Sir Henry Newbolt
Sir Henry Newbolt Poems
|1.||The Building Of The Temple||4/13/2010|
|2.||The Sailing Of The Long-Ships||4/13/2010|
|3.||The Sufi In The City||4/13/2010|
|4.||When I Remember||4/13/2010|
|6.||The Grenadier's Good-Bye||4/13/2010|
|7.||The Only Son||4/13/2010|
|8.||The Quarter-Gunner's Yarn||4/13/2010|
|11.||Rondel - Ii||4/13/2010|
|12.||The Last Word||4/13/2010|
|13.||The Viking's Song||4/13/2010|
|14.||The Gay Gordons||4/13/2010|
|15.||The Old And Bold||4/13/2010|
|17.||The Death Of Admiral Blake||4/13/2010|
|18.||The School At War||4/13/2010|
|19.||Rondel - I||4/13/2010|
|21.||The Guides At Cabul||4/13/2010|
|24.||The King Of England||4/13/2010|
|31.||The Bright Medusa||4/13/2010|
|34.||Nel Mezzo Del Cammin||4/13/2010|
|36.||Pereunt Et Imputantur||4/13/2010|
|40.||On Spion Kop||4/13/2010|
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night—
Ten to make and the match to win—
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote
'Play up! play up! and play the game! '
The sand of the desert is sodden red,—
Red with the wreck of a square that broke; —
The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's ...
This is the Chapel: here, my son,
Your father thought the thoughts of youth,
And heard the words that one by one
The touch of Life has turn’d to truth.
Here in a day that is not far,
You too may speak with noble ghosts
Of manhood and the vows of war
You made before the Lord of Hosts.