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For the four hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the foundation of the College

     I

     Four hundred summers and fifty have shone on the meadows of Thames
           and died
     Since Eton arose in an age that was darkness, and shone by his
           radiant side
     As a star that the spell of a wise man's word bade live and ascend
           and abide.

     And ever as time's flow brightened, a river more dark than the
           storm-clothed sea,
     And age upon age rose fairer and larger in promise of hope set
           free,
     With England Eton her child kept pace as a fostress of men to be.

     And ever as earth waxed wiser, and softer the beating of time's
           wide wings,
     Since fate fell dark on her father, most hapless and gentlest of
           star-crossed kings,
     Her praise has increased as the chant of the dawn that the choir of
           the noon outsings.


     II

     Storm and cloud in the skies were loud, and lightning mocked at the
           blind sun's light;
     War and woe on the land below shed heavier shadow than falls from
           night;
     Dark was earth at her dawn of birth as here her record of praise is
           bright.

     Clear and fair through her morning air the light first laugh of the
           sunlit stage
     Rose and rang as a fount that sprang from depths yet dark with a
           spent storm's rage,
     Loud and glad as a boy's, and bade the sunrise open on
           Shakespeare's age.

     Lords of state and of war, whom fate found strong in battle, in
           counsel strong,
     Here, ere fate had approved them great, abode their season, and
           thought not long:
     Here too first was the lark's note nursed that filled and flooded
           the skies with song.


     III

     Shelley, lyric lord of England's lordliest singers, here first
           heard
     Ring from lips of poets crowned and dead the Promethean word
     Whence his soul took fire, and power to outsoar the sunward-soaring
           bird.

     Still the reaches of the river, still the light on field and hill,
     Still the memories held aloft as lamps for hope's young fire to
           fill,
     Shine, and while the light of England lives shall shine for England
           still.

     When four hundred more and fifty years have risen and shone and
           set,
     Bright with names that men remember, loud with names that men
           forget,
     Haply here shall Eton's record be what England finds it yet.