--brilliant and kind and brave.
Under your country's triumphing flag you fell.
It floats, true Heart, over no dearer grave--
Brave and brilliant and kind, hail and farewell!

LAST POST

The day's high work is over and done,
And these no more will need the sun:
Blow, you bugles of _ENGLAND_, blow!
These are gone whither all must go,
Mightily gone from the field they won.
So in the workaday wear of battle,
Touched to glory with _GOD'S_ own red,
Bear we our chosen to their bed.
Settle them lovingly where they fell,
In that good lap they loved so well;
And, their deliveries to the dear _LORD_ said,
And the last desperate volleys ranged and sped,
Blow, you bugles of _ENGLAND_, blow
Over the camps of her beaten foe--
Blow glory and pity to the victor Mother,
Sad, O, sad in her sacrificial dead!

Labour, and love, and strife, and mirth,
They gave their part in this goodly Earth--
Blow, you bugles of _ENGLAND_, blow!--
That her Name as a sun among stars might glow,
Till the dusk of Time, with honour and worth:
That, stung by the lust and the pain of battle,
The One Race ever might starkly spread,
And the One Flag eagle it overhead!
In a rapture of wrath and faith and pride,
Thus they felt it, and thus they died;
So to the Maker of homes, to the Giver of bread,
For whose dear sake their triumphing souls they shed,
Blow, you bugles of _ENGLAND_, blow,
Though you break the heart of her beaten foe,
Glory and praise to the everlasting Mother,
Glory and peace to her lovely and faithful dead!

IN MEMORIAM
REGINAE DILECTISSIMAE VICTORIAE

(_May_ 24, 1819--_January_ 22, 1901)

_Sceptre and orb and crown_,
_High ensigns of a sovranty containing_
_The beauty and strength and state of half a World_,
_Pass from her_, _and she fades_
_Into the old_, _inviolable peace_.

I

She had been ours so long
She seemed a piece of _ENGLAND_: spirit and blood
And message _ENGLAND'S_ self,
Home-coloured, _ENGLAND_ in look and deed and dream;
Like the rich meadows and woods, the serene rivers,
And sea-charmed cliffs and beaches, that still bring
A rush of tender pride to the heart
That beats in _ENGLAND'S_ airs to _ENGLAND'S_ ends:
August, familiar, irremovable,
Like the good stars that shine
In the good skies that only _ENGLAND_ knows:
So that we held it sure
_GOD'S_ aim, _GOD'S_ will, _GOD'S_ way,
When Empire from her footstool, realm on realm,
Spread, even as from her notable womb
Sprang line on line of