"Thou pale King of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe,

Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave;

Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they

owe.

No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave."

369

That men of great courage are certain to recognize and pay tribute to courage in others, even if those others are their enemies, is the theme of "The Red Thread of Honor." Sir Francis Hastings Doyle (18101888) wrote two other stirring poems of action, "The Loss of the Birkenhead" and "The Private of the Buffs."

THE RED THREAD OF
HONOR

FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE

Eleven men of England

A breastwork charged in vain; Eleven men of England

Lie stripp'd, and gash'd, and slain.

Slain; but of foes that guarded

Their rock-built fortress well, Some twenty had been master'd, When the last soldier fell.

The robber-chief mused deeply, Above those daring dead; "Bring here," at length he shouted, "Bring quick, the battle thread. Let Eblis blast forever

Their souls, if Allah will: But we must keep unbroken The old rules of the Hill.

"Before the Ghiznee tiger

Leapt forth to burn and slay; Before the holy Prophet

Taught our grim tribes to pray; Before Secunder's lances

Pierced through each Indian glen;

The mountain laws of honor Were framed for fearless men.

"Still, when a chief dies bravely,

We bind with green one wristGreen for the brave, for heroes

One crimson thread we twist. Say ye, oh gallant Hillmen,

For these, whose life has fled, Which is the fitting color,

The green one, or the red?"

"Our brethren, laid in honor'd graves, may wear

Their green reward," each noble savage said;

"To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear,

Who dares deny the red?"

Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right,

Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came;

Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height

Rolled back its loud acclaim.

Once more the chief gazed keenly

Down on those daring dead;

From his good sword their heart's blood
Crept to that crimson thread.
Once more he cried, "The judgment,

Good friends, is wise and true,
But though the red be given,
Have we not more to do?

"These were not stirred by anger,
Nor yet by lust made bold;
Renown they thought above them,
Nor did they look for gold.
To them their leader's signal
Was as the voice of God:
Unmoved, and uncomplaining,
The path it showed they trod.

"As, without sound or struggle, The stars unhurrying march, Where Allah's finger guides them, Through yonder purple arch, These Franks, sublimely silent, Without a quickened breath, Went, in the strength of duty, Straight to their goal of death.

"If I were now to ask you,

To name our bravest man, Ye all at once would answer,

They call'd him Mehrab Khan. He sleeps among his fathers,

Dear to our native land,

With the bright mark he bled for Firm round his faithful hand.

"The songs they sing of Roostum
Fill all the past with light;
If truth be in their music,
He was a noble knight.
But were those heroes living,
And strong for battle still,
Would Mehrab Khan or Roostum

Have climbed, like these, the Hill?"

And they replied, "Though Mehrab Khan was brave,

As chief, he chose himself what risks

to run;

Prince Roostum lied, his forfeit life to save, Which these had never done."

"Enough!" he shouted fiercely;

"Doomed though they be to hell,
Bind fast the crimson trophy
Round BOTH wrists-bind it well.
Who knows but that great Allah

May grudge such matchless men,
With none so decked in heaven,
To the fiend's flaming den?"

Then all those gallant robbers
Shouted a stern "Amen!"

They raised the slaughter'd sergeant,
They raised his mangled ten.
And when we found their bodies

Left bleaching in the wind,
Around BOTH wrists in glory

That crimson thread was twined.

370

In the year 1897 a great diamond jubilee was held in England in honor of the completion of sixty years of rule by Queen Victoria. Many poems were written for the occasion, most of which praised the greatness of Britain, the extent of her dominion, the strength of her army and navy, and the abundance of her wealth. The "Recessional" was written for the occasion by Rudyard Kipling (1865—). It is in the form of a prayer, but its purpose was to tell the British that they were forgetting the "God of our fathers” and putting their trust in wealth and navies and the "reeking tube and iron shard" of the cannon. The poem rang through England like a bugle call and stirred the British people more deeply than any other poem of recent times.

RECESSIONAL

RUDYARD KIPLING

God of our fathers, known of old

Lord of our far flung battle-lineBeneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pineLord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget-lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting diesThe captains and the kings depart― Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice,

A humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget-lest we forget!

Far-called our navies sink away

On dune and headland sinks the fire—

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget-lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in

awe

Such boasting as the Gentiles use

Or lesser breeds without the law-
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard-
All valiant dust that builds on dust,

And guarding calls not Thee to guard-
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

371

William Ernest IIenley (1849-1903) was an English critic and journalist of great force and a poet whose verse is full of manliness and tenderness. His life was a constant and courageous struggle against disease. The spirit in which he faced conditions that would have conquered a weaker man breathes through the famous poem quoted below. Such a spirit is not confined to any particular stage of maturity as represented by years, and many young people will find themselves buoyed up in the face of difficulties by coming into touch with the unconquered and unconquerable voice in this poem. The last two lines in particular are often quoted.

INVICTUS

WILLIAM E. HENLEY

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud:

Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the

years Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

372

James Russell Lowell (1819-1891) is a poet of such high idealisms that many of his poems seem to form the natural heritage of youth. Among such are "The Vision of Sir Launfal," "The Present Crisis," "The Fatherland," and "Aladdin." "The Falcon" is not so well known as any of these, but its fine image for the seeker after truth should appeal to most children of upper grades. "The Shepherd of King Admetus" is a very attractive poetizing of an old myth (see No. 261) and lets us see something of how the public looks upon its poets and other artistic folk.

THE FALCON

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL I know a falcon swift and peerless As e'er was cradled in the pine; No bird had ever eye so fearless,

Or wing so strong as this of mine.

The winds not better love to pilot

A cloud with molten gold o'errun, Than him, a little burning islet,

A star above the coming sun.

For with a lark's heart he doth tower, By a glorious upward instinct drawn; No bee nestles deeper in the flower

Than he in the bursting rose of dawn.

No harmless dove, no bird that singeth,
Shudders to see him overhead;
The rush of his fierce swooping bringeth
To innocent hearts no thrill of dread.

Let fraud and wrong and baseness shiver,
For still between them and the sky
The falcon Truth hangs poised forever
And marks them with his vengeful eye.

373

THE SHEPHERD OF KING
ADMETUS

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
There came a youth upon the earth,

Some thousand years ago, Whose slender hands were nothing worth, Whether to plough, or reap, or sow.

Upon an empty tortoise-shell

He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men's bosoms swell Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.

Then King Admetus, one who had
Pure taste by right divine,
Decreed his singing not too bad
To hear between the cups of wine:

And so, well pleased with being soothed
Into a sweet half-sleep,

Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.

His words were simple words enough,

And yet he used them so,

That what in other mouths was rough
In his seemed musical and low.

Men called him but a shiftless youth,
In whom no good they saw;
And yet, unwittingly, in truth,
They made his careless words their law.

They knew not how he learned at all,
For idly, hour by hour,

He sat and watched the dead leaves fall,
Or mused upon a common flower.
It seemed the loveliness of things
Did teach him all their use,

For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs,

He found a healing power profuse.
Men granted that his speech was wise,
But, when a glance they caught
Of his slim grace and woman's eyes,
They laughed, and called him good-for-
naught.

Yet after he was dead and gone,

And e'en his memory dim,

Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, More full of love, because of him.

And day by day more holy grew

Each spot where he had trod,
Till after-poets only knew
Their first-born brother as a god.

374

Sir William S. Gilbert (1837-1911), an English dramatist, is known to us as the librettist of the popular Gilbert and Sullivan operas, The Mikado, Pinafore, etc. In his earlier days he wrote a book of humorous poetry called The Bab Ballads. Many of these still please readers who like a little nonsense now and then of a supremely ridiculous type. "The Yarn of the Nancy Bell" is a splendid take-off on "travelers' tales," and is not likely to deceive anyone. However, Gilbert said that when he sent the poem to Punch, the editor made objection to its extremely cannibalistic nature!

THE YARN OF THE
NANCY BELL

WILLIAM S. GILBERT

'T was on the shores that round our

coast

From Deal to Ramsgate span,

That I found alone on a piece of stone An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long, And weedy and long was he,

And I heard this wight on the shore recite,

In a singular minor key:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair, Till I really felt afraid,

For I could n't help thinking the man had been drinking,

And so I simply said:

"Oh, elderly man, it's little I know

Of the duties of men of the sea, And I'll eat my hand if I understand

However you can be

"At once a cook, and a captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig.'

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which

Is a trick all seamen larn,

And having got rid of a thumping quid, He spun this painful yarn:

""T was in the good ship Nancy Bell

That we sailed to the Indian Sea, And there on a reef we come to grief, Which has often occurred to me.

"And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned

(There was seventy-seven o' soul),

And only ten of the Nancy's men

Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll.

"There was me and the cook and the captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig, And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig.

"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,

Till a-hungry we did feel,

So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot
The captain for our meal.

"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,
And a delicate dish he made;
Then our appetite with the midshipmite
We seven survivors stayed.

"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,
And he much resembled pig;
Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,
On the crew of the captain's gig.

"Then only the cook and me was left,

And the delicate question, 'Which Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose,

And we argued it out as sich.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook he worshipped me; But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed

In the other chap's hold, you see.

"I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom;

'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,''I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I; And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.

"Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me Were a foolish thing to do; For don't you see that you can't cook me, While I can and will-cook you!'

"So he boils the water, and takes the salt And the pepper in portions true