THE DREAMER
O thou who giving helm and sword,
Gav'st, too, the rusting rain,
And starry dark's all tender dews
To blunt and stain:
Out of the battle I am sped,
Unharmed, yet stricken sore;
A living shape 'mid whispering shades
On Lethe's shore.
No trophy in my hands I bring,
To this sad, sighing stream,
The neighings and the trumps and cries
Were but a dream—a dream.
Traitor to life, of life betrayed—
O, of thy mercy deep,
A dream my all, the all I ask
Is sleep.
HAPPY ENGLAND
Now each man's mind all Europe is:
Boding and fear in dread array
Daze every heart: O grave and wise,
Abide in hope the judgment day.
This war of millions in arms
In myriad replica we wage;
Unmoved, then, Soul, by earth's alarms
The dangers of the dark engage.
Remember happy England: keep
For her bright cause thy latest breath;
Her peace that long hath lulled to sleep,
May now exact the sleep of death.
Her woods and wilds, her loveliness,
With harvest now are richly at rest;
Safe in her isled securities,
Thy children's heaven is her breast.