High o'er the mountain-steep
Our wingèd fleets shall sail,
The serried squadrons sweep,
White-pinioned down the gale.
We are the lords of the land,
We built us towns and towers,
The sea has felt our hand—
Soon shall the sky be ours.
THE DEFEATED
Cheer if you will the brave deed done, with laurels the victor crown,
But keep one leaf of your wreath of bay for the men who lost and are
down—
For the fight in vain, for the cankered grain that in blood and tears
was sown.
Honour the strong of heart and hand, the sure of will and of sight,
But what of the stumbling feet, the eyes that strain in vain for light?
Is there no gain for the tears and pain of the men who fell in the fight?
Beaten—baffled—with standards lost—knowing no rallying cry,
Struggling still, but with failing strength, while stronger men
pass by:—
Keep ye your bays; I give my praise to the men who lose and die.
THE GENTLEMEN OF OXFORD
The sunny streets of Oxford
Are lying still and bare,
No sound of voice or laughter
Rings through the golden air;
And, chiming from her belfry,
No longer Christchurch calls
The eager, boyish faces
To gather in her halls.