Текст оригинала на английском языке
In Memory of George Calderon
Wisdom and Valour, Faith, Justice,—the lofty names Of virtue’s quest and prize,— What is each but a cold wraith Until it lives in a man And looks thro’ a man’s eyes? On Chivalry as I muse, The spirit so high and clear It cannot soil with aught It meets of foul misuse; It turns wherever burns The flame of a brave thought; And wheresoever the moan Of the helpless and betrayed Calls, from near or far, It replies as to its own Need, and is armed and goes Straight to its sure pole—star;— No legendary knight Renowned in an ancient cause I warm my thought upon. There comes to the mind’s sight One whom I knew, whose hand Grasped mine: George Calderon. Him now as of old I see Carrying his head with an air Courteous and virile, With the charm of a nature free, Daring, resourceful, prompt, In his frank and witty smile. By Oxford towers and streams Who shone among us all In body and brain so bold? Who shaped so firm his themes Crystal—hard in debate? And who hid a heart less cold? Lover of strange tongues, Whether in snowy Russia, Or tropic island bowers Listening to the songs Of the soft—eyed islanders, Crowned with Tahitian flowers, A maker of friends he went. Yet who divined him wholly Or his secret chivalries?— Was all that accomplishment, Wit, alertness, grace, But a kind of blithe disguise? Restless in curious thought And subtle exploring mind, He mixt his modern vein With a strain remotely brought From an older blood than ours, Proud loyalties of Spain. Was it the soul of a sword? For a bright sword leapt from sheath Upon that August day When war’s full thunder stored Over Europe, suddenly crashed, And a choice upon each man lay. Others had left their youth In the taming years; and some Doubted; some made moan. To meet the peril of truth With aught but a gay courage Was not for Calderon. Wounded from France he came. His spirit halted not; In that long battle afar, Fruitless in all but fame, Athos and Ida saw Where sank his gallant star. O well could I set my mood To a mournful falling measure For a friend dear and dead! And well could memory brood Singing of youth’s delight And lost adventure fled. But that so fearless friend With his victorious smile My mourning mood has chid. He went to the very end; He counted not the cost; What he believed, he did.
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