[946] Vitaļ Lampada
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night --
Ten to make and the match to win --
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
The sand of the desert is sodden red, --
Red with the wreck of a square that broke; --
The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks,
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
This is the word that year by year
While in her place the School is set
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind --
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
-- Sir Henry Newbolt
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The glorious game of cricket has inspired its share of prose writers, from
Neville Cardus and P. G. Wodehouse to Woody Allen and Stephen Fry... but
poets? Oh yes; "there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are
dreamt of in your philosophy" [1], and one of those things is this week's
Minstrels theme: poems about or inspired by or at least tangentially related
to those "flannelled fools at the wicket" [2], cricketers.
Newbolt is not, unfortunately, a poet with whose ideology I sympathize; he's
too much the imperialist, buying into the "white man's burden" argument
without displaying the sensitivity to other cultures of, say, Kipling or
even Tennyson. That said, he does have a knack of coining memorable phrases:
the refrain of today's poem, the opening lines of "Drake's Drum", the
entirety of "Ireland, Ireland". It's not enough to ever elevate him from
minor poet status (the third eleven, so to speak), but it's sufficient for
him to be remembered. And what more could anyone ask, really?
thomas.
[1] Bill Shakespeare
[2] Ruddy Kipling
[Minstrels Links]
Sir Henry Newbolt:
Poem #731, A Ballad of John Nicholson
Poem #41, Ireland, Ireland
Poem #456, He Fell Among Thieves
From: "surendranathc" <surendranathc@>
Newbolt's definition of the 'white man's burden' does not even extend to
the common gardner / labourer class. His 'white man' is the starched,
pucca sahib imperialist, educated at Eton/Harrow/Oxbridge, and well
versed in the ways of the sahib, cricket, tennis and an education in the
classics, with a ingrained belief that somehow, the English gentry was
put at the pinnacle of creation, to liberate and uplift the rest of
humanity.
The notions of the Victorian English were finally buried in the trenches
of France during WWI
From: "Graham Michael Payne" <grahampaynejudy@>
I was taught this poem at school and it should be put back on the
curriculum straight away, the sentiments are noble and the fact that
they can now be ridiculed is a sad comment on how far we have allowed
our noble past to be forgotten. I lived in France for many years and
they knew how to respect the achievements of their Empire. Half the
world laughs at us for what we are but half the world would be
uncivilised without us........or however the quote goes.
Graham Payne
From: "Iggulden" <iggulden@>
I love this poem. I seem to remember it was written after the British
square was broken in the Sudan - quite a shocking event for an army used
to overwhelming military dominance. Obviously the schoolboy/cricket
references are from an age long past, yet my father also loved it and he
fought for King and country in World War II.
To me, it is a glimpse of a time when the English considered themselves
the noblest breed, unashamed of schoolboy notions of honour and 'keeping
one's word'. In addition, it is a cultural marker - a poem that English
men and women learned and taught to their children to show them not the
reality of war, but the innocence of courage.
It is easy to pour scorn on such a poem of empire when the world has
changed, but all the revisionists and their familes cannot change the
fact that there were some noble aspects to the struggle and damned be he
who denies it.
C. Iggulden
From: RCPortraitist@
"Vitaļ Lampada" My father has recited this poem ever since I can remember
He would very much like to know what the words "Vitaļ Lampada" translate to
in English.
Thanks Richard
From: "Graham Michael Payne" <grahampaynejudy@>
Vitae Lampada means "Light of Life"
I used to live in the south of france in the
cami de la pedra llampada
which means
road of the stone lanterns
From: "Ian Wilkinson" <ian.wilkinson@>
The sentiments are noble - unselfishness and a greater cause than to
self, principles learned at an impressionable age applied to fraught
situations in later life, and the same principles handed to the
generations following. Should we be ashamed of that? Incidentally, 'The
Close' is a playing field at Clifton College, Bristol, where I believe
Newbolt was educated. Perhaps he fits Orwell's definition applied to
Kipling as a 'good bad poet'. But - like it or not - it is memorable.
Will the same be said about the works of Andrew Motion in a 100 years
time?
From: bill.whiteford@ Thu Feb 20 04:12:52 2003
I stumbled on this famous poem in a book about the impact of literature on
the first world war. The last line of each verse is well known (at least in the UK), though I think the whole poem is less so.
The sentiments seem particularly apposite at a time (Feb 03) when the prospect of war in the desert looms large.
You could read all sorts of parallels into it: the idea of empire; the concept of war as sport; the elevation of honour. Even, the projection of power abroad: "England's far". But most of all there's the overweening arrogance that the civilised upbringing of the man will inevitably result in victory.
It's interesting to note that Newbolt did indeed study at Clifton College,
Bristol. It's the classic example of a public school which reached it's apotheosis in the late 19th century, dedicated to producing "muscular Christians" capable of extending the British empire but without the handwringing of missionaries. A good example of the type is Sir Francis Younghusband, explorer, adventurer, writer and diplomat in North India, Nepal and Tibet.
The poem's popularity was short lived. Written in the 1890s, by the middle
of the war its sentiments were seen as outdated and insulting. Newbolt himself, though he praised the conduct of his good friend Sir Douglas Haig, lived to regret the poem's fame. He was said to be irritated by being continually asked to recite it while on a tour of Canada in the twenties. He died in 1936.
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From: "Ian Wilkinson" <ian.wilkinson@>
Interesting to read what I could of Bill Whiteford's comments, but sadly
a part of them dissappears off the right of my page. I believe there is
a promenade concert planned for 'The Close' in the summer, which is what
put the poem in my mind.
I.W. 20th Feb 2003
From: "Ian Wilkinson" <ian.wilkinson@>
The poem 'Fuzzy Wuzzy' by Kipling describes this breaking of the square
in the Sudan, and pays tribute to the fighting qualities of the
Sudanese.
From: "breezers" <breezers@>
Who was it who described cricket as "organised loafing"?
From: "Ian Wilkinson" <ian.wilkinson@>
Don't know, but 'flannelled fools at the wicket and muddy oafs in goal'
is Kipling, again, from 'The Islanders'.
From: "Philip TAYLOR [PC87S-O/XP]" <P.Taylor@>
It's one of the few poems that moves me to tears whenever
I read it -- how anyone can think of it as "Imperialist"
simply defeats me. As others have already written, it is
about honour and duty, simple virtues which were once taught
at school, just as today we teach "citizenship" (whatever that
may be). The poem no way demeans or even diminishes those against
whom "the gallant square" was deployed, and (for my money) is,
together with "He fell among thieves" more than sufficient to
propel Sir Henry into the first league of poets (under the
Captainship of Sir John Bethemann, of course).
Philip Taylor
From: "Paul McDermott" <pmcd1@>
In common with other contributors I learnt this poem as a child and
identified with its message of selflessness. I have tried (not always
successfully) to live in accordance with the noble sentiments it
eulogises.
I got into a heated discussion with an Aussie following the results of
the Rugby World Cup this week, and quoted the poem (which he did not
know) - I hope I left him with something to ponder upon.
Can I change the subject slightly and refer to one of my 'other'
favourite poets? Compare this poem with the sentiments of one of Owens'
most memorable (IMHO) verses, the central theme of which I define as
"forgiveness"
Wilfred Owen
Strange Meeting
It seemed that out of the battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which Titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall;
With a thousand fears that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
"Strange, friend," I said, "Here is no cause to mourn."
"None," said the other, "Save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something has been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled.
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress,
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery;
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery;
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now..."
Reference is made by another contributor to the way in which we saw
"Victorian/imperialist ideals .... dying on the battlefields of WW1"
This is probably true - but the world is a poorer place for it!
From: "Ian Wilkinson" <ian.wilkinson@>
Yes - and how poignant a line is 'I am the enemy you killed, my friend'.
From: TIMHARRISON39@
In my childhood there was always some doubt as to whether Henry Newbolt
actually wrote this poem but only he has gained the respect of fellow poets
from CUBLEY BARD the prince of verse
From: "Robert Handford" <handford@>
Should the title not not be translated as The Torch of Life, rather than
The Light of Life?
Robert Handford.
From: "Laurence Feldman" <lfeldman32@>
As a former Britisher, raised in England, I have nothing but affection
for this poem, which calls up memories of Empire and Victorian Britain,
and especially the now, unfortunately, discarded value of "playing the
game."
From: PamLomax@
Play up and play the game!
My father used to recite this poem as a party piece. He was a simple man and
not well-read. He must have learned it at school and because he was a great
cricketer it had a life-long impact on him. I do not think he would have known
what 'imperialist' meant. He died last week.
Pam
From: "G Edward Cartwright" <g_edward_cartwright@>
I have actually played (for an away team) at the close;
There's a buzz of traffic in the close tonight,
30 to make and the game to win
And Cartwright skittled for a duck.
Not so poetic, but I was out playing up. I feel that there is no
imperialism in the poem, just an ethic that whatever one does one
`plays
the game' and does so playing up the pitch (an offensive shot, for the
uninitiated). This quality is still taught in public schools, the match
I mention was only 6 years ago, but is sadly lacking from modern state
education.
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From: "Lynnette Dixon" <lynnette1@>
I am an Englishman lost in the colonies for over 35 years. I was taught
this poem when a child 55 years ago and love it with a passion. I claim
pride in what it says and try to measure myself with its words. I am
not well read or clever with fancy words but that is the beauty of the
poem, from colliery worker to King it reminds us of who we really should
be rather than who we are.
Peter
From: "Greg Cugola" <libido@>
Sir Henry Newbolt was a Jew.
He appears in The Jewish Contribution To Civilization 1940 p.137 edited
by C.A. Stonehill with a preface by the wonderful Viennese writer
Stephan Zweig.
'Sir Henry Newbolt (b. 1862)
poet and chronicler of the British Navy. Official Naval Historian.
President of the English Association, 1911-21. Professor of Poetry at
Oxford. Grandson of Dr. Samuel Solomon of Liverpool.
His Works Include
Aladore. First edition 1914 12/6
Clifton Chapel and Other School Poems. First Edition. 1908 30/-
The Island Race. First Edition. 1898 =A33/3/-
Contained three of the most popular poems in English language, Drake's
Drum, Admirals All, and Vitaļ Lampada.
A Naval History of The War, 1914-1918. First Editions, ND 18/-
The official naval history of this period.
The New June. (A Novel.) First Edition. 1909 12/6
The Old Country. A Romance. First Edition. 1906 12/6
The Sailing Of The Long Ships, and Other Poems. First Edition. 1902
10/6
St. George's Day, and Other Poems. First Edition. London, 1918
8/6
Songs Of Memory and Hope. First Edition. 1909 10/6
Tales Of The Great War. Illus. First Edition. 1916 12/6
The Year Of Trafalgar. First Edition. Illus. 1905 15/-
Vitaļ Lampada as far as I know is Latin for the Lamp of Life.
My father often used to recite this poem to me and like Phillip Taylor
it also had the power to reduce me to tears.
It has a wonderfully stirring quality, full of pathos, melancholia and
loss.
Sir Francis Newbolt (b. 1863) and Sir John Newbolt were both descendents
of Dr Samuel Solomon of Liverpool.
Francis being the author of The Enchanted Wood. First Edition. Original
boards. 1925 10/6
Regards
Greg Cugola