I know what’s in your heart, lad,—–­
  The mare he used to hunt—–­
And her blue market-cart, lad,
  With posies tied in front—–­
We miss them from the moor road,
  They’re getting old to roam,
The road they’re on’s a sure road
  And nearer, lad, to home.

Your name, the name they cherish? 
  ’Twill fade, lad, ’tis true: 
But stone and all may perish
  With little loss to you. 
While fame’s fame you’re Devon, lad,
  The Glory of the West;
Till the roll’s called in heaven, lad,
  You may well take your rest.

Commemoration

I sat by the granite pillar, and sunlight fell
  Where the sunlight fell of old,
And the hour was the hour my heart remembered well,
  And the sermon rolled and rolled
As it used to roll when the place was still unhaunted,
And the strangest tale in the world was still untold.

And I knew that of all this rushing of urgent sound
  That I so clearly heard,
The green young forest of saplings clustered round
  Was heeding not one word: 
Their heads were bowed in a still serried patience
Such as an angel’s breath could never have stirred.

For some were already away to the hazardous pitch,
  Or lining the parapet wall,
And some were in glorious battle, or great and rich,
  Or throned in a college hall: 
And among the rest was one like my own young phantom,
Dreaming for ever beyond my utmost call.

“O Youth,” the preacher was crying, “deem not thou
  Thy life is thine alone;
Thou bearest the will of the ages, seeing how
  They built thee bone by bone,
And within thy blood the Great Age sleeps sepulchred
Till thou and thine shall roll away the stone.

“Therefore the days are coming when thou shalt burn
  With passion whitely hot;
Rest shall be rest no more; thy feet shall spurn
  All that thy hand hath got;
And One that is stronger shall gird thee, and lead thee swiftly
Whither, O heart of Youth, thou wouldest not.”

And the School passed; and I saw the living and dead
  Set in their seats again,
And I longed to hear them speak of the word that was said,
  But I knew that I longed in vain. 
And they stretched forth their hands, and the wind of the spirit took them
Lightly as drifted leaves on an endless plain.

The Echo

Of A Ballad Sung By H. Plunket Greene To His Old School

Twice three hundred boys were we,
    Long ago, long ago,
Where the Downs look out to the Severn Sea. 
    Clifton for aye! 
We held by the game and hailed the team,
For many could play where few could dream. 
    City of Song shall stand alway.

Some were for profit and some for pride,
    Long ago, long ago,
Some for the flag they lived and died. 
    Clifton for aye! 
The work of the world must still be done,
And minds are many though truth be one. 
    City of Song shall stand alway.