Four o' the clock! Now all the world is still. THE BELLS: Power that has reached itself all kingly powers, St. Martin's: By love o'erpowered St. Clement Danes: By love o'erpowered, THE BELLS: For we were hers, as she, as she was ours, THE BELLS: As we were hers! As we, even we were hers! THE GLORY OF THE GARDEN OUR England is a garden that is full of stately views, Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues, With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by; But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye. For where the old thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall, You'll find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all, The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dungpits and the tanks, The rollers, carts and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks. And there you'll see the gardeners, the men and 'prentice boys Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise; For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds, The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words. And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose, For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come. Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made There's not a pair of legs so thin, there's not a head so thick, There's not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick, But it can find some needful job that's crying to be done, For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one. Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders, If it's only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders; And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden, You will find yourself a partner in the Glory of the Garden. Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees That half a proper gardener's work is done upon his knees, So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray For the Glory of the Garden that it may not pass away! GREAT-HEART (THEODORE ROOSEVELT IN 1919) "The Interpreter then called for a man-servant of his, one Great-Heart." -Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress." CONCERNING brave Captains Our age hath made known For all men to honour, One standeth alone, In purpose unsparing, The labours he praised He would seek and profess At hazard and pain. And our world is none the braver Plain speech with plain folk, Oh, our world is none more honest Now Great-Heart is dead! The heat of his spirit Struck warm through all lands; For he loved such as showed 'Emselves men of their hands; In love, as in hate, Paying home to the last. But our world is none the kinder Now Great-Heart hath passed! Hard-schooled by long power, Let those who would handle And his close-guarding shield; For those who must journey Henceforward alone. Have need of stout convoy THE END INDEX TO FIRST LINES A farmer of the Augustan Age. A fool there was and he made his prayer A great and glorious thing it is A Nation spoke to a Nation, A Rose, in tatters on the garden path, A stone's throw out on either hand A tinker out of Bedford, Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told. Across a world where all men grieve After the burial-parties leave After the sack of the City when Rome was sunk to a name Ahasuerus Jenkins of the "Operatic Own,' All the world over, nursing their scars, Alone upon the house tops to the North "And some are sulky, while some will plunge. And they were stronger hands than mine As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree "As anybody seen Bill 'Awkins?" As I was spittin' into the Ditch aboard the Crocodile, As I left the Halls at Lumley, rose the vision of a comely As our mother the Frigate, bepainted and fine, As the dawn was breaking the Sambhur belled- At Runnymede, at Runnymede, At the close of a winter day, At the hole where he went in At times when under cover I 'ave said, At two o'clock in the morning, if you open your window and listen, Beat off in our last fight were we? . Bees! Bees! Hark to your bees! Before my Spring I garnered Autumn's gain,. |