Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/325

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Rejoice! rejoice to obey

In the great hour of life that men call Death

The beat that bids thee draw heroic breath,

Deep-throbbing till thy mortal heart be dumb

Come! . . . Come! . . . the time is come! Henry Newbolt

HE skippers and the mates, they know!

The men aloft or down below,

They've heard the news and still they go.

The merchant ships still jog along,

By Bay or Cape, an endless throng,

As endless as a seaman's song.

The humbler tramps aloft display

The English flag as on the day

When no one troubled such as they.

The lesser ships—barks, schooners, brigs—

A motley crowd of many rigs,

Go on their way like farmers' gigs.

Where Æolus himself has thrones

The big four-master Glasgow owns

Through Trades and Roaring Forties drones.

The lofty liners in their pride

Stem every current, every tide:

At anchor in all ports they ride.

They signal Gib., which looks and winks;

Grave Malta sees them as she thinks;

They pass old Egypt's ageless Sphinx.

Sokotra knows them; Zanzibar

Mirrors them in its oil; they are

Hove to for pilots near and far.