Poems of the Past and the Present

HERE, where Vespasian's legions struck the sands,And Cerdic with his Saxons entered in,And Henry's army leapt afloat to winConvincing triumphs over neighbour lands,Vaster battalions press for further strands,To argue in the self-same bloody modeWhich this late age of thought, and pact, and code,Still fails to mend.-Now deckward tramp the bands,Yellow as autumn leaves, alive as spring;And as each host draws out upon the seaBeyond which lies the tragical To-be,None dubious of the cause, none murmuring,Wives, sisters, parents, wave white hands and smile,As if they knew not that they weep the while.WHILE the far farewell music thins and fails,And the broad bottoms rip the bearing brine-All smalling slowly to the gray sea line-And each significant red smoke-shaft pales,Keen sense of severance everywhere prevails,Which shapes the late long tramp of mounting menTo seeming words that ask and ask again:"How long, O striving Teutons, Slavs, and GaelsMust your wroth reasonings trade on lives like these,That are as puppets in a playing hand?-When shall the saner softer politiesWhereof we dream, have play in each proud land,And patriotism, grown Godlike, scorn to standBondslave to realms, but circle earth and seas?"