Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/345

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The captains rare,

Courteous and brave beyond our human air;

Those who had loved and suffered overmuch,

Now free from the world's touch.

And with them were the friends of yesterday,

Who went before and pointed you the way;

And in that place of freshness, light and rest,

Where Lancelot and Tristram vigil keep

Over their King's long sleep,

Surely they made a place for you,

Their long-expected guest,

Among the chosen few,

And welcomed you, their brother and their friend,

To that companionship which hath no end.

And in the portals of the sacred hall

You hear the trumpet's call,

At dawn upon the silvery battlement,

Re-echo through the deep

And bid the sons of God to rise from sleep,

And with a shout to hail

The sunrise on the city of the Grail:

The music that proud Lucifer in Hell

Missed more than all the joys that he forewent.

You hear the solemn bell

At vespers, when the oriflammes are furled;

And then you know that somewhere in the world,

That shines far-off beneath you like a gem,

They think of you, and when you think of them

You know that they will wipe away their tears,

And cast aside their fears;

That they will have it so,

And in no otherwise;

That it is well with them because they know,

With faithful eyes,

Fixed forward and turned upwards to the skies,

That it is well with you,

Among the chosen few,

Among the very brave, the very true. Maurice Baring