature is divine.

Follow Light, and do the Right - for man can half-control his doom -
Till you find the deathless Angel seated in the vacant tomb.

Forward, let the stormy moment fly and mingle with the Past.
I that loathed, have come to love him. Love will conquer at the last.

Gone at eighty, mine own age, and I and you will bear the pall;
Then I leave thee Lord and Master, latest Lord of Locksley Hall.

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And were only standing at gaze,
When the dark-muffled Russian crowd
Folded its wings from the left and the

And roll'd them around like a cloud, -
O mad for the charge and the battle

were we,

When our own good redcoats sank from sight,

Like drops of blood in a dark-gray sea, And we turn'd to each other, whispering, all dismay'd,

'Lost are the gallant three hundred of Scarlett's Brigade!'


'Lost one and all' were the words
Mutter'd in our dismay;

But they rode like Victors and Lords
Thro' the forest of lances and swords
In the heart of the Russian hordes,
They rode, or they stood at bay
Struck with the sword-hand and slew,
Down with the bridle-hand drew
The foe from the saddle and threw
Underfoot there in the fray-
Ranged like a storm or stood like a rock
In the wave of a stormy day;
Till suddenly shock upon shock
Stagger'd the mass from without,
Drove it in wild disarray,

For our men gallopt up with a cheer and a shout,

And the foeman surged, and waver'd, and reel'd

Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of the field,

And over the brow and away.


Glory to each and to all, and the charge that they made! Glory to all the three hundred, and all the Brigade!

NOTE. The three hundred' of the 'Heavy Brigade' who made this famous charge were the Scots Greys and the 2nd squadron of Inniskil lings, the remainder of the Heavy Brigade' subsequently dashing up to their support.

The three' were Scarlett's aide-de-camp, Elliot, and the trumpeter and Shegog the orderly, who had been close behind him.


NOT this way will you set your name
A star among the stars.


What way?


You praise when you should blame The barbarism of wars.

A juster epoch has begun.


Yet tho' this cheek be gray,

And that bright hair the modern sun,
Those eyes the blue to-day,
You wrong me, passionate little friend.
I would that wars should cease,


I would the globe from end to end
Might sow and reap in peace,
And some new Spirit o'erbear the old,
Or Trade refrain the Powers
From war with kindly links of gold,

Or Love with wreaths of flowers.
Slav, Teuton, Kelt, I count them all

My friends and brother souls,
With all the peoples, great and small,
That wheel between the poles.
But since, our mortal shadow, Ill
To waste this earth began-
Perchance from some abuse of Will
In worlds before the man
Involving ours- he needs must fight
To make true peace his own,

He needs must combat might with might,
Or Might would rule alone;

And who loves War for War's own sake
Is fool, or crazed, or worse;
But let the patriot-soldier take
His meed of fame in verse;

Nay- tho' that realm were in the wrong
For which her warriors bleed,

It still were right to crown with song The warrior's noble deed

A crown the Singer hopes may last,
For so the deed endures;
But Song will vanish in the Vast;
And that large phrase of yours
'A Star among the stars,' my dear,
Is girlish talk at best;
For dare we dally with the sphere
As he did half in jest,

Old Horace? I will strike,' said he,
'The stars with head sublime,'
But scarce could see, as now we see,
The man in Space and Time,
So drew perchance a happier lot

Than ours, who rhyme to-day.
The fires that arch this dusky dot –
Yon myriad-worlded way-
The vast sun-clusters' gather'd blaze,
World-isles in lonely skies,
Whole heavens within themselves, amaze
Our brief humanities;

And so does Earth; for Homer's fame,
Tho' carved in harder stone-
The falling drop will make his name
As mortal as my own.




Let it live then-ay, till when?. Earth passes, all is lost In what they prophesy, our wise men, Sun-flame or sunless frost,

And deed and song alike are swept
Away, and all in vain

As far as man can see, except
The man himself remain;

And tho', in this lean age forlorn,
Too many a voice may cry
That man can have no after-morn,
Not yet of these am I.

The man remains, and whatsoe'er

He wrought of good or brave Will mould him thro' the cycle-year That dawns behind the grave.

And here the Singer for his Art
Not all in vain may plead
'The song that nerves a nation's heart,
Is in itself a deed.'





ROMAN VIRGIL, thou that singest

Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire,

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