Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/1096

 HENRY CUST

Not unto us, O Lord:

To us thou givest the scorn, the scourge, the scar,

The ache of life, the loneliness of death,

The insufferable sufficiency of breath;

And with Thy sword

Thou piercest very far.

Not unto us, O Lord:

Nay, Lord, but unto her be all things given

My light and life and earth and sky be blasted

But let not all that wealth of loss be wasted:

Let Hell afford

The pavement of her Heaven!

��SIR HENRY NEWBOLT

890 He jell among Thieves

1 an end,
 * X7 r E have robb'd,' said he, 'ye have slaughtered and made

Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead' What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?'

'Blood for our blood,' they said.

He laugh'd 'If one may settle the score for five, I am ready, but let the reckoning stand till day:

I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive.' 'You shall die at dawn,' said they.

He flung his empty revolver down the slope,

He climb'd alone to the Eastward edge of the trees;

All night long in a dream untroubled of hope He brooded, clasping his knees.

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