[456] He Fell Among Thieves

'Ye have robb'd,' said he, 'ye have slaughter'd and made an end,
Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead:

What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?'
'Blood for our blood,' they said.

He laugh'd: 'If one may settle the score for five,
I am ready; but let the reckoning stand til day:

I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive.'
'You shall die at dawn,' said they.

He flung his empty revolver down the slope,
He climb'd alone to the Eastward edge of the trees;

All night long in a dream untroubled of hope
He brooded, clasping his knees.

He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills
The ravine where the Yassin river sullenly flows;

He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills,
Or the far Afghan snows.

He saw the April noon on his books aglow,
The wistaria trailing in at the window wide;

He heard his father's voice from the terrace below
Calling him down to ride.

He saw the gray little church across the park,
The mounds that hid the loved and honour'd dead;

The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark,
The brasses black and red.

He saw the School Close, sunny and green,
The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall,

The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between,
His own name over all.

He saw the dark wainscot and timber'd roof,
The long tables, and the faces merry and keen;

The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof,
The Dons on the daïs serene.

He watch'd the liner's stem ploughing the foam,
He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw;

He heard the passengers' voices talking of home,
He saw the flag she flew.

And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet,
And strode to his ruin'd camp below the wood;

He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet:
His murderers round him stood.

Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast,
The blood-red snow-peaks chill'd to dazzling white;

He turn'd, and saw the golden circle at last,
Cut by the Eastern height.

'O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun,
I have lived, I praise and adore Thee.' A sword swept.

Over the pass the voices one by one
Faded, and the hill slept.

	  -- Sir Henry Newbolt

As a poet, Newbolt is very reminiscent of Kipling - he addresses many of the
same subjects, in a similar tone, and if he is not quite as overt a minstrel
of the Empire, its mindset nonetheless permeates his works. Of course, he
was far more minor a poet than Kipling was, and he can get annoying at
times, but he did also write a number of good poems (and one great one,
'Ireland, Ireland')

Today's poem is characteristic of that period - the protagonist laughing
lightly at his murderers, the code of honour that holds both the 'blood for
blood' and the willingness to let the victim live till dawn as natural, were
very much a part of the English view of 'things as they should be'. Also
very characteristic are the scenes that pass through his mind as he lives
his last night, and the fatalistic courage of a 'dream untroubled of hope'
(lovely phrase, too).

Without any overt appeal to the emotions, Newbolt does, I think, manage to
evoke a sense of sadness and of loss; the technique is by no means a new one
but he handles it effectively and without appearing cliched. All in all, one
of the good ones.

Addendum:

What prompted the 'Kipling' line of thought is the fact that today's poem
makes a very interesting companion to Kipling's "Heriot's Ford"
http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/kipling/heriots_ford.html

Links:

We've run one Newbolt poem in the past, the aforementioned 'Ireland,
Ireland': poem #41

Another vaguely related poem is Longfellow's 'The Slave's Dream',
http://www.home.gil.com.au/~ollier/v4page16.html

- martin

From: Suresh Ramasubramanian <suresh@>

On 15 Jun 2000, Martin Julian DeMello saw fit to inform me that:
> What prompted the 'Kipling' line of thought is the fact that today's
> poem makes a very interesting companion to Kipling's "Heriot's Ford"
> http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/kipling/heriots_ford.html 

This is great.  Prompted me to re-read the whole book - and here's 
my favorite poem from that lot -- Kipling was not all that much of an 
ardent anglophile if he believed this stuff ;)

Online at http://www.litrix.com/lfailed/

"The Ganges Pilot"

'I have slipped my cable, messmates, I'm drifting down with the tide, 
I have my sailing orders, while yet an anchor ride. 
And never on fair June morning have I put out to sea 
With clearer conscience or better hope, or a heart more light and free. 

'Shoulder to shoulder, Joe, my boy, into the crowd like a wedge 
Strike with the hangers, messmates, but do not cut with the edge. 
Cries Charnock, "Scatter the faggots, double that Brahmin in two, 
The tall pale widow for me, Joe, the little brown girl for you!" 

'Young Joe (you're nearing sixty), why is your hide so dark? 
Katie has soft fair blue eyes, who blackened yours?--Why, hark!' 

The morning gun--Ho, steady! the arquebuses to me! 
I ha' sounded the Dutch High Admiral's heart as my lead doth sound the sea. 

'Sounding, sounding the Ganges, floating down with the tide, 
Moore me close to Charnock, next to my nut-brown bride. 
My blessing to Kate at Fairlight--Holwell, my thanks to you; 
Steady! We steer for heaven, through sand-drifts cold and blue.' 


'
Suresh Ramasubramanian + suresh (@) kcircle.com
Friday@ + http://www.kcircle.com
    Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk.
    That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.
            -- Ernest Hemmingway 

From: "roy.eldridge" <roy.eldridge@>

I understand this poem immortalised Harold Mortimer - but who was he and
how did he inspire Sir Henry Newbolt to write it?

Lyn Eldridge

From: "johncevans" <johncevans@>

Always a favourite poem of mine - but why divided into 2 line stanzas ? I
have it as published in 1925 in 4 line verses and I think it makes more
sense like that.