But there within John Nicholson "Have ye served us for a hundred years We brook no doubt of our mastery ; "Were I the one last Englishman "Were I," he said, "but a corporal, And you a Rajput king, So long as the soul was in my body "Take off, take off, those shoes of pride, When Mehtab Singh came to the door His shoes they burned his hand, For there in long and silent lines When Mehtab Singh rode from the gate His chin was on his breast: The captains said, "When the strong command Obedience is best." Sherwood. SHERWOOD in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake? Grey and ghostly shadows are gliding through the brake; Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn, Dreaming of a shadowy man that winds a shadowy horn. Robin Hood is here again: all his merry thieves Hear a ghostly bugle note shivering through the leaves, Calling as he used to call, faint and far away, In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. Merry, merry England has kissed the lips of June: moon; Like a flight of rose-leaves fluttering in a mist Merry, merry England is waking as of old, With eyes of blither hazel and hair of brighter gold; For Robin Hood is here again beneath the bursting spray In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. Love is in the greenwood, building him a house Hark! The dazzled laverock climbs the golden steep; Marian is waiting, is Robin Hood asleep? Round the fairy grass-rings frolic elf and fay, In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. Oberon, Oberon, rake away the gold, Rake away the red leaves, roll away the mould, Friar Tuck and Little John are riding down together With quarter-staff and drinking can and grey goose feather; The dead are coming back again; the years are rolled away In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. Softly over Sherwood the south wind blows; Hears across the greenwood the sunny whisper leap, Hark! the voice of England wakes him as of old gold, Bugles in the greenwood echo from the steep, Where the deer are gliding down the shadowy glen, In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day; Calls them and they answer: from aisles of oak and ash Rings the Follow! Follow! and the boughs begin to crash; The ferns begin to flutter and the flowers begin to fly; And through the crimson dawning the robber band goes by. Robin! Robin! Robin! All his merry thieves Answer as the bugle-note shivers through the leaves; Calling as he used to call, faint and far away, In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. The Old Sceptic. I AM weary of disbelieving: why should I wound my love To pleasure a sophist's pride in a graven image of truth? I will go back to my home, with the clouds and the stars above, And the heaven I used to know, and the God of my buried youth. I will go back to the home, where of old in my boyish pride I pierced my father's heart with a murmur of unbelief; He only looked in my face as I spoke, but his mute eyes cried Night after night in my dreams; and he died in grief, in grief. Oh, yes; I have read the books, the books that we write ourselves, Extolling our love of an abstract truth and our pride of debate; I will go back to the love of the cotter who sings as he delves, To that childish infinite love and the God above fact and date. |