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Poem by Henry Newbolt
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. Here in a day that is not far, You too may speak with noble ghosts Of manhood and the vows of war You made before the Lord of Hosts. To set the cause above renown, To love the game beyond the prize, To honour, while you strike him down, The foe that comes with fearless eyes; To count the life of battle good, And dear the land that gave you birth, And dearer yet the brotherhood That binds the brave of all the earth. -- My son, the oath is yours: the end Is His, Who built the world of strife, Who gave His children Pain for friend, And Death for surest hope of life. To-day and here the fight's begun, Of the great fellowship you're free; Henceforth the School and you are one, And what You are, the race shall be. God send you fortune: yet be sure, Among the lights that gleam and pass, You'll live to follow none more pure Than that which glows on yonder brass: 'Qui procul hinc,' the legend's writ, -- The frontier-grave is far away -- 'Qui ante diem perlit: Sed miles, sed pro patria.'
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