Thanks to the gallant seven hundred—the
        kings of the East,
    Rulers of nations and tribesmen in number
        as sand,
Men who have felt the high call to the greatest
    That empire and honour shall stand—

Rajput and Gurkha and Sikh and the warrior
        Pathan
    —Sons of the hills and the plains who have
        longed for the day
When, to seal a long pact that the rule of the
        righteous began,
    They should stand by our side in the fray;

Treasure they bring us, they bring us the spear
        and the sword,
    Yea, but they give greater gifts—they give
        union and might,
—Sworn that the nation which vows and dis-
        honours its word
    Shall reel and sink back into night.        

(The European War 1914-1915 Poems, p. 92)

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At Service-Time

Friends! I a dead man laid upon this hill:
        If I could hear the great bell’s hollow sound
        Call to the town that Sabbath had come round,
Then feet move near, then silence deep, until
The anthem floated o’er me and the thrill
        Of that sweet blackbird touched me in my
            swound,
        I should leap forth with joyance from the ground
And join the congregation with good will.

For in this grave there is no voice of praise,
    No hint of melody, no hope of song;
        The heart is dust, lips dry, and ears are dull;
While yonder hills to which your eyes ye raise—
        Yon brimming river blue and beautiful,
    From height to depth man’s hymn of praise prolong.

(Sonnets in Switzerland and Italy, p. 129)

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All down the dark Vienna street,
    Through snow and blinding rain
The mourners go with tottering feet,
    A lamentable train.

With downcast heads, and trembling hands,
    Too weak to dig a grave;
They bear in melancholy bands
    The life they could not save.

Doomed city of a thousand ills;
    Repentant ah! too late!
Cursed by the tyrants’ cruel wills
    –Their lust of power, and hate.

There in these little coffins rest
    Thy hope of future years,
Starved at a mother’s milkless breast,
    And only fed with tears.

To pitiful earth let mercy give
    What pitiless earth has slain;
Though thousands died that these might live
    They fought and died in vain.

Dear Christ, for those Thy Innocents’ sake,
    Who died at Bethlehem,
Send help that tho’ sad hearts must break,
    Our hands may succour them.

(Carlisle Journal, 30 December 1919, p. 4)

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Far from the jostling market’s noisy tongue,
        Forth from the hold they cast their pearly store,
With salt in showers, and count, “One,” “Two,”
    “Three,” “Four,”
The gleaming fish from crate to cask are flung,
Alternate snow and silver; while, among
The multitudinous barrels piled on shore,
With chalk in hand, the deft-eyed merchants pore,
And packing hammers merrily are swung.
Then, as the hulls from out the painted tide
Rise, and the decks are cleansed from fishing stain,
The nets are folded and the ropes are coiled
Fit for the next night’s labour.  “God,” I cried,
“If those aboard Christ’s Ship of Truth so toiled,
We should not fish the deeps of man in vain.”

(Sonnets Round the Coast, p. 175)

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