In Memory of George Calderon

Laurence Binyon

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.