Classic Poem

I

When I have reckoned all thy passing meant—
 The loss to earth of music and of dream,
 Of smiles and laughter, that out-welling stream
Of thought and fancy, so divinely blent
With a sweet sympathy and pure intent
 Of goodness, yea, those frailties ev'n, which seem
 Like virtues—Rare Musician, then, I deem
Thyself wast earth's most perfect instrument.
Thou hadst a tone for every touch of Life,
 His variant moods a variant music woke:
Now the bold treble of the marching fife,
  The ethereal flute, the banjo's merry din,
 Now through the organ's troubled brooding spoke
  The deep soul-passion of the violin.

II

I thought to-day, how, long and long ago,
 Upon the beach at Santa Barbara,
 And in the marble moon-washed pergola,
And up the canyon pathways treading slow,
We talked of England; and in words aglow
 With the strange magic of that mighty name
 Planned how, as pilgrims to the shrine of fame,
To our loved poets' England we would go.
Ah! happy dream! but you will never stray
 On Wordsworth's hills, listen to Shelley's lark;
And I, who thought no sterner part to play
 Than pupil-idler, go with naked sword—
 Cry: “Take and use!”—to England grim and stark,
 Holding the pass 'gainst a barbarian horde.

III

If to those ambient regions penetrate
 News of this planet, rumour of its wars:
 How that the brazen monster stamps and gores
The great-souled little peoples, in mad hate
Of Liberty—O Thou, her novice late,
 Full well I know thy generous spirit adores
 Her warriors, and a benediction pours
On all to her high service consecrate.
Therefore I take thee with me: come what may
 Thou shalt share all: our spirits hand in hand
 Will take the primrose-path our springtime planned,
In spite of storm-washed furrows; if it lead
To the grim press of battle, on that day
Thou too wilt strike for England in her need.