14

FOUNDER'S DAY. A SECULAR ODE
ON THE NINTH JUBILEE OF
ETON COLLEGE

CHRIST and his Mother, heavenly maid,
Mary, in whose fair name was laid
Eton's corner, bless our youth

With truth, and purity, mother of truth!

O ye, 'neath breezy skies of June,

By silver Thames's lulling tune,
In shade of willow or oak, who try
The golden gates of poesy;

Or on the tabled sward all day
Match your strength in England's play,
Scholars of Henry, giving grace
To toil and force in game or race;

Exceed the prayer and keep the fame
Of him, the sorrowful king, who came
Here in his realm a realm to found,
Where he might stand for ever crowned.

Or whether with naked bodies flashing
Ye plunge in the lashing weir; or dashing
The oars of cedar skiffs, ye strain
Round the rushes and home again ;—

Or what pursuit soe'er it be

That makes your mingled presence free,
When by the schoolgate 'neath the limes
Ye muster waiting the lazy chimes ;

May Peace, that conquereth sin and death,
Temper for you her sword of faith;
Crown with honour the loving eyes,

And touch with mirth the mouth of the wise.

Here is eternal spring: for you
The very stars of heaven are new ;
And aged Fame again is born,
Fresh as a peeping flower of morn.

For you shall Shakespeare's scene unroll,
Mozart shall steal your ravished soul,
Homer his bardic hymn rehearse,

Virgil recite his maiden verse.

Now learn, love, have, do, be the best;
Each in one thing excel the rest :

Strive; and hold fast this truth of heaven

To him that hath shall more be given.

Slow on your dial the shadows creep,

So many hours for food and sleep,

So many hours till study tire,

So many hours for heart's desire.

These suns and moons shall memory save,

Mirrors bright for her magic cave;
Wherein may steadfast eyes behold
A self that groweth never old.

O in such prime enjoy your lot,
And when ye leave regret it not;
With wishing gifts in festal state
Pass ye the angel-sworded gate.

Then to the world let shine your light, Children in play be lions in fight,

And match with red immortal deeds
The victory that made ring the meads:

Or by firm wisdom save your land
From giddy head and grasping hand:
IMPROVE THE BEST; so shall your sons
Better what ye have bettered once.

Send them here to the court of grace
Bearing your name to fill your place :
Ye in their time shall live again
The happy dream of Henry's reign:

And on his day your steps be bent

Where, saint and king, crowned with content,
He biddeth a prayer to bless his youth
With truth, and purity, mother of truth.

15

THE north wind came up yesternight
With the new year's full moon,
And rising as she gained her height,
Grew to a tempest soon.

Yet found he not on heaven's face
A task of cloud to clear;

There was no speck that he might chase

Off the blue hemisphere,

Nor vapour from the land to drive:

The frost-bound country held

Nought motionable or alive,

That 'gainst his wrath rebelled.

There scarce was hanging in the wood

A shrivelled leaf to reave ;

No bud had burst its swathing hood
That he could rend or grieve:
Only the tall tree-skeletons,

Where they were shadowed all,
Wavered a little on the stones,

And on the white church-wall.

-Like as an artist in his mood,
Who reckons all as nought,
So he may quickly paint his nude,
Unutterable thought:

So Nature in a frenzied hour
By day or night will show
Dim indications of the power
That doometh man to woe.
Ah, many have my visions been,
And some I know full well :
I would that all that I have seen
Were fit for speech to tell.—

And by the churchyard as I came,
It seemed my spirit passed
Into a land that hath no name,
Grey, melancholy and vast;
Where nothing comes: but Memory,
The widowed queen of Death,
Reigns, and with fixed, sepulchral eye
All slumber banisheth.

Each grain of writhen dust, that drapes
That sickly, staring shore,

Its old chaotic change of shapes

Remembers evermore.

And ghosts of cities long decayed

And ruined shrines of Fate

Gather the paths, that Time hath made Foolish and desolate.

Nor winter there hath hope of spring,
Nor the pale night of day,

Since the old king with scorpion sting
Hath done himself away.

*

The morn was calm; the wind's last breath
Had fal'n in solemn hush

The golden moon went down beneath
The dawning's crimson flush.

16

NORTH WIND IN OCTOBER

In the golden glade the chestnuts are fallen all; From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall: The beech scatters her ruddy fire;

The lime hath stripped to the cold,

And standeth naked above her yellow attire:
The larch thinneth her spire

To lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold.

Out of the golden-green and white

Of the brake the fir-trees stand upright
In the forest of flame, and wave aloft

To the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft.

But swiftly in shuddering gloom the splendours fail, As the harrying North-wind beareth

A cloud of skirmishing hail

The grieved woodland to smite:

In a hurricane through the trees he teareth,

Raking the boughs and the leaves rending,

And whistleth to the descending

Blows of his icy flail.

Gold and snow he mixetn in spite,

And whirleth afar; as away on his winnowing flight

He passeth, and all again for awhile is bright.