SERVICE SONGS

SOUTH AFRICAN WAR

1900-1902

BEFORE A MIDNIGHT BREAKS

IN STORM

1903

BEFORE a midnight breaks in storm,

Or herded sea in wrath,
Ye know what wavering gusts inform
The greater tempest's path?

Till the loosed wind

Drive all from mind,

Except Distress, which, so will prophets cry, O'ercame them, houseless, from the unhinting sky.

Ere rivers league against the land

In piratry of flood,

Ye know what waters slip and stand
Where seldom water stood.

Yet who will note,

Till fields afloat,

And washen carcass and the returning well, Trumpet what these poor heralds strove to tell?

Ye know who use the Crystal Ball

(To peer by stealth on Doom), The Shade that, shaping first of all, Prepares an empty room.

Then doth It pass

Like breath from glass,

But, on the extorted vision bowed intent,
No man considers why It came or went.

And in the imperial task (as worthy) lay
Up our lives' all to piece one giant day.

THE BELL BUOY

1896

THEY christened my brother of old

And a saintly name he bears They gave him his place to hold

At the head of the belfry-stairs, Where the minster-towers stand And the breeding kestrels cry.

Would I change with my brother a league inland? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!

In the flush of the hot June prime,
O'er smooth flood-tides afire,

I hear him hurry the chime

To the bidding of checked Desire;

Till the sweated ringers tire

And the wild bob-majors die.

Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!

When the smoking scud is blown,
When the greasy wind-rack lowers,
Apart and at peace and alone,

He counts the changeless hours.
He wars with darkling Powers

(I war with a darkling sea);

Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not he!

There was never a priest to pray,

There was never a hand to toll,

When they made me guard of the bay,

And moored me over the shoal.

I rock, I reel, and I roll

My four great hammers ply

Could I speak or be still at the Church's will?

(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!

The landward marks have failed,
The fog-bank glides unguessed,
The seaward lights are veiled,
The spent deep feigns her rest:
But my ear is laid to her breast,

I lift to the swell I cry!

Could I wait in sloth on the Church's oath? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!

At the careless end of night

I thrill to the nearing screw;

I turn in the clearing light

And I call to the drowsy crew;