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That REASON, PASSION, answer one great aim;
That true SELF-LOVE and SOCIAL are the same;
That VIRTUE only makes our bliss below;
And all our knowledge is, OURSELVES TO KNOW.

Pope. .

77

If
If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you ;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too ;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about don't deal in lies, Or being hated don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise :

If

If you can dream-and not make dreams your master ;

you can think—and not make thoughts your aim ; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same ;
If you can bear to hear the truth you ’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools :

loss ;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about

your If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them : Hold on!'

6

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch; If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt

you; If all men count with you, but none too much ; If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And (which is more) you 'll be a Man, my son !

Rudyard Kipling

78

Drake's Drum

DRAKE he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,

(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below ?), Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,

An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,

Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe, An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin',

He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' rüled the Devon seas,

(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below ?), Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi’ heart at ease,

An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. * Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,

Strike et when your powder 's runnin' low; If the Dons sight Devon, I 'll quit the port o' Heaven An' drum them up the Channel as we drumm’d them

long ago.'

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armada's

come, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below ?), Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,

An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.

Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,

Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; Where the old trade 's plyin' an' the old flag flyin' They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago!

Henry Newbolt.

79

To-day

(1914)
For all we have and are,
For all our children's fate,
Stand

up

and meet the war.
The Hun is at the gate !
Our world has pass'd away
In wantonness o'erthrown.
There is nothing left to-day
But steel and fire and stone.

Though all we knew depart,
The old Commandments stand :

In courage keep your heart,
In strength lift up your hand.'

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To face the naked days
In silent fortitude,
Through perils and dismays
Renew'd and re-renew'd.

Though all we made depart,
The old Commandments stand :

In patience keep your heart,
In strength lift up your hand.'
No easy hopes or lies
Shall bring us to our goal,
But iron sacrifice
Of body, will, and soul.
There is but one task for all-
For each one life to give.
Who stands if Freedom fall ?
Who dies if England live ?

Rudyard Kipling.

80

Death the Leveller THE glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armour against Fate ; Death lays his icy hand on kings :

Sceptre and Crown

Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; But their strong nerves at last must yield ; They tame but one another still :

Early or late

They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow :

Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds.

Your heads must come

To the cold tomb :
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

Shirley.

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I MET a traveller from an antique land
Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. ... Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them, and the heart that fed :
And on the pedestal these words appear :
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings :
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair !'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far

away.

Shelley.

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EARTH, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood !
If our great Mother has imbued

my

soul
With aught of natural piety to feel
Your love, and recompense the boon with mine;
If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even,

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