Kings have no such couch as thine, Wild words wander here and there; But let them rave. The balm-cricket carols clear In the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892] A DEAD MARCH PLAY me a march, low-toned and slow—a march for a silent tread, Fit for the wandering feet of one who dreams of the silent dead, Lonely, between the bones below and the souls that are overhead. Here for a while they smiled and sang, alive in the interspace, Here with the grass beneath the foot, and the stars above the face, Now are their feet beneath the grass, and whither has flown their grace? Who shall assure us whence they come, or tell us the way they go? Verily, life with them was joy, and, now they have left us, woe. Once they were not, and now they are not, and this is the sum we know. Orderly range the seasons due, and orderly roll the stars. How shall we deem the soldier brave who frets of his wounds and scars? Are we as senseless brutes that we should dash at the wellseen bars? A Dead March 3313 No, we are here, with feet unfixed, but ever as if with lead, Drawn from the orbs which shine above to the orb on which we tread, Down to the dust from which we came and with which we shall mingle dead. No, we are here to wait, and work, and strain our banished eyes, Weary and sick of soil and toil, and hungry and fain for skies, Far from the reach of wingless men, and not to be scaled with cries. No, we are here to bend our necks to the yoke of tyrant Time, Welcoming all the gifts he gives us-glories of youth and prime, Patiently watching them all depart as our heads grow white as rime. Why do we mourn the days that go-for the same sun shines each day, Ever a spring her primrose hath, and ever a May her may; Sweet as the rose that died last year is the rose that is born to-day. Do we not too return, we men, as ever the round earth whirls? Never a head is dimmed with gray but another is sunned with curls; She was a girl and he was a boy, but yet there are boys and girls. Ah, but alas for the smile of smiles that never but one face wore; Ah, for the voice that has flown away like a bird to an un seen shore; Ah, for the face—the flower of flowers—that blossoms on earth no more. Cosmo Monkhouse [1840-1901] TOMMY'S DEAD You may give over plow, boys, 'Tis cropped out, I trow, boys, Send the colt to fair, boys, He's going blind, as I said, My old eyes can't bear, boys, The cow's dry and spare, boys, Neither white nor red; There's no sign of grass, boys, You may sell the goat and the ass, boys, The land's not what it was, boys, And the beasts must be fed: You may turn Peg away, boys, You may pay off old Ned, We've had a dull day, boys, And Tommy's dead. Move my chair on the floor, boys, Let me turn my head: She's standing there in the door, boys, Your sister Winifred! Take her away from me, boys, Your sister Winifred! Move me round in my place, boys, Let me turn my head, Tommy's Dead Take her away from me, boys, But I see her looking at me, boys, And the lily as pale as she, boys, Outside and in The ground is cold to my tread, Wherever I turn my head The sun's going out overhead, And Tommy's dead. What am I staying for, boys? 3315 And she's gone before, boys, And Tommy's dead. She was always sweet, boys, Upon his curly head, She knew she'd never see't, boys, And she stole off to bed; I've been sitting up alone, boys, For he'd come home, he said, Put the shutters up, boys, Bring out the beer and bread, For my eyes are heavy as lead; There's something wrong i' the cup, boys, There's something ill wi' the bread, I don't care to sup, boys, And Tommy's dead. I'm not right, I doubt, boys, I've such a sleepy head, I shall never more be stout, boys, The prayers are all said, The stairs are too steep, boys, You may carry me to the head, The night's dark and deep, boys, 'Tis time to go to sleep, boys, I'm not used to kiss, boys, You may shake my hand instead. All things go amiss, boys, You may lay me where she is, boys, |