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842.

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY

Invictus

1849-1903

843.

OUT

UT of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbow'd.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

A

Margarita Sorori

LATE lark twitters from the quiet skies:

And from the west,

Where the sun, his day's work ended,

Lingers as in content,

There falls on the old, gray city

An influence luminous and serene,
A shining peace.

The smoke ascends

In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires
Shine and are changed. In the valley
Shadows rise. The lark sings on.
Closing his benediction,

Sinks, and the darkening air

The sun,

Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night

Night with her train of stars

And her great gift of sleep.

So be my passing!

My task accomplish'd and the long day done,
My wages taken, and in my heart

Some late lark singing,

Let me be gather'd to the quiet west,
The sundown splendid and serene,
Death.

844.

England, My England

WHAT have I done for you,

England, my England?

What is there I would not do,
England, my own?

With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear

As the Song on your bugles blown,
England-

Round the world on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful sun,
England, my England,

Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?

When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men

As come forward, one to ten,

To the Song on your bugles blown,
England-

Down the years on your bugles blown?

Ever the faith endures,

England, my England :—

'Take and break us: we are yours,

England, my own!

Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England-

To the stars on your bugles blown!'

They call you proud and hard,

England, my England:

You with worlds to watch and ward,

England, my own!

You whose mail'd hand keeps the keys

Of such teeming destinies,

You could know nor dread nor ease

Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,

Round the Pit on your bugles blown !

Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,

Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown,
England-

Out of heaven on your bugles blown!

845.

EDMUND GOSSE

Revelation

b. 1849

NTO the silver night

INTO

She brought with her pale hand

The topaz lanthorn-light,

And darted splendour o'er the land;

Around her in a band,

Ringstraked and pied, the great soft moths came flying.
And flapping with their mad wings, fann'd
The flickering flame, ascending, falling, dying.

Behind the thorny pink

Close wall of blossom'd may,

I gazed thro' one green chink

And saw no more than thousands may,-
Saw sweetness, tender and gay,—

Saw full rose lips as rounded as the cherry,
Saw braided locks more dark than bay,
And flashing eyes decorous, pure, and merry.

With food for furry friends

She pass'd, her lamp and she,
Till eaves and gable-ends

Hid all that saffron sheen from me:

Around my rosy tree

Once more the silver-starry night was shining,
With depths of heaven, dewy and free,
And crystals of a carven moon declining.

Alas! for him who dwells

In frigid air of thought,
When warmer light dispels

The frozen calm his spirit sought;

By life too lately taught

He sees the ecstatic Human from him stealing;
Reels from the joy experience brought,

And dares not clutch what Love was half revealing.

I

846.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Romance

1850-1894

WILL make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.

I will make a palace fit for you and me,

Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom, And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

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