TO THE UNDYING MEMORY
OF RUPERT BROOKE, THE
ENGLISH HERO POET.
The ancient Isles of Greece recline
Beneath the fire of waning day,
The west is tinged with rich, red wine
Commingled with Egean spray;
o'er Scyros flash the crimson swords,
Concluding charms of day's brief book,
Soft breezes whisper sacred words,
And England dreams of Rupert BROOKE.
And golden thought transports the soul
To meditate o'er his last rest,
Within the ocean's changeless call
I stand, an awe inspiring guest;
"Some corner in a foreign field"
Shall ever bear the homeland look,
Not e'en the heartless mould dare yield,
Where lies the dust of Rupert BROOKE.
Comes now sweet twilight to impart,
A peaceful tale with mists of gray,
The ghostly forms of yester start
Once more to tread their patriot way;
And here in England hushed to rest
Each verdant hill, each sandy nook,
The homeland's monuments are best
Whose silence speaks of Rupert BROOKE.
They claimed him, did the Grecian
And laid him with glorious line,
Nor nobler band could he belong,
Amid their stars his star doth shine;
Yet throbs the all rememb'ring heart,
Where England pores o'er mem'ry's
Shall shine the name of Rupert BROOKE.
Chapel Brow, Workington.