And crying loves and passions still, Dog-loyalties to faith and friend, And intermission none And burst on burst for beauty and From men whose love of motherland And song of some with hearts beside For men and sorrows far and wide, Who watch the world with pity and pride And warm to all mankind— And endless joyous music rise And endless soaring lullabies And many a song as wondrous well And song from many a house of care And song-that song whose singers come With old kind tales of pity from The Great Compassion's lips, That make the bells of Heaven to peal The song of men all sorts and kinds, many tempers, moods and minds As leaves are on a tree, As many faiths and castes and creeds, As many human bloods and breeds As in the world may be ; The song of each and all who gaze The song of all not wholly dark, And alleluias sweet and clear And wild with beauty men mis-hear, From choirs of song as near and dear To Paradise as they, The everlasting pipe and flute Of wind and sea and bird and brute, The music of a lion strong That shakes a hill a whole night long, A hill as loud as he, The twitter of a mouse among Melodious greenery, The ruby's and the rainbow's song, The nightingale's—all three, The song of life that wells and flows Of every lung and tongue and throat, Earth's multitudinous Sons of Light, I heard it all, I heard the whole And in the awful quiet then I heard it all and then although I stood and stared; the sky was lit, My eyes were blind with stars and still Ralph Hodgson. 209* Man, one harmonious soul of many a soul, Where all things flow to all, as rivers to the sea; Labour, and pain, and grief, in life's green grove Sport like tame beasts, none knew how gentle they could be! His will, with all mean passions, bad delights, A spirit ill to guide, but mighty to obey, Is as a tempest-winged ship, whose helm Love rules, through waves which dare not overwhelm, Forcing life's wildest shores to own its sovereign sway. All things confess his strength. Through the cold mass Of marble and of colour his dreams pass; Bright threads whence mothers weave the robes their children wear; Language is a perpetual Orphic song, Which rules with Dædal harmony a throng Of thoughts and forms, which else senseless and shapeless were. The lightning is his slave; heaven's utmost deep Gives up her stars, and like a flock of sheep They pass before his eye, are number'd, and roll on ! The tempest is his steed, he strides the air; And the abyss shouts from her depth laid bare, Heaven, hast thou secrets? Man unveils me; I have none. Shelley. 210 . . He either fears his fate too much, That dares not put it to the touch, ... Montrose.* 211 Sacramentum Supremum YE that with me have fought and fail'd and fought may rest. Life is no life to him that dares not die, And death no death to him that dares to live. Draw near together; none be last or first; To the dead voices that are never dumb; 212* Henry Newbolt. Now, God be thank'd Who has match'd us with His hour, And caught our youth, and waken'd us from sleeping, With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpen'd power, To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping, |