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Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, here the lion-guarded gate.
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,
There among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet,
There the Master scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily bread,
There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across the rotted floor,
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;
Light the fading gleam of Even? light the glimmer of the dawn?
Far away beyond her myriad coming changes earth will be
Earth may reach her earthly-worst, or if she gain her earthly-best,
Forward then, but still remember how the course of Time will swerve,
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,
Cast the poison from your bosom, oust the madness from your brain.
Youthful! youth and age are scholars yet but in the lower school,
Yonder lies our young sea-village-Art and Grace are less and less:
There is one old Hostel left us where they swing the Locksley shield,
Poor old Heraldry, poor old History, poor old Poetry, passing hence,
Poor old voice of eighty crying after voices that have fled!
All the world is ghost to me, and as the phantom disappears,
In this Hostel I remember I repent it o'er his grave-
From that casement where the trailer mantles all the mouldering bricks -
While I shelter'd in this archway from a day of driving showers -
Here to-night! the Hall to-morrow, when they toll the Chapel bell!
Then a peal that shakes the portal - one has come to claim his bride,
Silent echoes! You, my Leonard, use and not abuse your day,
Strove for sixty widow'd years to help his homelier brother men,
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:
Felt within us as ourselves, the Powers of Good, the Powers of Ill,
Follow you the Star that lights a desert pathway, yours or mine.
Follow Light, and do the Right - for man can half-control his doom -
Forward, let the stormy moment fly and mingle with the Past.
Gone at eighty, mine own age, and I and you will bear the pall;
THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE-EPpilogue.
And were only standing at gaze,
And roll'd them around like a cloud, -
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
But they rode like Victors and Lords
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
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,
I would the globe from end to end
Or Love with wreaths of flowers.
My friends and brother souls,
He needs must combat might with might,
And who loves War for War's own sake
Nay- tho' that realm were in the wrong
It still were right to crown with song The warrior's noble deed
A crown the Singer hopes may last,
Old Horace? I will strike,' said he,
Than ours, who rhyme to-day.
And so does Earth; for Homer's fame,
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
As far as man can see, except
And tho', in this lean age forlorn,
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
WRITTEN AT THE
REQUEST OF THE MANTUANS FOR THE NINETEENTH CENTENARY OF VIRGIL'S DEATH.
ROMAN VIRGIL, thou that singest
Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire,