RUPERT BROOKE'S DEATH AND BURIAL 
 
 "Basedon the J^pg of the French Hospital Ship T> UgUzAT- 
 T%p UIJ^ Trans/atedfrom the French of J. Perdriel- 
 Vaissieres by Vincent O' Sullivan
 
 ^^T*roudy theriy clear-eyed and laughing^ 
 Qo to greet 'Death as a friends 
 
 RUi'ERT BROOKE 
 
 
 <iApril twenty-second^ IQI^. 
 
 1 N the roadstead of Trebouki: This is the first hah on the 
 expedition to the East. After the noisy coaling-station 
 of Alexandria, we have now before our eyes the starkness 
 of a marble island. Lying about us are the Savoie, the 
 \)ille-de-Qarthagey the Uinh-J^ngy which form the first 
 line of bearing of the French expeditionary force; and 
 also the battleships Qanopus yT^rince Qeorge and 'Prince 
 8dwardyt\)i& advance line of the supporting squadron of 
 the British. 
 
 [ 3 ]
 
 _ [ 4 _] 
 
 We have not heard artillery since we were in the North 
 Sea amid the roaring of the battle of the Yser. Here the 
 vividness of the mild April morning, the light like a scarf 
 about the hill-tops, the bay like an enclosed lake — all 
 breathe peace. 
 
 A cutter puts off from the 'Prince Qeorge; it comes 
 toward us and draws alongside. They have brought on a 
 stretcher a man who is ill of some malady, for there are 
 no wounded here yet. 
 
 It is a lieutenant on General Hamilton's staff. His face 
 is bloodless; he gazes with large blue eyes which have 
 still a good deal of life in them; he has an eruption on 
 the lip. An officer, a friend of his, tall and fair, with the 
 air of an English gentleman, is by his side. This is Lieu- 
 tenant Asquith,son of the Prime Minister. 
 
 Here, in a little white cabin in the round-house, the 
 whole medical staff is mobilised for the single patient. 
 But is it not too late? 
 
 Wireless messages come in; "What is the news?" Gen- 
 eral Hamilton and Mr. Winston Churchill are worrying; 
 all England is interested in the condition of this young 
 man. He is worse; the dreadful poison is doing its work. 
 How did the accident — this appalling and stupid acci- 
 dent — happen? 
 
 It was yesterday. He had gone ashore on the marble 
 island where scarcely anything grows but sweet-smelling 
 shrubs. He makes his way through the holly-bushes, the 
 sage-brush and balsam and storax, following a mysterious 
 clue which he takes to be the thread of his loftiest dreams, 
 and which is without doubt the thread of his fate — terri- 
 ble black thread — the last thread. He comes to that glade
 
 [ 5 ] 
 you may see on the far side where there is a little water, 
 some olive trees, a silvery corner where the breeze trem- 
 bles. Here the poet rests. Then —Oh, yes, indeed, it was 
 the ultimate dream! — then a little grey fly, quite unno- 
 ticeable (here in the Orient within a month we shall have 
 patches of flies everywhere), the tiny fly stung him just 
 near the lip. A fly ? A bee out of the darkness attrad:ed 
 by the honey of words. Rupert Brooke has a malignant 
 ulcer. 
 
 The wireless is inquiring again. Reply: He is worse. 
 
 Does he still see this white cabin where they are trying 
 rather hopelessly to neutralize the poison? Is he still 
 aware of the taste of sunlight, of salt, the balsam taste of 
 the islands which the soft breeze carries to him through 
 the open port? 
 
 Still, full light sustains the blue tent of sky at the zenith, 
 but upon him night has already fallen — night upon that 
 
 eminent head, night upon that brain! Rupert Brooke 
 
 has become unconscious. 
 
 nApril twenty -third. 
 
 It is just 4.46 in the afternoon. A quartermaster knocks 
 
 at the Captain's door. With his hand at the salute he says 
 
 quite calmly, — for out there in Flanders last winter he 
 
 got used to delivering such messages: 
 
 " Captain, the English lieutenant is dead." 
 
 For him,you see, it is a man like another. And we live 
 
 in times when the death of a man is a very small matter. 
 
 Never did face seem paler on the bed of death. Is it 
 
 because of that black mark on the lip? Or is it that the 
 
 Eastern light beats more pitilessly on the skin of this man
 
 [ 6 ] 
 from the North? Everybody is silent. Then a voice says: 
 
 "England has lost her greatest poet." 
 
 Orders come in while the coffin is being prepared. We 
 are to sail tonight. The hour draws near for a demonstra- 
 tion in force against the straits. We must hurry. Come 
 on; close down the coffin. 
 
 O pale, pale, English face that no one will look on ever 
 again! Face of passion, of dreams, and of torment! Poetry 
 not of the world, but of beyond the world, dwelling so 
 early on the other side, 
 
 "Do they still whisper, the old weary cries, 
 Mid youth and song,feasting and carnival, 
 Through laughter, through the roses, as of old. 
 Comes Death, on shadowy and relentless feet, 
 Death,unappeasable by prayer or gold; 
 Death is the end, the end! " 
 
 The coffin is placed on the poop and covered with the 
 English flag. Sixteen palms decorate this improvised 
 chapel. The officers of the T)uguay-Trouin lay on the 
 coffin a bunch of flowers, the best they could get — wild 
 flowers stolen from the bees of the island and tied with 
 the French colours. 
 
 At the foot of the coffin stands a sailor presenting arms. 
 Lieutenant Asquith, who has not left his friend for a 
 moment, is at the side of the bier with some other Eng- 
 lish officers. 
 
 A brief twilight. The night falls. 
 
 From the Qanopus the English commander signals: 
 "Make haste." As there is no time to engrave a brass 
 plate, the Lieutenant asks for a cauterizing iron. Then 
 by the light of the lamps, which are like a wreath of
 
 [ 7 ] 
 watchlights, he sears on the oak plank itself these letters : 
 
 A sharp whistle is heard: "All hands on deck." The 
 ship's company lines up with bared heads to pay the last 
 honours. 
 
 A launch takes the boat which carries the coffin in tow. 
 Other boats put off from the warships. 
 
 There are many of them, and they glide over the water 
 like a holiday procession, like those gigs which set off at 
 evening from the ships of the Mediterranean squadron to 
 go to the Corso. Towards what Cythera are cadenced 
 all these oars ? Music sounds as they pass ; the huge ships 
 one after another send them gusts of harmony, but the 
 airs are solemn and low. The night is soft with a sheen 
 of moon, bestarred. The perfume of the isle drifts 
 through the night, becoming stronger and stronger. 
 The boats in line steer towards a little cove. A hue like 
 pearl floats on the water. 
 
 At the landing place several English officers are wait- 
 ing and a guard of honour. Twelve Australian giants, 
 splendid-looking men in service uniforms, come for- 
 ward. They wear broad-brimmed felt hats, cartridge 
 belts, and fastened round their waists are the cords which 
 will be used to lower the coffin into the grave. 
 
 The chaplain has slipped a surplice over his uniform. 
 
 Here is a gently sloping valley. It is hard to tell whether 
 there have ever been paths: if so, they have left no trace. 
 The ground is marble; underneath these loose oxidized 
 stones are royal foundations — pillars or statues ready to 
 spring forth from the gleaming hillside. Accordingly
 
 [ 8 ] 
 the vegetation is sparse— brush wood, little holly-bushes 
 shadowy like ghosts. The Australians make slow head- 
 way. A meagre light is shed about them by lanterns and 
 torches which illumine one step and leave the next in 
 darkness. Sometimes they slip, half stumble, and can not 
 help jolting their burden. The marble pebbles turn un- 
 der their feet. The brambles hide pitfalls. Their heavy 
 laced boots press the aromatic shrubs. A bewitching 
 odour, a mingling of pepper and musk, rises like incense. 
 The wan moonlight lingers on the end of the procession 
 where the torches flicker no more. Their flames trail 
 away in ruddy and smoky tresses which the night hastens 
 to cover with her silverine purity. 
 
 Not a village, not a house, not a road. We keep on 
 marching— two miles perhaps. Here is the place ! 
 
 Silence. 
 
 Some olive trees in a more fertile hollow; the breeze is 
 half asleep between their leaves. At their foot a grave 
 has been dug. 
 
 " If I should die think only this of me : 
 That there's some corner of a foreign field 
 That is for ever England." 
 
 O conquering heart! Through what malign fate art 
 thou given pause in this place on the eve of battle, before 
 the sacramental spilling of thy blood? True English- 
 man, strong in pride, who came hither, as in old days 
 Achilles when he hid at the court of Lycomedes, to 
 await a glorious and violent taking off— Rupert Brooke, 
 who carried within thee a homesickness for immor- 
 tality, "sets thy star,0 heart, forever?"
 
 [ 9 ] 
 
 The grave is opened at this very place where doubtless 
 thy last poem— the final poem too beautiful to be written 
 — sang in harmony with the high-pulsed rhythm of thy 
 blood. Lieutenant Asquith comes forward: he thinks 
 the grave is too small. Who shall know the measure of 
 a great man ? He goes down into the grave and takes the 
 lugubrious spade himself, and with only the aid of an- 
 other officer digs the ground, like a brother unwilling to 
 leave to anyone else the last pieties for him he loved. 
 
 The chaplain has ended his prayer. An order is given. 
 Three volleys roll through the mountains, rending the 
 air with abrupt claps which are tossed from one elevation 
 to another, echoing. Thereupon the silent night be- 
 comes mysteriously alive. The owls cry out, scared, and 
 little bells, any number of little bells, tinkle all around. 
 They come from the drowsy flocks which are fright- 
 ened, from the sheep and goats suddenly awakened in 
 terror and rushing away headlong through the sweet- 
 scented brushwood. It is the passing-bell for Orpheus 
 on the necks of innocent and untamed animals, whose 
 invisible bells sweep lightly over the invisible bushes. 
 
 And then it is silence again; and it shall always be 
 silence. 
 
 Tomorrow the ships will weigh anchor. After just 
 touching at Moudros and Tenedos they will engage in 
 the heroic enterprise of the Dardanelles, and for many 
 a day those who followed the poet to the grave will 
 hardly have time to recall underadeluge of fire thelonely 
 mound lost in solitary Scyros. Nevertheless 
 
 "There shall be 
 In that rich earth a richer dust concealed :
 
 [ lo ] 
 A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, 
 Gave once her flowers to love, her ways to roam, 
 A body of England's, breathing English air. 
 Washed by rivers,blest by suns of home." 
 
 
 JLl. ow can we help picturing the Muse with silken curls 
 seated in that little dell, her feet resting on the marble 
 soil of the island, her elbow on her knee, her chin held 
 in the palm of her fragile hand — the pale and spiritual 
 Muse of England. 
 
 She is watchful and she meditates. This is not the first 
 time she has known the Grecian land; she has already 
 bent over another genius there. It will soon be a hun- 
 dred years since Byron died of cholera at Missolonghi. 
 Flaming with Romanticism in action, he had come to 
 pluck Greece in her agony from the throttling hand of 
 the oppressor. Today it is once more against the Turk 
 we must do battle, and behind the Turk a redoubtable 
 and prepared Barbarism — the modern onrush of Attila. 
 
 To Brooke, as to Byron, the poet's laurel seemed a slight 
 thing, thought alone unsatisfying. What he needed was 
 the khaki uniform and a revolver at his belt, which alas! 
 he never had a chance to fire off. 
 
 And so the Muse lingers there, for it is a propitiatory 
 altar. Here lies the first Englishman fallen by the road- 
 side, the chosen victim, the hostage offered to malevo- 
 lent fate, the libation. 
 
 She watches; she waits. Mornings will follow in the 
 odorous deserted place, the sun will shift the strip of 
 shade cast by the small olive trees, winter storms will
 
 [ I> ] 
 
 beat about the island, and it will be by rare chance that 
 some goatherd clad in skins climbs the hill and passes 
 there, or some fisherman in whose basket gleams the 
 silver-bellied fish. 
 
 The Muse watches, and the obscure colloquy in which 
 she is absorbed alters her immemorial presence little by 
 little. 
 
 When the great war is over, those who go to seek the 
 cherished ashes of the poet will see arise beneath the 
 olive trees of Scyros a glorious countenance they have 
 not yet seen. Liberty sprang from Byron's grave; O 
 Rupert Brooke, look forth with us and see Victory arise 
 from thine!
 
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