[1232] The Best School of All

Guest poem sent in by Mallika Chellappa <mchellappa@>, as a
followup to the recent school poems:

It's good to see the school we knew,
    the land of youth and dream.
To greet again the rule we knew,
    before we took the stream.
Though long we've missed the sight of her,
    Out hearts may not forget:
We've lost the old delight of her,
    We keep her honour yet.

  Chorus:
  We'll honour yet the school we knew
      The best school of all
  We'll honour yet the rule we knew
      Till the last bell call
  For working days or holidays
      And glad or melancholy days
  They were great days and jolly days
      At the best school of all

The stars and sounding vanities
    That half the crowd bewitch.
What are they but inanities
    To him that treads the pitch?
And where's the welth I'm wondering,
    Could buy the cheers that roll
When the last charge goes thundering
    Towards the twilight goal?

Then men that tanned the hide of us,
    Our daily foes and friends,
They shall not lose their pride of us,
    However the journey ends.
Their voice to us who sing of it,
    No more its message bears,
But the round world shall ring of it,
    And all we are be theirs.

To speak of fame a venture is,
    There's little here can bide,
But we may face the centuries,
    And dare the deepending tide;
for though the dust that's part of us,
    To dust again be gone,
Yet here shall beat the heart of us,
    The school we handed on!

  We'll honour yet the school we knew
      The best school of all
  We'll honour yet the rule we knew
      Till the last bell call
  For working days or holidays
      And glad or melancholy days
  They were great days and jolly days
      At the best school of all

	-- Sir Henry Newbolt

We memorized this one in school, although the poem wasn't in our text. Our
teacher, Miss Dias, wrote it out on the blackboard.  I've always loved the
strong rhythm of Henry Newbolt and Alfred Noyes - the best balladeers
around. Have you run "Drake's Drum" yet? [Not yet - martin]

Although this poem is written for English men, it really doesn't matter, the
nostalgia it evokes works for everybody.

Mallika

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http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1232.html
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From: Bill Appleyard <b_appleyard@>


Today's poem of halcyon school days reminded me of Thomas Gray's poem "Ode on a Distant Prospect
of Eton College" which I was surprised to see had not been in Minstrels.  Quite memorable is the
last verse which starkly contrasts the innocence of youth and the inevitable cynicisms that come
with the realities of life.  (Also, I'm guessing - nothing to back this up, it may have served as
an inspiration for Wellington's famous line that the Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing
fields of Eton.)

As a side note, I stumbled across your site about two months ago trying to find the text of
MacNiece's "Sunlight in the Garden" and have immensely enjoyed receiving your emails.

Bill




Thomas Gray

Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 
    That crown the watery glade, 
Where grateful Science still adores 
Her Henry's holy shade; 
And ye, that from the stately brow 
Of Windsor's heights the expanse below 
    Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, 
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
Wanders the hoary Thames along 
    His silver-winding way. 

Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade, 
    Ah, fields beloved in vain, 
Where once my careless childhood strayed, 
    A stranger yet to pain! 
I feel the gales, that from ye blow, 
A momentary bliss bestow, 
    As waving fresh their gladsome wing, 
My weary soul they seem to soothe, 
And, redolent of joy and youth, 
    To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen 
    Full many a sprightly race 
Disporting on thy margent green 
    The paths of pleasure trace, 
Who foremost now delight to cleave 
With pliant arm thy glassy wave? 
    The captive linnet which enthrall? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle's speed, 
    Or urge the flying ball?

While some on earnest business bent 
    Their murmuring labours ply 
'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint 
    To sweeten liberty: 
Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign, 
    And unknown regions dare descry: 
Still as they run they look behind, 
They hear a voice in every wind, 
    And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, 
    Less pleasing when possessed; 
The tear forgot as soon as shed, 
    The sunshine of the breast: 
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, 
Wild wit, invention ever new, 
    And lively cheer of vigour born; 
The thoughtless day, the easy night, 
The spirits pure, the slumbers light, 
That fly the approach of morn.

Alas, regardless of their doom, 
    The little victims play! 
No sense have they of ills to come, 
    Nor care beyond today: 
Yet see how all around 'em wait 
The ministers of human fate, 
    And black Misfortune's baleful train! 
Ah, show them where in ambush stand 
To seize their prey the murderous band! 
Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear, 
    The vultures of the mind 
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 
    And Shame that skulks behind; 
Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth, 
    That inly gnaws the secret heart, 
And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, 
    And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise, 
    Then whirl the wretch from high, 
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, 
    And grinning Infamy. 
The stings of Falsehood those shall try, 
And hard Unkindness' altered eye, 
    That mocks the tear if forced to flow; 
And keen Remorse with blood defiled, 
And moody Madness laughing wild 
Amid severest woe.

Lo, in the vale of years beneath 
    A grisly troop are seen, 
The painful family of Death, 
    More hideous than their Queen: 
This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 
That every labouring sinew strains, 
    Those in the deeper vitals rage: 
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band, 
That numbs the soul with icy hand, 
    And slow-consuming Age.

To each his sufferings: all are men, 
    Condemned alike to groan, 
The tender for another's pain; 
    The unfeeling for his own. 
Yet ah! why should they know their fate? 
Since sorrow never comes too late, 
    And happiness too swiftly flies. 
Thought would destroy their paradise. 
No more; where ignorance is bliss, 
    'Tis folly to be wise.