Sir Henry Newbolt
Born in Bilston, Staffordshire in 1862, Newbolt was educated at Clifton School and Oxford University. After his studies Newbolt became a barrister.
Higly respected, Newbolt was a lawyer, novelist, playwright and magazine editor. Above all, he was a poet who championed the virtues of chivalry and sportsmanship combined in the service of the British Empire.
Although his first novel, Taken from the Enemy, was published in time for his thirtieth birthday in 1892, Newbolt’s reputation was established in 1897 in a poem written about a schoolboy cricketer who grows up to fight in Africa, Vitai Lampada. The poem was well received both critically and publicly at the ... more »
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Sir Henry Newbolt Poems
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.
Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, An' dreamin' arl the time O' Plymouth Hoe.
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.
This is the Chapel: here, my son, Your father thought the thoughts of youth, And heard the words that one by one The touch of Life has turn’d to truth.
We loved our nightjar, but she would not stay with us. We had found her lying as dead, but soft and warm, Under the apple tree beside the old thatched wall. Two days we kept her in a basket by the fire,
The Fighting Téméraire
It was eight bells ringing, For the morning watch was done, And the gunner's lads were singing As they polished every gun.
A Ballad of John Nicholson
It fell in the year of Mutiny, At darkest of the night, John Nicholson by Jalándhar came, On his way to Delhi fight.
A Letter From the Front
I was out early to-day, spying about From the top of a haystack -- such a lovely morning -- And when I mounted again to canter back I saw across a field in the broad sunlight
Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland, Down thy valleys green and sad, Still thy spirit wanders wailing, Wanders wailing, wanders mad.
The War Films
O living pictures of the dead, O songs without a sound, O fellowship whose phantom tread Hallows a phantom ground --
Our game was his but yesteryear; We wished him back; we could not know The self-same hour we missed him here He led the line that broke the foe.
Praise thou with praise unending, The Master of the Wine; To all their portions sending
Among The Tombs
She is a lady fair and wise, Her heart her counsel keeps, And well she knows of time that flies And tide that onward sweeps;
Effingham, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake, Here's to the bold and free! Benbow, Collingwood, Byron, Blake,
Comments about Sir Henry Newbolt
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
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, ...