The Short Stories of John Buchan (Complete Collection). Buchan John

Sing of the Happy Ages still.

      O Thou to whom man's heart is known,

       Grant me my morning orison.

       Grant me the rover's path—to see

       The dawn arise, the daylight flee,

       In the far wastes of sand and sun!

       Grant me with venturous heart to run

       On the old highway, where in pain

       And ecstasy man strives amain,

       Conquers his fellows, or, too weak,

       Finds the great rest that wanderers seek!

       Grant me the joy of wind and brine,

       The zest of food, the taste of wine,

       The fighter's strength, the echoing strife

       The high tumultuous lists of life—

       May I ne'er lag, nor hapless fall,

       Nor weary at the battle-call!...

       But when the even brings surcease,

       Grant me the happy moorland peace;

       That in my heart's depth ever lie

       That ancient land of heath and sky,

       Where the old rhymes and stories fall

       In kindly, soothing pastoral.

       There in the hills grave silence lies,

       And Death himself wears friendly guise

       There be my lot, my twilight stage,

       Dear city of my pilgrimage.