Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.
CommemorationSir Henry John Newbolt (18621938)
I
Where the sunlight fell of old,
And the hour was the hour my heart remember’d well,
And the sermon roll’d and roll’d
As it used to roll when the place was still unhaunted,
And the strangest tale in the world was still untold.
That I so clearly heard,
The green young forest of saplings cluster’d round
Was heeding not one word:
Their heads were bow’d in a still serried patience
Such as an angel’s breath could never have stirr’d.
Or lining the parapet wall,
And some were in glorious battle, or great and rich,
Or throned in a college hall:
And among the rest was one like my own young phantom,
Dreaming for ever beyond my utmost call.
Thy life is thine alone;
Thou bearest the will of the ages, seeing how
They built thee bone by bone,
And within thy blood the Great Age sleeps sepulchred
Till thou and thine shall roll away the stone.
With passion whitely hot;
Rest shall be rest no more; thy feet shall spurn
All that thy hand hath got;
And One that is stronger shall gird thee, and lead thee swiftly
Whither, O heart of Youth, thou wouldest not.’
Set in their seats again,
And I long’d to hear them speak of the word that was said,
But I knew that I long’d in vain.
And they stretch’d forth their hands, and the wind of the spirit took them
Lightly as drifted leaves on an endless plain.