Sir Henry Newbolt
Sir Henry Newbolt Poems
|1.||A Ballad Of John Nicholson||1/3/2003|
|2.||A Letter From The Front||1/3/2003|
|3.||A Song Of Exmoor||4/13/2010|
|7.||Among The Tombs||4/13/2010|
|8.||April On Waggon Hill||4/13/2010|
|10.||By The Hearth-Stone||4/13/2010|
|18.||Fidele's Grassy Tomb||4/13/2010|
|19.||For A Trafalgar Cenotaph||4/13/2010|
|20.||From Generation To Generation||4/13/2010|
|24.||He Fell Among Thieves||1/3/2003|
|26.||Hope The Hornblower||4/13/2010|
|33.||Master And Man||4/13/2010|
|37.||Nel Mezzo Del Cammin||4/13/2010|
|39.||On Spion Kop||4/13/2010|
Comments about Sir Henry Newbolt
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.