EARLY POEMS

Dead! art thou dead or sleepest, in this blank, twilight time,

When hearts are sere and pithless? Land of the sword and lyre!

Thy waxen lips are silent, thy brow is bound with rime,

Hast thou late wed with winter, child of earth's primal fire?

The sheathed blade rusts foully, through bitter, barren years,

And harp and pen are bond slaves, thralls to thy children's shame.

We garner cockle harvests, vain words and little fleers.

From waste lands sown with rancour, search them with proving flame!

We droop'd, stark sons of warfare, we blushed and slunk from day,

While Love and Truth and Honour died in mere fretful fume.

Free brain, free brawn, is given us, then sweep we from our way

These shamers of our mother, this idle, noisome spume.

For, lo! an army gathers around a standard clean;

I gird me dinted armour, and press to touch the throng.

Hark! Hark! The minstrels’ war-hymn in very strength serene,

My harp is harsh of utterance, yet take a pupil's song.

Then stout heart join our battle! who hail an eastern sun,

Our toil shall set this people upon earth's purest height.

Then faint heart join our battle! and if our sands be run,

At least we caoin a swan-lay upon the edge of night.