"Ely's War Poet" - Edward Henry Blakeney
It is perhaps rather bold to claim Edward Henry Blakeney (1869-1955) as "Ely's War Poet", as he was an established classical scholar and poet who happened during the Great War to be headmaster of Ely's King's School. He had previously been headmaster of Sandwich Grammar School, Borlase's School (Marlow), and after Ely was to become assistant master at Winchester College and a lecturer at Southampton University. He was originally from Mitcham.
Blakeney had published several volumes of poetry before coming to Ely, as well as publishing translations of various classical texts and the works of Milton, and contributing to publications such as "The Churchman". The Ely Standard of 21st June 1918 stated that his new book “Poems in Peace and War” had been printed recently at his private press and had been favourably reviewed in the Times. The poem below is one that he shared through a Diocesan publication and the Ely Standard:
What comfort is there in these laggard days
That seem to draw no nearer to their goal?
The unseen bases of the stoutest soul
Are shaken, while we mark with sad amaze
This ebb and flow of nations in the ways
Of perilous conflict. Could we view the whole
Vast plan of Heaven, or hear the muffled toll
Of judgement bells, we might at least appraise
The future at its earthly best or worst.
But no! behind the darkened stage of Fate
Broods a great silence, palpable as fear,
Intangible as time – unknown accurst!
O God let fall Thy curtain on the years
And close this tragic drama of man’s hate!
Blakeney had published several volumes of poetry before coming to Ely, as well as publishing translations of various classical texts and the works of Milton, and contributing to publications such as "The Churchman". The Ely Standard of 21st June 1918 stated that his new book “Poems in Peace and War” had been printed recently at his private press and had been favourably reviewed in the Times. The poem below is one that he shared through a Diocesan publication and the Ely Standard:
What comfort is there in these laggard days
That seem to draw no nearer to their goal?
The unseen bases of the stoutest soul
Are shaken, while we mark with sad amaze
This ebb and flow of nations in the ways
Of perilous conflict. Could we view the whole
Vast plan of Heaven, or hear the muffled toll
Of judgement bells, we might at least appraise
The future at its earthly best or worst.
But no! behind the darkened stage of Fate
Broods a great silence, palpable as fear,
Intangible as time – unknown accurst!
O God let fall Thy curtain on the years
And close this tragic drama of man’s hate!
