MR. HENRY NEWBOLT'S VERSE AND OUR SOUTH AFRICAN TROOPS.
[To TEE EDITOR OP THE "SPECTATOR-1
have been reading your review (Spectator, July Nth) of various books of verse. It seems to me that verse, good.
and strong—dealing mainly with facts and character under direct observation, as distinct from the poetry which appeals mainly to the imagination—is a power which it is difficult to estimate and overestimate. During practically the whole of the year 1900 I was a chaplain on active service, and I bad rather exceptional opportunities of getting to know men and their feelings and needs. In my addresses I frequently used to quote a few verses which. I think, never failed to stir us all. They were pressed into my service when I was with the C.I.V. at Orange River, with the Canadians, Imperial Yeomanry and Cape regiments in Griqualand West; again when I acted as Divisional Chaplain to General French; and later when I came home with General Bailer's Reservists. I wish you could let the author know what they have meant to officers and men of all ranks. They bear the title of "Vital Lampada," and are by Henry Newbolt. Over and over again, the sick man, wasted by wounds and disease ; the strong man, doomed to inaction on the lines of communication; the man at the very front, almost within the range of the enemy's fire—has been nerved and cheered to "play the game," against all odds, because the Supreme Captain's hand was felt to be on him, and in His strength and for His sake he bore "this word like
[We congratulate Mr. Newbolt on this most happy apprecia- tion of his verse. That our readers may realise what it was the soldiers liked so well we set forth two stanzas of the poem in question :—
"There's a breathless bush 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 I play up I and play the garnet'
The sand of the desert is sodden red,— Bed 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 a schoolboy rallies the ranks, 'Play up! play up! and play the game!
—ED. Spectator.]
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