Lo! they have bought her buoyancy with their blood
And their ribs cling the keel that cleaves the flood. 
Their watches in the night, their loneliness,
Their toil, hunger and thirst, their heart’s distress,
Their hands, their feet, far eye and smitten head
Whereon the Sea’s upgathered weight is shed;
With these the Ship, the Ship is laid and rigged,
Launched and steered out; with these her living grave is digged,

They lean close over her—­and long, perhaps,
For the broad seas and the loud wind that claps
Boisterous hands on the Ship’s course; and wait
Her call who calls them with the voice of Fate.

“THE MEN WHO LOVED THE CAUSE THAT NEVER DIES”

O come you down from the far hills
Whereon you fought, triumphed and died,
Men at whose names the quick blood thrills
And the heart’s troubled in our side.

Your shadows o’er our fields ere night
Draw from the shadow of old trees;
Ghost-hallowed run the streams, and light
Hangs halo-wise in the great peace.

Warriors of England whom we praise
(Ah, vain all praise!), your spirit is not
Lost in the meanness of these days,
Not wholly is your charge forgot.

And this perplexity of strife
Not all estranged leaves our heart;
England is ours yet, and her life
Has yet in ours the purest part.

But come you down and stand you yet
A little closer to our side,
Or in the darkness we forget
The cause for which Earth’s noblest died.

Printed at The Chapel River Press, Kingston, Surrey.