Courage

An ancient cannon, finely cast.
Of bronze, all smooth and green with age,
A by-gone actor on the stage,
Yet fit to take, as in the past
A role in war, and be the last
Dread argument of kings!

The daisies grew around, and brought
The homage of young spring to praise
This stately relic of old days,
When France with Spain for mastery fought;
And Philip over England sought
To spread the Papal wings.

Initialed with King Francis' name,
With Gallic lilies sculptured o'er,
Above the vent the metal bore
A Salamander crowned, in flame;
The massive breech could even claim
A sheath of lotos bloom.

This goodly weapon, forged where Seine
By Fontainebleau and Paris flows,
And many a painted Palace shows
These emblems of the Valois' ...

Our Poet, who has taught the Western breeze
To waft his songs before him o'er the seas,
Will find them wheresoe'er his wanderings reach
Borne on the spreading tide of English speech
Twin with the rhythmic waves that kiss the farthest beach.

Where shall the singing bird a stranger be
That finds a nest for him in every tree?
How shall he travel who can never go
Where his own voice the echoes do not know,
Where his own garden flowers no longer learn to grow?

Ah! gentlest soul! how gracious, how benign
Breathes through our troubled life that voice of thine,
Filled with a sweetness born of happier spheres,
That wins and warms, that kindles, softens, cheers,
That calms the wildest woe and stays the bitterest tears!

Forgive the simple words that sound li...

"I am a boxer, who does not inflict blows on the air, but I hit hard and straight at my own body." -- 1 Cor. ix. 26 (WEYMOUTH'S Translation).

'T'was breakfast time, and outside in the street
The factory men went by with hurrying feet.
And on the bridge, in dim December light,
The newsboys shouted of the great prize fight.
Then, as I dished the bacon, and served out
The porridge, all our youngsters gave a shout.
The letter-box had clicked, and through the din
The Picture News was suddenly pushed in.

John showed the lads the pictures, and explained
Just how the fight took place, and what was gained
By that slim winner. Then, he looked at me
As I sat, busy, pouring out the tea:
"Your mother is a boxer, rightly styled.
She hits the air sometimes, though," and Jo...

Not with a flash that rends the blue
    Shall fall the avenging sword.
Gently as the evening dew
    Descends the mighty Lord.

His dreadful balances are made
    To move with moon and tide;
Yet shall not mercy be afraid
    Nor justice be denied.

The dreams that seemed to waste away,
    The kindliness forgot,
Were singing in your heart today
    Although you knew them not.

The sun shall not forget his road,
    Nor the high stars their rhyme,
The traveller with the heavier load
    Has one less hill to climb.

And, though a darker shadow fall
    On every struggling age,
How shall it be if, after all,
    He share our pilgrimage?

The end we mourn is not the end.
    The dust has nimble wings.
But tru...

A child saw in the morning skies
The dissipated-looking moon,
And opened wide her big blue eyes,
And cried: "Look, look, my lost balloon!"
And clapped her rosy hands with glee:
"Quick, mother! Bring it back to me."

A poet in a lilied pond
Espied the moon's reflected charms,
And ravished by that beauty blonde,
Leapt out to clasp her in his arms.
And as he'd never learnt to swim,
Poor fool! that was the end of him.

A rustic glimpsed amid the trees
The bluff moon caught as in a snare.
"They say it do be made of cheese,"
Said Giles, "and that a chap bides there. . . .
That Blue Boar ale be strong, I vow -
The lad's a-winkin' at me now."

Two lovers watched the new moon hold
The old moon in her bright embrace.
Said she: "There's...

Child of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream
Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest
Is come, and thou art silent in thy age;
Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught
Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs.
Oh! there is life that breathes not; Powers there are
That touch each other to the quick in modes
Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,
No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care
Cast off, abandoned by thy rugged Sire,
Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in place
And in dimension, such that thou might'st seem
But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord,
Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills
Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm;)
Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims
To reverence, suspends his own; submittin...

‘I’m off on the wallaby!’ cries Old Ben,
And his pipe is lit, and his swag is rolled;
‘There is nothing here for us old-time men,
But up north, I hear, they are on the gold.’
And he shuffles off with a feeble stride,
With his ragged swag and his billy black.
He is making tracks for the other side,
O’er the river deep, or the Great Divide;
But at night, dead beat, he travels back.

Then at morn next day he is off again,
With an eager light in his aged eyes,
Tramping away on his journey vain
For the land of promise beyond the rise.
Over the range there is work to do,
There is roaring life at the shanty bars.
He will tramp the plains whilst the skies are blue,
And will wander the great wide bushland through,
And be soothed to sleep by the blinking stars...

And shall the Patriot who maintain'd your cause,
From future ages only meet applause?
Shall he, who timely rose t'his country's aid,
By her own sons, her guardians, be betray'd?
Did heathen virtues in your hearts reside,
These wretches had been damn'd for parricide.
    Should you behold, whilst dreadful armies threat
The sure destruction of an injured state,
Some hero, with superior virtue bless'd,
Avert their rage, and succour the distress'd;
Inspired with love of glorious liberty,
Do wonders to preserve his country free;
He like the guardian shepherd stands, and they
Like lions spoil'd of their expected prey,
Each urging in his rage the deadly dart,
Resolved to pierce the generous hero's heart;
Struck with the sight, your souls would swell with grief,
...

Time looked me in the eyes while passing by
The milestone of the year.    That piercing gaze
Was both an accusation and reproach.
No speech was needed.    In a sorrowing look
More meaning lies than in complaining words,
And silence hurts as keenly as reproof.

Oh, opulent, kind giver of rich hours,
How have I used thy benefits!    As babes
Unstring a necklace, laughing at the sound
Of priceless jewels dropping one by one,
So have I laughed while precious moments rolled
Into the hidden corners of the past.
And I have let large opportunities
For high endeavour move unheeded by,
While little joys and cares absorbed my strength.

And yet, dear Time, set to my credit this:
NOT ONE WHITE HOUR HAVE I MADE BLACK WITH HATE,
NOR WISHED ONE LIVING CREATURE...

There was a moment when of you
A splendid hope I had to tell,
Believing "Here is one man who
Will serve our waiting country well."

I saw you sedulous and keen,
I heard the burning words you spoke.
It seemed that you were hard and clean,
And rapier sharp your every stroke.

Then came success, and in a night
An impish thing you stood apart,
All empty-handed for the fight,
With worse, alas! an empty heart.

Success had spoiled you, said your friends,
It was not so, for naught was there
To spoil but means to petty ends.
At last men saw you bleak and bare.

In those who give you grudging aid
These days, may we the spirits see
Who for the love of men would raid
The strongholds of iniquity?

Are these the heroes high and ...

What does our country need? Not armies standing
    With sabres gleaming ready for the fight.
Not increased navies, skillful and commanding,
    To bound the waters with an iron might.
Not haughty men with glutted purses trying
    To purchase souls, and keep the power of place.
Not jeweled dolls with one another vieing
    For palms of beauty, elegance and grace.

But we want women, strong of soul, yet lowly,
    With that rare meekness, born of gentleness,
Women whose lives are pure and clean and holy,
    The women whom all little children bless.
Brave, earnest women, helpful to each other,
    With finest scorn for all things low and mean.
Women who hold the names of wife and mother,
    Far nobler than the title of a Queen.

O these are they who...