Beyond the book his teaching sped, He left on whom he taught the trace Of kinship with the deathless dead, And faith in all the Island Race. He passed: his life a tangle seemed, His age from fame and power was far; But his heart was night to the end, and dreamed Of the sound and splendour of England's war.
Among a race high-handed, strong of heart, Sea-rovers, conquerors, builders in the waste, He had his birth; a nature too complete, Eager and doubtful, no man's soldier sworn And no man's chosen captain; born to fail, A name without an echo: yet he too Within the cloister of his narrow days Fulfilled the ancestral rites, and kept alive The eternal fire; it may be, not in vain; For out of those who dropped a downward glance Upon the weakling huddled at his prayers, Perchance some looked beyond him, and then first Beheld the glory, and what shrine it filled, And to what Spirit sacred: or perchance Some heard him chanting, though but to himself, The old heroic names: and went their way: And hummed his music on the march to death.
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 turned 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.
To set the cause above renown, To love the game beyond the prize, To honour, while you strike him down, The foe that comes with fearless eyes; To count the life of battle good, And dear the land that gave you birth, And dearer yet the brotherhood That binds the brave of all the earth---
My son, the oath is yours: the end Is His, Who built the world of strife, Who gave His children Pain for friend, And Death for surest hope of life. To-day and here the fight's begun, Of the great fellowship you're free; Henceforth the School and you are one, And what You are, the race shall be.
God send you fortune: yet be sure, Among the lights that gleam and pass, You'll live to follow none more pure Than that which glows on yonder brass: "Qui procul hinc," the legend's writ,--- The frontier-grave is far away--- "Qui ante diem periit: Sed miles, sed pro patriâ."
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!"