Robert Ernest Vernede

Robert Ernest Vernede Poems

Robert Ernest Vernede Biography

Robert Ernest Vernède (1875 - April 9, 1917) was an English poet and writer, now remembered as a war poet. He was born in London, and educated at St Paul's School and at St John's College, Oxford. After graduating, he wrote novels and short stories. He enlisted with the British Army as a second lieutenant in the 3rd Batt. Rifle Brigade in 1914 four years over-age. He served in France in World War I where he was wounded in 1916 in the Battle of the Somme. He returned to the front, but died after being wounded by machine gun fire while leading an advance at Havrincourt. He was buried at Le Bucquiere Communal Cemetery Extension. His War Poems, And Other Verses was published in 1917 by William Heinemann.)

The Best Poem Of Robert Ernest Vernede

The Call

Lad, with the merry smile and the eyes
Quick as a hawk's and clear as the day,
You, who have counted the game the prize,
Here is the game of games to play.
Never a goal -- the captains say --
Matches the one that's needed now:
Put the old blazer and cap away --
England's colours await your brow.

Man, with the square-set jaws and chin,
Always, it seems, you have moved to your end
Sure of yourself, intent to win
Fame and wealth and the power to bend --
All that you've made you're called to spend,
All that you've sought you're asked to miss --
What's ambition compared with this
That a man lay down his life for his friend?

Dreamer, oft in your glancing mind
Brave with drinking the faerie brew,
You have smitten the ogres blind
When the fair Princess cried out to you.
Dreamer, what if your dreams are true?
Yonder's a bayonet, magical, since
Him whom it strikes, the blade sinks through --
Take it and strike for England, Prince!

Friend with the face so hard and worn,
The Devil and you have sometime met,
And now you curse the day you were born,
And want one boon of God -- to forget.
Ah, but I know, and yet -- and yet --
I think, out there in the shrapnel spray,
You shall stand up and not regret
The Life that gave so splendid a day.

Lover of ease, you've lolled and forgot
All the things that you meant to right;
Life has been soft for you, has it not?
What offer does England make to-night?
This -- to toil and to march and to fight
As never you've dreamed since your life began;
This -- to carry the steel-swept height,
This -- to know that you've played the man!

Brothers, brothers, the time is short,
Nor soon again shall it so betide
That a man may pass from the common sort
Sudden and stand by the heroes' side.
Are there some that being named yet bide? --
Hark once more to the clarion call --
Sounded by him who deathless died --
'This day England expects you all.'

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