II. EDITH CAVELL.
WHO died for love, we use to nourish hate:
Who was all tenderness, our hearts to harden;
And who of mercy had the high estate
By us escheated of her right of pardon.
III. THE LITTLE SLEEPER.
THIS little sleeper, who was overtaken
By death, as one child overtakes another,
Dreams by his side all night and will not waken
Till the dawn comes in heaven with his mother.
TO HIM WHOM THE CAP FITS.
“What sword is left?” sighs England. Answer her
(For you must answer) “This—Excalibur.”
I.
THAT is the sword of England. Arthur drew
The blade at that last battle when he failed,
(Shadow among the shadows, who prevailed
Victorious in disaster). Harold knew
Its point in his heart at Hastings, and it flew
Out of the scabbard when King Richard sailed
And did not reach Jerusalem. It wailed
In the false hand that on the scaffold slew
Charles, and proud Balliol saw the light on it
Shining for Ridley through the flame; was seen
When Mary, Queen of Scotland, was a queen
On earth no longer, and when William Pitt
“England! O how I leave thee,” failing cried,
The sword, the sword, was with him when he died.
II.
THE line at Mons were privy to the blade,
When God and England seemed together lost,
And riding by the far Pacific coast
Admiral Cradock took its accolade.
These are its victories—to be afraid,
To hear thin bugles sounding “The Last Post,”
Until the blood creeps noiseless as a ghost
And cold, and all we cherished is betrayed.
That is the sword’s way. Those who lose shall have;
And only those who in defeat have known
The bitterness of death, and stood alone
In darkness, shall have worship in the grave.
Swordsman, go into battle, and record
How one more English knight has found his sword!