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    Last Poems: Translations from the Book of Indian Love
    Last Poems: Translations from the Book of Indian Love
    Last Poems: Translations from the Book of Indian Love
    Ebook94 pages55 minutes

    Last Poems: Translations from the Book of Indian Love

    By Laurence Hope

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    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateDec 1, 2004
    Last Poems: Translations from the Book of Indian Love

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      Book preview

      Last Poems - Laurence Hope

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Last Poems, by Laurence Hope

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      **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

      **eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

      *****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****

      Title: Last Poems

      Author: Laurence Hope

      Release Date: February, 2004 [EBook #5125] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on May 5, 2002]

      Edition: 10

      Language: English

      *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, LAST POEMS ***

      This eBook was produced by Gordon Keener.

      Last Poems

      Translations from the Book of Indian Love

      Laurence Hope [Adela Florence Cory Violet Nicolson]

      Dedication to Malcolm Nicolson

      I, who of lighter love wrote many a verse,

           Made public never words inspired by thee,

      Lest strangers' lips should carelessly rehearse

           Things that were sacred and too dear to me.

      Thy soul was noble; through these fifteen years

           Mine eyes familiar, found no fleck nor flaw,

      Stern to thyself, thy comrades' faults and fears

           Proved generously thine only law.

      Small joy was I to thee; before we met

           Sorrow had left thee all too sad to save.

      Useless my love—as vain as this regret

           That pours my hopeless life across thy grave.

      L. H.

      The Masters

      Oh, Masters, you who rule the world,

           Will you not wait with me awhile,

      When swords are sheathed and sails are furled,

           And all the fields with harvest smile?

      I would not waste your time for long,

           I ask you but, when you are tired,

      To read how by the weak, the strong

           Are weighed and worshipped and desired.

      When weary of the Mart, the Loom,

           The Withering-house, the Riffle-blocks,

      The Barrack-square, the Engine-room,

           The pick-axe, ringing on the rocks,—

      When tents are pitched and work is done,

           While restful twilight broods above,

      By fresh-lit lamp, or dying sun,

           See in my songs how women love.

      We shared your lonely watch by night,

           We knew you faithful at the helm,

      Our thoughts went with you through the fight,

           That saved a soul,—or wrecked a realm

      Ah, how our hearts leapt forth to you,

           In pride and joy, when you prevailed,

      And when you died, serene and true:

           —We wept in silence when you failed!

                Oh, brain that did not gain the gold!

                     Oh, arm, that could not wield the sword,

                Here is the love, that is not sold,

                     Here are the hearts to hail you Lord!

      You played and lost the game? What then?

           The rules are harsh and hard we know,

      You, still, Oh, brothers, are the men

           Whom we in secret reverence so.

      Your work was waste? Maybe your share

           Lay in the hour you laughed and kissed;

      Who knows but what your son shall wear

           The laurels that his father missed?

      Ay, you who win, and you who lose,

           Whether you triumph,—or despair,—

      When your returning footsteps choose

           The homeward track, our love is there.

      For, since the world is ordered thus,

           To you the fame, the stress, the sword,

      We can but wait, until to us

           You give yourselves, for our reward.

      To Whaler's deck and Coral beach,

           To lonely Ranch and Frontier-Fort,

      Beyond the narrow bounds of speech

           I lay the cable of my thought.

      I fain would send my thanks to you,

           (Though who am I, to give you praise?)

      Since what you are, and work you do,

           Are lessons for our easier ways.

                'Neath alien stars your camp-fires glow,

                     I know you not,—your tents are far.

                My hope is but in song to show,

                     How honoured and dear you are.

      I Shall Forget

      Although my life, which thou hast scarred and shaken,

           Retains awhile some influence of thee,

      As shells, by faithless waves long since forsaken,

           Still murmur with the music of the Sea,

      I shall forget. Not thine the haunting beauty,

           Which, once beheld, for ever holds the heart,

      Or, if resigned from stress of Fate or Duty,

           Takes

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