Home  »  library  »  Song  »  Frank Taylor

C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Frank Taylor

Poems of the Great War: England’s Dead

  • (“Make them to be numbered with thy Saints: in glory everlasting.”)
  • (This poem was written about 1902, and was published in the Spectator of June 12th, 1915, having been found among the author’s papers by his executor.)

  • HOMEWARD the long ships leap; swift-shod with joy,

    Striding the deep sea-dykes fast home they fare,—

    Where is my wedded love? Where is my boy?

    Where go the dead that died for England, where?

    Homeward the long ships leap; but not with these

    Thy boy, thy wedded love, O gentle-eyed

    Woman of England, nor far over seas

    Mixing with dull earth sleep the dead that died

    For England. They, in God’s completed aims,

    Bear each his part; unseen of bounded sight,

    Down the vast firmament there floats and flames,

    Crested with stars and panoplied in light,

    Of strenuous clean souls a long array,

    With lambent lance and white, bright, blinding sword,

    All riding upon horses,—what are they?

    They are the dead which died in Christ their Lord

    For England, from old time; with God made one,

    As on the mount the triple vision shone,

    So shine they now, and like the noontide sun

    Before them all the fair Saint George rides on.

    There goes the boy of Créçy whispering low

    To him of Agincourt, a kingly pair,

    With many mighty men which bent the bow,—

    There go the dead that died for England, there;

    There go those quenchless Talbots, there the flower

    Of Devon, Grenville, Gilbert, mariners rare,

    She too who thought foul scorn of Philip’s power,—

    There go the dead that died for England, there;

    And Sidney who the rippling cup resigned,

    And happy Wolfe; wan Pitt released from care,

    Nelson the well-beloved and all his kind,—

    There go the dead that died for England, there;

    And he who brake the Corsican’s strong spell,

    And Nicholson, impatient of despair,

    And Gordon, faithful, desolate sentinel,—

    There go the dead that died for England, there;

    And there unhelmeted, ungirt of brand,

    Victoria moves with mild, maternal air,

    Still vigilant, still prayerful for the land,—

    There go the dead that died for England, there.

    Nor ride they idly nor with indolent rein,

    Irresolute, as men that seek no foe,

    But by the pathless sea, by peak and plain,

    Bright-eyed, stern-lipped, all day, all night, they go

    Forth as a fire that snatches and devours

    Wind-withered woods, so go they swift and fell,

    Warring with principalities and powers,

    Hunting through space the swart, old bands of Hell;

    And all the sounding causeways of the spheres

    Ring like white iron with the rhythmic tread

    Of these and their innumerable peers;

    But most round England muster England’s dead,

    Round England cradled in her roaring seas,

    With Arctic snows white-girdled, bathed in suns

    Asian and Australasian, there go these;

    And where one solitary trader runs

    His English keel, and where one lonely sword

    Glimmers for England, one unsleeping brain

    Watches and works for England, thitherward

    Gather the bright souls of her servants slain

    For her, and lock their shimmering ranks, and sweep

    Round England’s child as sweeps the northern gale

    Round some stark pine-tree on the moorland steep,

    And from the flash and rattle of their mail

    Hell’s pale marauders shudderingly recoil

    Frustrate. O glad condition and sublime

    Of our undying dead, to fight and foil

    The ancient foe, continually to climb

    Through God’s high order of His Saints, to meet

    Some soul whose star-like name lit all their course,

    And commune with him, to discern and greet

    Old kindred, love, and friendship, hound and horse;

    To see God face to face, and still to see

    And labor for the loves that grope on earth,

    To wait serenely till all souls shall be

    One in God’s aristocracy of worth,—

    O glad condition and sublime! whereto

    That southern tomb thy hands may never tend

    Was but the gateway thy loved boy passed through,

    Thy wedded love passed through, that he might wend

    Homeward to thee; thou can’st not see the blaze

    Of his great blade nor hear his trumpets blare,

    Yet thick as brown leaves round about thy ways,

    There go the dead that died for England, there.