over here by edgar a. guest author of "a heap o' livin'" "just folks" the reilly & britton co. chicago to the mothers over here index alarm, the america april thoughts as it looks to the boy battle prayer, a beautifying the flag better thing, the big deeds, the bigger than his dad boy enlists, the boy's adventure, the call, the call to service, the change, the chaplain, the christmas, christmas box, the christmas greeting, a complacent slacker, the constant beauty creed, a discovery of a soul, the do your all drafted duty easy service envy everywhere in america exempt father's prayer, a father's thoughts, a father's tribute, a flag, the flag on the farm, the fly a clean flag follow the flag for your boy and mine friendly greeting, the from laughter to labor future, the general pershing girl he left behind, the glory of age, the gold givers, the good luck good soldier, a hate here we are! his room his santa claus honor roll, the hope i follow a famous father ideals if he should meet a mother there important thing, the joy to be, the july the fourth, kelly ingram life's slacker living memorial day mother faith, the mother on the sidewalk, the mothers and wives my part new year, the next of kin our duty to our flag out of it all over here patriot, a patriotic creed, a patriotic wish, a plea, a prayer, a prayer, , a princess pats, the proof of worth, the prophecy rebellion reflection runner mcgee see it through selfishness show the flag soldier on crutches, the soldierly spring in the trenches struggle, the sympathy taking his place thanksgiving things that make a soldier great, the thoughts of a soldier time for deeds, the to a kindly critic to a lady knitting to the men at home undaunted, the united unsettled scores, the waiter at the camp, the warriors war's homecoming we need a few more optimists we've had a letter from the boy we who stay at home when the drums shall cease to beat why we fight wish, a wrist watch man, the your country needs you * * * * * over here pledged to the bravest and the best, we stand, who cannot share the fray, staunch for the danger and the test. for them at night we kneel and pray. be with them, lord, who serve the truth, and make us worthy of our youth! here mother-love and father-love unite in love of country now; here to the flag that flies above, our heads we reverently bow; here as one people, night and day, for victory we work and pray. nor race nor creed shall difference make, nor bigot mar the zealot's plan; we give our all for freedom's sake, each man a king, each king a man. make us the equal, lord, we pray of them who die for truth to-day! let us as gladly give our best, let us as bravely pay the price as they, who in the bitter test meet the supremest sacrifice. oh, god! wherever we are led, let us be worthy of our dead! let us not compromise the truth, let us not cringe so much in fear that foes may whisper to our youth that we have failed in courage here. lord, strengthen us, that they may know our spirits follow where they go! why we fight this is the thing we fight: a cry of terror in the night; a ship on work of mercy bent-- a carrier of the sick and maimed-- beneath the cruel waters sent, and those that did it, unashamed. a woman who had tried to fill a mother's place; had nursed the ill and soothed the troubled brows of pain and earned the dying's grateful prayers, before a wall by soldiers slain! and such a poor pretext was theirs! old women pierced by bayonets grim and babies slaughtered for a whim, cathedrals made the sport of shells, no mercy, even for a child, as though the imps of all the hells were crazed with drink and running wild. all this we fight--that some day when good sense shall come again to men, our children's children may not read this age's history thus defamed and find we served a selfish creed and ever be of us ashamed! america god has been good to men. he gave his only son their souls to save, and then he made a second gift, which from their dreary lives should lift the tyrant's yoke and set them free from all who'd throttle liberty. he gave america to men-- fashioned this land we love, and then deep in her forests sowed the seed which was to serve man's earthly need. when wisps of smoke first upwards curled from pilgrim fires, upon the world unnoticed and unseen, began god's second work of grace for man. here where the savage roamed and fought, god sowed the seed of nobler thought; here to the land we love to claim, the pioneers of freedom came; here has been cradled all that's best in every human mind and breast. for full four hundred years and more our land has stretched her welcoming shore to weary feet from soils afar; soul-shackled serfs of king and czar have journeyed here and toiled and sung and talked of freedom to their young, and god above has smiled to see this precious work of liberty, and watched this second gift he gave the dreary lives of men to save. and now, when liberty's at bay, and blood-stained tyrants force the fray, worn warriors, battling for the right, crushed by oppression's cruel might, hear in the dark through which they grope america's glad cry of hope: man's liberty is not to die! america is standing by! world-wide shall human lives be free: america has crossed the sea! america! the land we love! god's second gift from heaven above, builded and fashioned out of truth, sinewed by him with splendid youth for that glad day when shall be furled all tyrant flags throughout the world. for this our banner holds the sky: that liberty shall never die. for this, america began: to make a brotherhood of man. the time for deeds we have boasted our courage in moments of ease, our star-spangled banner we've flung on the breeze; we have taught men to cheer for its beauty and worth, and have called it the flag of the bravest on earth now the dark days are here, we must stand to the test. oh, god! let us prove we are true to our best! we have drunk to our flag, and we've talked of the right, we have challenged oppression to show us its might; we have strutted for years through the world as a race that for god and for country, earth's tyrants would face; now the gage is flung down, hate is loosed in the world. oh, god! shall our flag in dishonor be furled? we have said we are brave; we have preached of the truth, we have walked in conceit of the strength of our youth; we have mocked at the ramparts and guns of the foe, as though we believed we could laugh them all low. now oppression has struck! we are challenged to fight! oh, god! let us prove we can stand for the right! if in honor and glory our flag is to wave, if we are to keep this--the land of the brave; if more than fine words are to fashion our creeds, now must our hands and our hearts turn to deeds. we are challenged by tyrants our strength to reveal! oh, god! let us prove that our courage is real! everywhere in america not somewhere in america, but everywhere to-day, where snow-crowned mountains hold their heads, the vales where children play, beside the bench and whirring lathe, on every lake and stream and in the depths of earth below, men share a common dream-- the dream our brave forefathers had of freedom and of right, and once again in honor's cause, they rally and unite. not somewhere in america is love of country found, but east and west and north and south once more the bugles sound, and once again, as one, men stand to break their brother's chains, and make the world a better place, where only justice reigns. the patriotism that is here, is echoed over there, the hero at a certain post is on guard everywhere. o'er humble home and mansion rich the starry banner flies, and far and near throughout the land the men of valor rise. the flag that flutters o'er your home is fluttering far away o'er homes that you have never seen. the same impulses sway the souls of men in distant states. the red, the white and blue means to one hundred million strong, just what it means to you. the self-same courage resolute you feel and understand is throbbing in the breasts of men throughout this mighty land. not somewhere in america, but everywhere to-day, for justice and for liberty all free men work and pray. the things that make a soldier great the things that make a soldier great and send him out to die, to face the flaming cannon's mouth, nor ever question why, are lilacs by a little porch, the row of tulips red, the peonies and pansies, too, the old petunia bed, the grass plot where his children play, the roses on the wall: 'tis these that make a soldier great. he's fighting for them all. 'tis not the pomp and pride of kings that make a soldier brave; 'tis not allegiance to the flag that over him may wave; for soldiers never fight so well on land or on the foam as when behind the cause they see the little place called home. endanger but that humble street whereon his children run-- you make a soldier of the man who never bore a gun. what is it through the battle smoke the valiant soldier sees? the little garden far away, the budding apple trees, the little patch of ground back there, the children at their play, perhaps a tiny mound behind the simple church of gray. the golden thread of courage isn't linked to castle dome but to the spot, where'er it be--the humble spot called home. and now the lilacs bud again and all is lovely there, and homesick soldiers far away know spring is in the air; the tulips come to bloom again, the grass once more is green, and every man can see the spot where all his joys have been. he sees his children smile at him, he hears the bugle call, and only death can stop him now--he's fighting for them all. the flag we never knew how much the flag could mean, until he went away, we used to boast of it and brag, as something of a by-gone day; but now the flag can start our tears in moments of our greatest joy, old glory in the sky appears the symbol of our little boy. we knew that sometimes people wept to see the flag go waving by, but never guessed the griefs they kept-- we never understood just why. but now our eyes grow quickly dim, our voices choke with sobs to-day; the flag is telling us of him, our little boy who's gone away. we never knew the flag could be so much a part of human life, we thought it beautiful to see before these bitter days of strife; but now more beautiful it gleams, and deeper in our hearts it dwells; it is the emblem of our dreams, for of our little boy it tells. a battle prayer god of battles, be with us now: guard our sons from the lead of shame, watch our sons when the cannons flame, let them not to a tyrant bow. god of battles, to thee we pray: be with each loyal son who fights in the cause of justice and human rights, grant him strength and lead the way. god of battles, our youth we give to the battle line on a foreign soil, to conquer hatred and lust and spoil; grant that they and their cause shall live. good luck good luck! that's all i'm saying, as you sail across the sea; the best o' luck, in the parting, is the prayer you get from me. may you never meet a danger that you won't come safely through, may you never meet a german that can get the best of you; oh! a thousand things may happen when a fellow's at the front, a thousand different mishaps, but here's hoping that they won't. good luck! that's all i'm saying, as you turn away to go, good luck and plenty of it, may it be your lot to know; may you never meet rough weather, but remember if you do that the folks at home are wishing that you'll all come safely through. oh! a thousand things may happen when a fellow bears the brunt of his country's fight for glory, but i'm praying that they won't. good luck! that's all i'm saying as you're falling into line; may the splendor of your service bring you everything that's fine; may the fates deal kindly with you, may you never know distress, and may every task you tackle end triumphant with success. oh! a thousand things may happen that with joy your life will fill; you may not get all the gladness, but i'm hoping that you will. a prayer, oh, make us worthy, god, we pray, to do thy service here to-day; endow us with the strength we need for every sacrificial deed! the change 'twas hard to think that he must go, we knew that we should miss him so, we thought that he must always stay beside us, laughing, day by day; that he must never know the care and hurt and grief of life out there. then came the call for youth, and he talked with his mother and with me, and suddenly we learned the boy was hungering to know the joy of doing something real with life, and that he craved the test of strife. and so we steeled ourselves to dread; to see at night his empty bed; to feel the silence and the gloom that hovers o'er his vacant room, and though we wept the day he went, and many a lonely hour we've spent, we've come to think as he, somehow, and we are more contented now; we're proud that we can stand and say we have a boy who's gone away. and we are glad to know that he is serving where he ought to be. it's queer, the change that time has brought: we're different now in speech and thought; his letters home mean joy to us, his difficulties we discuss. when word of his promotion came, his mother, with her eyes aflame with happiness and pride, rushed out to tell the neighbors round about. her boy! her boy is doing well! what greater news can mothers tell? i think that pity now we show for those who have no boys to go. mothers and wives mothers and wives, 'tis the call to arms that the bugler yonder prepares to sound; we stand on the brink of war's alarms and your men may lie on a blood-stained ground. the drums may play and the flags may fly, and our boys may don the brown and blue, and the call that summons brave men to die is the call for glorious women, too. mothers and wives, if the summons comes, you, as ever since war has been, must hear with courage the rolling drums and dry your tears when the flags are seen. for never has hero fought and died who has braver been than the mother, who buckled his saber at his side, and sent him forward to dare and do. mothers and wives, should the call ring out, it is you must answer your country's cry; you must furnish brave hearts and stout for the firing line where the heroes die. and never a corpse on the field of strife should be honored more in his country's sight than the noble mother or noble wife who sent him forth in the cause of right. mothers and wives, 'tis the call for men to give their strength and to give their lives; but well we know, such a summons then is the call for mothers and loyal wives, for you must give us the strength we need, you must give us the boys in blue, for never a boy or a man shall bleed but a mother or wife shall suffer, too. the call to service these are the days when little thoughts must cease men's minds to occupy; the nation needs men's larger creeds, big men must answer to her cry; no longer selfish ways we tread, the greater task lies just ahead. these are the days when petty things by all men must be thrust aside; the country needs men's finest deeds, awakened is the nation's pride; men must forsake their selfish strife once more to guard their country's life. kelly ingram his name was kelly ingram; he was alabama's son, and he whistled "yankee doodle," as he stood beside his gun; there was laughter in his make-up, there was manhood in his face, and he knew the best traditions and the courage of his race; now there's not a heart among us but should swell with loyal pride when he thinks of kelly ingram and the splendid way he died. on the swift destroyer cassin he was merely gunner's mate, but up there to-day, i fancy, he is standing with the great. on that grim day last october his position on the craft was that portion of the vessel which the sailors christen aft; there were deep sea bombs beside him to be dropped upon the hun who makes women folks his victims and then gloats o'er what he's done. from the lookout came a warning; came the cry all sailors fear, a torpedo was approaching, and the vessel's doom was near; ingram saw the streak of danger, but he saw a little more, a greater menace faced them than that missile had in store; if those deep sea bombs beside him were not thrown beneath the wave, every man aboard the cassin soon would find a watery grave. it was death for him to linger, but he figured if he ran and quit his post of duty, 'twould be death for every man; so he stood at his position, threw those depth bombs overboard, and when that torpedo struck them, he went forth to meet his lord. oh, i don't know how to say it, but these whole united states should remember kelly ingram--he who died to save his mates. the joy to be oh, mother, be you brave of heart and keep your bright eyes shining; some day the smiles of joy shall start and you shall cease repining. beyond the dim and distant line the days of peace are waiting, when you shall have your soldier fine, and men shall turn from hating. oh, mother, bear the pain a-while, as long ago you bore it; you suffered then to win his smile, and you were happier for it; and now you suffer once again, and bear your weight of sorrow; yet you shall thrill with gladness when he wins the glad to-morrow. oh, mother, when the cannons roar and all the brave are fighting, remember that the son you bore the wrongs of earth is righting; remember through the hours of pain that he with all his brothers is battling there to win again a happy world for mothers. he should meet a mother there if he should meet a mother there along some winding flanders road, no extra touch of grief or care he'll add unto her heavy load. but he will kindly take her arm and tender as her son will be; he'll lead her from the path of harm because of me. be she the mother of his foe, he will not speak to her in hate; my boy will never stoop so low as motherhood to desecrate. but she shall know what once i knew-- eyes that are glorious to see, the light of manhood shining through-- because of me. he will salute her as they meet, and stand before her bare of head; if she be hungry, she may eat his last remaining bit of bread. she'll find those splendid arms and strong quick to assist her, tenderly, and they will guard her from all wrong because of me. i miss his thoughtful, loving care; i miss his smile these dreary days; but should he meet a mother there, helpless and lost in war's grim maze, she need not fear to take his arm, as though she'd reared him at her knee; my son will shield her from all harm because of me. a father's tribute i don't know what they'll put him at, or what his post may be; i cannot guess the task that waits for him across the sea, but i have known him through the years, and when there's work to do, i know he'll meet his duty well, i'll swear that he'll be true. i sometimes fear that he may die, but never that he'll shirk; if death shall want him death must go and take him at his work; this splendid sacrifice he makes is filled with terrors grim, and i have many thoughts of fear, but not one fear of him. the foe may rob my life of joy, the foe may take my all, and desolate my days shall be if he shall have to fall. but this i know, whate'er may be the grief that i must face, upon his record there will be no blemish of disgrace. his days have all been splendid days, there lies no broken trust along the pathway of his youth to molder in the dust; honor and truth have marked his ways, in him i can be glad; he is as fine and true a son as ever a father had. runner mcgee (who had "return if possible" orders.) "you've heard a good deal of the telephone wires," he said as we sat at our ease, and talked of the struggle that's taking men's lives in these terrible days o'er the seas, "but i've been through the thick of the thing and i know when a battle's begun, it isn't the phone you depend on for help. it's the legs of a boy who can run. "it isn't because of the phone that i'm here. to-day you are talking to me because of the grit and the pluck of a boy. his title was runner mcgee. we were up to our dead line an' fighting alone; some plan had miscarried, i guess, and the help we were promised had failed to arrive. we were showing all signs of distress. "our curtain of fire was ahead of us still, an' theirs was behind us an' thick, an' there wasn't a thing we could do for ourselves--the few of us left had to stick. you haven't much chance to get central an' talk on the phone to the music of guns; gettin' word to the chief is a matter right then that is up to the fellow who runs. "i'd sent four of 'em back with the r. i. p. sign, which means to return if you can, but none of 'em got through the curtain of fire; my hurry call died with the man. then runner mcgee said he'd try to get through. i hated to order the kid on his mission of death; thought he'd never get by, but somehow or other he did. "yes, he's dead. died an hour after bringing us word that the chief was aware of our plight, an' for us to hang on to the ditch that we held; the reserves would relieve us at night. then we stuck to our trench an' we stuck to our guns; you know how you'll fight when you know that new strength is coming to fill up the gaps. there's heart in the force of your blow. "it wasn't till later i got all the facts. they wanted mcgee to remain. they begged him to stay. he had cheated death once an' was foolish to try it again. 'r. i. p. are my orders,' he answered them all, 'an' back to the boys i must go; four of us died comin' out with the news. it will help them to know that you know.'" the girl he left behind we used to think her frivolous--you know how parents are, a little quick to see the faults and petty flaws that mar the girl their son is fond of and may choose to make his wife, a little overjealous of the one who'd share his life; but the girl he left behind him when he bravely marched away has blossomed into beauty that we see and need to-day. she was with us at the depot, and we turned our backs a-while, and her eyes were sad and misty, though she tried her best to smile. then she put her arm round mother, and it seemed to me as though they just grew to love each other, for they shared a common woe. now she often comes to see us, and it seems to me we find a heap of solid comfort in the girl he left behind. "she's so sensible and gentle," mother said last night to me, "the kind of girl i've often wished and prayed his wife would be. and i like to have her near us, for she understands my sighs and i see my brave boy smiling when i look into her eyes." now the presence of his sweetheart seems to fill our home with joy. she's no longer young and flighty--she's the girl who loves our boy. a patriotic creed to serve my country day by day at any humble post i may; to honor and respect her flag, to live the traits of which i brag; to be american in deed as well as in my printed creed. to stand for truth and honest toil, to till my little patch of soil and keep in mind the debt i owe to them who died that i might know my country, prosperous and free, and passed this heritage to me. i must always in trouble's hour be guided by the men in power; for god and country i must live, my best for god and country give; no act of mine that men may scan must shame the name american. to do my best and play my part, american in mind and heart; to serve the flag and bravely stand to guard the glory of my land; to be american in deed, god grant me strength to keep this creed. his room his room is as it used to be before he went away, the walls still keep the pennants he brought home but yesterday. the picture of his baseball team still holds its favored spot, and oh, it seems a dreadful dream this age of shell and shot! his golf clubs in the corner stand; his tennis racket, too, that once the pressure of his hand in times of laughter knew is in the place it long has kept for us to look upon. the room is as it was, except the boy, himself, has gone. the pictures of his girls are here, still smiling as of yore, and everything that he held dear is treasured as before. into his room his mother goes as usual, day by day, and cares for it, although she knows our boy is far away. we keep it as he left it, when he bade us all good-bye, though i confess that, now and then, we view it with a sigh. for never night shall thrill with joy nor day be free from gloom until once more our soldier boy shall occupy his room. envy it's a bigger thing you're doing than the most of us have done; we have lived the days of pleasure; now the gray days have begun, and upon your manly shoulders fall the burdens of the strife; yours must be the sacrifices of the trial time of life. oh, i don't know how to say it, but i'll never think of you without wishing i were sharing in the work you have to do. i have never known a moment that was fraught with real care, save the hurts and griefs of sorrow that all mortals have to bear; with the gay and smiling marchers i have tramped on pleasant ways, and have paid with feeble service for the gladness of my days. but to you has come a summons, yours are days of sacrifice, and for all life has of sweetness you must pay a bitter price. men have fought and died before me, men must fight and die to-day, i have merely taken pleasures for which others had to pay; i have been a man of laughter, there's no path my feet have made, i have merely been a marcher in life's gaudy dress parade. but you wear the garb of service, you have splendid deeds to do, you shall sound the depths of manhood, and my boy, i envy you. for your boy and mine your dream and my dream is not that we shall rest, but that our children after us shall know life at its best; for all we care about ourselves--a crust of bread or two, a place to sleep and clothes to wear is all that we'd pursue. we'd tramp the world on sunny days, both light of heart and mind, and give no thought to days to come or days we leave behind. your dream and my dream is not that we shall play, but that our children after us shall tread a merry way. we brave the toil of life for them, for them we clamber high, and if 'twould spare them hurt and pain, for them we'd gladly die. if we had but ourselves to serve, we'd quit the ways of pride and with the simplest joys of earth we'd all be satisfied. the best for them is what we dream. our little girls and boys must know the finest life can give of comforts and of joys. they must be shielded well from woe and kept secure from care, and if we could, upon our backs, their burdens we would bear. and so once more we rise to-day to face the battle zone that those who follow us may know the flag that we have known. your dream and my dream is not that we shall live; the greatest joys we hope to claim are those that we shall give. we face the heat and strife of life, its battle and its toil that those who follow us may know the best of freedom's soil. and if we knew that by our death we'd keep that flag on high, for your boy and my boy, how gladly we would die. soldierly the glory of a soldier--and a soldier's not a saint-- is the way he does his duty without grumbling or complaint; his work's not always pleasant, but he does it rain or shine, and he grabs a bit of glory when he's fighting in the line; but the lesson that he teaches every day to me an' you is the way to do a duty that we do not like to do. any sort o' chap can whistle when his work is mostly fun; a hundred want the pleasant jobs to every sturdy one that'll grab the dreary duty an' the mean an' lowly task, or the drab an' cheerless service that life often has to ask; but somebody has to do it, an' the test of me an' you is the way we face the labor that we do not like to do. now, it isn't very pleasant standin' guard out in the rain but it's in the line o' duty, an' no soldier will complain, an' there isn't any soldier but what sometimes hates his work when the dress parade is over, an' perhaps he'd like to shirk, but he's there to follow orders, not to pick an' choose his post, an' he sometimes shines the finest at the job he hates the most. let's be soldiers in the struggle, let's be loyal through and through; life is going to give us duties that perhaps we'll hate to do. there'll be little sacrifices that we will not like to make, there'll be many tasks unpleasant that will fall to us to take. an' although we all would rather do the work that brings applause, let's forget our whims and fancies an' just labor for the cause. the alarm get off your downy cots of ease, there's work that must be done. great danger's riding on the seas. the storm is coming on. don't think that it will quickly pass. who smiles at distant fate, and waits until it strikes, alas! has roused himself too late. who thinks the fight will end before the need of him arrives, is lengthening this brutal war and costing many lives. for over us that storm shall break ere many weeks have fled, and we shall pay for our mistake in fields of mangled dead. be ready when the foe shall near, be there to strike him hard; let us, though he be miles from here, be standing now on guard. to-morrow's victories won't be won by pluck that we display to-morrow when the foe comes on, but by our work to-day. the boy enlists his mother's eyes are saddened, and her cheeks are stained with tears, and i'm facing now the struggle that i've dreaded through the years; for the boy that was our baby has been changed into a man. he's enlisted in the army as a true american. he held her for a moment in his arms before he spoke, and i watched him as he kissed her, and it seemed to me i'd choke, for i knew just what was coming, and i knew just what he'd done! 'another little mother had a soldier for a son. when we'd pulled ourselves together, and the first quick tears had dried, we could see his eyes were blazing with the fire of manly pride; we could see his head was higher than it ever was before, for we had a man to cherish, and our baby was no more. oh, i don't know how to say it! with the sorrow comes the joy that there isn't any coward in the make-up of our boy. and with pride our hearts are swelling, though with grief they're also hit, for the boy that was our baby has stepped forth to do his bit, the mother faith little mother, life's adventure calls your boy away, yet he will return to you on some brighter day; dry your tears and cease to sigh, keep your mother smile, brave and strong he will come back in a little while. little mother, heed them not--they who preach despair-- you shall have your boy again, brave and oh, so fair! life has need of him to-day, but with victory won, safely life shall bring to you once again your son. little mother, keep the faith: not to death he goes; share with him the joy of worth that your soldier knows. he is giving to the flag all that man can give, and if you believe he will, surely he will live. little mother, through the night of his absence long, never cease to think of him--brave and well and strong; you shall know his kiss again, you shall see his smile, for your boy shall come to you in a little while. thoughts of a soldier since men with life must purchase life and some must die that more may live, unto the great cashier of strife a fine accounting let me give. perhaps to-morrow i shall stand before his cage, prepared to buy new splendor for my native land: oh, god, then bravely let me die! if after i shall fall, shall rise a fairer land than i have known, i shall not grudge my sacrifice, although i pay the price alone. if still more beautiful to see the stars and stripes o'er men shall wave and finer shall my country be, to-morrow let me find my grave. to-night life seems so fair and sweet, yet tyranny is stalking here, and hate and lust and foul deceit hang heavy on the atmosphere. injustice seeks to throttle right, and laughter's stifled to a sigh. if death can take so great a blight from human lives, then let me die. if death must be the cost of life, and freedom's terms are human souls, into the thickest of the strife then let me go to pay the tolls. i would enrich my native land, new splendor to her flag i'd give, if where i fall shall freedom stand, and where i die shall freedom live. to-morrow death with me may trade; let me not quibble o'er the price; but may i, once the bargain's made, with courage meet the sacrifice. if happiness for ages long my little term of life can buy, god, for my country make me strong; to-morrow let me bravely die. the flag on the farm we've raised a flagpole on the farm and flung old glory to the sky, and it's another touch of charm that seems to cheer the passer-by, but more than that, no matter where we're laboring in wood and field, we turn and see it in the air, our promise of a greater yield. it whispers to us all day long from dawn to dusk: "be true, be strong; who falters now with plough or hoe gives comfort to his country's foe." it seems to me i've never tried to do so much about the place, nor been so slow to come inside, but since i've got the flag to face, each night when i come home to rest i feel that i must look up there and say: "old flag, i've done my best, to-day i've tried to do my share." and sometimes, just to catch the breeze, i stop my work, and o'er the trees old glory fairly shouts my way: "you're shirking far too much to-day!" the help have caught the spirit, too; the hired man takes off his cap before the old red, white and blue, then to the horses says: "giddap!" and starting bravely to the field he tells the milkmaid by the door: "we're going to make these acres yield more than they've ever done before." she smiles to hear his gallant brag, then drops a curtsey to the flag, and in her eyes there seems to shine a patriotism that is fine. 'we've raised a flagpole on the farm and flung old glory to the sky, we're far removed from war's alarm, but courage here is running high. we're doing things we never dreamed we'd ever find the time to do; deeds that impossible once seemed each morning now we hurry through. the flag now waves above our toil and sheds its glory on the soil, and boy and man look up to it as if to say: "i'll do my bit!" the mother on the sidewalk the mother on the sidewalk as the troops are marching by is the mother of old glory that is waving in the sky. men have fought to keep it splendid, men have died to keep it bright, but that flag was born of woman and her sufferings day and night; 'tis her sacrifice has made it, and once more we ought to pray for the brave and loyal mother of the boy that goes away. there are days of grief before her, there are hours that she will weep, there are nights of anxious waiting when her fear will banish sleep; she has heard her country calling and has risen to the test, and has placed upon the altar of the nation's need, her best. and no man shall ever surfer in the turmoil of the fray the anguish of the mother of the boy who goes away. you may boast men's deeds of glory, you may tell their courage great, but to die is easier service than alone to sit and wait, and i hail the little mother, with the tear-stained face and grave who has given the flag a soldier--she's the bravest of the brave. and that banner we are proud of, with its red and blue and white is a lasting tribute holy to all mothers' love of right. the big deeds we are done with little thinking and we're done with little deeds, we are done with petty conduct and we're done with narrow creeds; we have grown to men and women, and we've noble work to do, and to-day we are a people with a larger point of view. in a big way we must labor, if our flag shall always fly. in a big way some must suffer, in a big way some must die. there must be no little dreaming in the visions that we see, there must be no selfish planning in the joys that are to be; 'we have set our faces eastwards to the rising of the sun that shall light a better nation, and there's big work to be done. and the petty souls and narrow, seeking only selfish gain, shall be vanquished by the toilers big enough to suffer pain. it's a big task we have taken; 'tis for others we must fight. we must see our duty clearly in a white and shining light; we must quit our little circles where we've moved in little ways, and work, as men and women, for the bigger, better days. we must quit our selfish thinking and our narrow views and creeds. and as people, big and splendid, we must do the bigger deeds. the wrist watch man he is marching dusty highways and he's riding bitter trails, his eyes are clear and shining and his muscles hard as nails. he is wearing yankee khaki and a healthy coat of tan, and the chap that we are backing is the wrist watch man. he's no parlor dude, a-prancing, he's no puny pacifist, and it's not for affectation there's a watch upon his wrist. he's a fine two-fisted scrapper, he is pure american, and the backbone of the nation is the wrist watch man. he is marching with a rifle, he is digging in a trench, he is swapping english phrases with a poilu for his french; you will find him in the navy doing anything he can, for at every post of duty is the wrist watch man. oh, the time was that we chuckled at the soft and flabby chap who wore a little wrist watch that was fastened with a strap. but the chuckles all have vanished, and with glory now we scan the courage and the splendor of the wrist watch man. he is not the man we laughed at, not the one who won our jeers, he's the man that we are proud of, he's the man that owns our cheers; he's the finest of the finest, he's the bravest of the clan, and i pray for god's protection for our wrist watch man. follow the flag aye, we will follow the flag wherever she goes, into the tropic sun, into the northern snows; go where the guns ring out scattering steel and lead, painting the hills with blood, strewing the fields with dead. but in each heart must be, and back of each bitter gun, love for the best in life after the fighting's done. aye, we will follow the flag into benighted lands, brave in the faith for which, proudly, our banner stands. life for her life we'll pay, blood for her blood we'll give, fighting, but not to kill, save that the best shall live. but, when the cannon's roar dies in a hymn of peace, justice and truth must reign, power of the brute must cease. aye, we will follow the flag, gladly her work we'll do, banishing wrongs of old, founding the truth anew. what though our guns must speak, what though brave men must die, ages of truth to come all this shall justify. men in the charms of peace, basking in freedom's sun, some day shall bless our flag after our work is done. aye, we will follow the flag wherever she goes, into the tropic sun, into the northern snows. fearlessly, on we'll go into the cruel strife, gladly the few shall die, winning for many, life. tyranny's wrongs must cease, brutes must no longer brag, this is our work on earth, so we will follow the flag. we've had a letter from the boy we've had a letter from the boy, and oh, the gladness and the joy it brought to us! we read it o'er i'd say a dozen times or more. we laughed until the teardrops fell at all the fun he had to tell. he's in the navy, wearing blue, and everything is all so new that he can see in youthful style the funny things to make us smile. he's working hard! between the lines we gather that. the brass he shines without complaining, and the food he gets to eat is very crude. and yet he laughs at all his chores. he says the maid who scrubs our floors will have to quit when he returns unless a better way she learns. "i've got it on the fairer sex," says he, "since i am swabbing decks." "a sailor's life, dear mom," writes he, "is not the life you picked for me. and yet i'm getting fat and strong and learning as i go along that any life a man can find is apt to grow to be a grind unless a fellow has the wit to see the brighter side of it. don't worry for your sailor son; he sleeps well when his work is done." we've had a letter from the boy, and oh, the gladness and the joy it brought to us! 'twas good to know that he is facing duty so. between the lines that he had penned his mother's bitter fears to end, i saw his manhood glowing bright, and now i know his heart is right. behind the laughter i could see my boy's the man i'd hoped he'd be. exempt they have said you needn't go to the front to face the foe; they have left you with jour women and your children safe at home; they have spared you from the crash of the murderous guns that flash and the horrors and the madness and the death across the foam. but it's your fight, just the same, and your country still must claim the splendor of your manhood and the best that you can do; in a thousand different ways through the dark and troubled days, you must stand behind the nation that has been so good to you. you're exempt from shot and shell, from the havoc and the hell that have robbed the world of gladness; you have missed the sterner fate of the brave young men and fine, that are falling into line, you may stay among your children who are swinging on the gate. but you're not exempt from love of the flag that flies above, you've a greater obligation to your country to be true; you must work from day to day in a bigger, better way for the glory of the nation that has been so good to you. you are not exempt from trial, from long days of self-denial, from devotion to your homeland and from courage in the test. you are not exempt from giving to your country's needs and living as a citizen and soldier--an example of the best. you've a harder task before you than the boys who're fighting for you, you must match their splendid courage and devotion through and through; you must prove by fine endeavor, and by standing constant ever that you're worthy of the country that has been so good to you. duty we know not where the path may lead nor what the end may be, the clouds are dark above us now, the future none can see, and yet when all the storms have passed, and cannons cease to roar, we shall be prouder of our flag than we have been before. we could not longer idle stay, spectators of a wrong, the weak were crying out for help against oppression strong; and though we pray we may be spared the bitterness of strife, 'twere better that we die than live the coward's feeble life. we could not longer silent sit, our glory at an end, and blind ourselves unto the wrongs committed by a friend; we must be tolerant with all, yet in these days of hate, some things have happened that it would be shame to tolerate. and now we stand before the world, erect and calm and grave, and speak the words that decency must rule the land and wave; into the chaos of despair we fling ourselves to-day as guardians of a precious trust hate must not sweep away. we must rejoice, if we are men, not weak and soft of heart that we have heeded duty's call, and taken up our part. and when at last sweet peace shall come, and all the strife is o'er, we shall be prouder of our flag than we have been before, a prayer god grant to us the strength of men, the patience of the brave; the wisdom to be silent, when the days with doubt are grave. when dangers come, as come they must, throughout the trying hours let us continue still to trust that triumph shall be ours. we have foresworn our days of ease to battle for the right, to venture over troubled seas oppression's wrongs to fight. and we have pledged ourselves to grief, and bitter hurt and pain, then must we cling to this belief: we suffer not in vain. god grant to us the strength of men, god help us to be true until that glorious morning when the world shall smile anew. we shall be tested sore and tried, and flayed by many fears, yet let us in this faith abide, that right shall rule the years. sympathy one came to the house with a pretty speech: "it's all for the best," said he, and i know that he sought my heart to reach, and i know that he grieved with me. but i was too full of my sorrow then to list to his words or care; though i've tried i cannot recall again the comfort he gave me there. but another came, and his lips were dumb as he grasped me by the hand, and he stammered: "old man, i had to come, oh, i hope you'll understand." and ever since then i have felt his hand clasped tightly in my own, and to-day his silence i understand-- my sorrowing he had known. hate they say we must not hate, nor fight in hate. i've thought it over many a solemn hour, and cannot mildly view the man or state that has no thought, save only to be great; i cannot love the creature drunk with power. i hate the hand that slaughters babes at sea, i hate that will that orders wives to die. and there is something rises up in me when brutes run wild in crime and lechery that soft adjustments will not satisfy. men seldom fight the things they do not hate; a vice grows strong on mildly tempered scorn; rank thrives the weed the gardeners tolerate; you cannot stroke the snake that lies in wait, and change his nature with to-morrow's morn. if roses are to bloom, the weeds must go; vice be dethroned if virtue is to reign; honor and shame together cannot grow, sin either conquers or we lay it low, wrong must be hated if the truth remain. i hold that we must fight this war in hate-- in bitter hate of blood in fury spilled; of children, bending over book and slate, slaughtered to make a prussian despot great; in hate of mothers pitilessly killed. in hate of liars plotting wars for gain; in hate of crimes too black for printed page; in hate of wrongs that mark the tyrant's reign-- and crush forever all within his train. such hate shall be the glory of our age. general pershing he isn't long on speeches. at the banquet table, he could name a dozen places where he would much rather be. he's not one for fuss and feathers or for marching in review, but he's busy every minute when he's got a job to do. and you'll find him in the open, fighting hard and fighting square for the glory of his country when his boys get over there. he has listened to the cheering of the splendid folks of france, and he knows that he's the leader of america's advance, and he knows his task is mighty and that words will not avail, so he's standing to his duty, for he isn't there to fail. and you'll find him cool and steady when the guns begin to flare, and he'll talk in deeds of glory when his boys get over there. he has gone to face the fury of the prussian hordes that sweep o'er the fertile fields of freedom, where the forms of heroes sleep, and it seems no time for talking or for laughter or for cheers, with the wounded all about him and their moaning in his ears. he is waiting for to-morrow, waiting there to do his share, and he'll strike a blow for freedom when his boys get over there. the better thing it is better to die for the flag, for its red and its white and its blue, than to hang back and shirk and to lag and let the flag sink out of view. it is better to give up this life in the heat and the thick of the strife than to live out your days 'neath a sky, where old glory shall never more fly. the peace that we long for will be far worse than the war that we dread if never again we're to see the blue, and the white and the red wind-tossed and sun-kissed in the skies. if ever the stars and stripes dies or loses its lustre and pride, we shall wish in our souls we had died. it is better by far that we die than that flag shall pass out of the world; if ever it ceases to fly, if ever it's hauled down and furled, dishonor shall stamp us with shame and freedom be naught but a name, and the few years of dearly-bought breath will be filled with worse horrors than death. to a lady knitting little woman, hourly sitting, something for a soldier knitting, what in fancy can you see? many pictures come to me through the stitch that now you're making: i behold a bullet breaking; i can see some soldier lying in that garment slowly dying, and that very bit of thread in your fingers, turns to red. gray to-day; perhaps to-morrow crimsoned by the blood of sorrow. it may be some hero daring shall that very thing be wearing when he ventures forth to give life that other men may live. he may braver wield the saber as a tribute to your labor, and for that, which you have knitted, better for his task be fitted. when the thread has left your finger, something of yourself may linger, something of your lovely beauty may sustain him in his duty. some one's boy that was a baby soon shall wear it, and it may be he will write and tell his mother of the kindness of another, and her spirit shall caress you, and her prayers at night shall bless you. you may never know its story, cannot know the grief or glory that are destined now and hover over him your wool shall cover, nor what spirit shall invade it once your gentle hands have made it. little woman, hourly sitting, something for a soldier knitting, 'tis no common garb you're making, these, no common pains you're taking. something lovely, holy, lingers o'er the needles in your fingers and with every stitch you're weaving something of yourself you're leaving. from your gentle hands and tender there may come a nation's splendor, and from this, your simple duty, life may win a fairer beauty. a good soldier he writes to us most every day, and how his letters thrill us! i can't describe the joys with which his quaint expressions fill us. he says the military life is not of his selection, he's only soldiering to-day to give the flag protection. but since he's in the army now and doing duties humble, he'll do what all good soldiers must, and he will never grumble. he's not so keen for standing guard, a lonely vigil keeping, "but when i must," he writes to us, "they'll never find me sleeping! i hear a lot of boys complain about the tasks they set us and there's no doubt that mother's meals can beat the ones they get us, but since i'm here to do my bit, close to the job i'm sticking; i'll take whatever comes my way and waste no word in kicking. "i'd like to be a captain, dad, a major or a colonel, i'd like to get my picture in some illustrated journal; i don't exactly fancy jobs that now and then come my way, like picking bits of rubbish up that desecrate the highway. but still i'll do those menial tasks as cheerfully as could one, for while i am a private here i'm going to be a good one. "a soldier's life is not the way i'd choose to make my living, but now i'm in the ranks to serve, my best to it i'm giving. oh, i could name a dozen jobs that i'd consider finer, but since i've got this one to do i'll never be a whiner. i'm just a private in the ranks, but take it from my letter, they'll never fire your son for one who'll do his duty better." his santa claus he will not come to him this year with all his old-time joy, an imitation santa claus must serve his little boy; last year he heard the reindeers paw the roof above his head, and as he dreamed the kindly saint tip-toed about his bed, but christmas eve he will not come by any happy chance; this year his kindly santa claus must guard a trench in france. his mother bravely tries to smile; last christmas eve was gay; last christmas morn his daddy rose at dawn with him to play; this year he'll hang his stocking by the chimney, but the hands that filled it with the joys he craved now serve in foreign lands. he is too young to understand his mother's troubled glance, but he that was his santa claus is in a trench in france. somewhere in france this christmas eve a soldier brave will be, and all that night in fancy he will trim a christmas tree; and all that night he'll live again the joys that once he had when he was good st. nicholas unto a certain lad. and he will wonder if his boy, by any sad mischance, will find his stocking empty just because he serves in france. show the flag show the flag and let it wave as a symbol of the brave; let it float upon the breeze as a sign for each who sees that beneath it, where it rides, loyalty to-day abides. show the flag and signify that it wasn't born to die; let its colors speak for you that you still are standing true, true in sight of god and man to the work that flag began. show the flag that all may see that you serve humanity. let it whisper to the breeze that comes singing through the trees that whatever storms descend you'll be faithful to the end. show the flag and let it fly, cheering every passer-by--men that may have stepped aside, may have lost their old-time pride, may behold it there, and then consecrate themselves again. show the flag! the day is gone when men blindly hurry on serving only gods of gold; now the spirit that was cold warms again to courage fine. show the flag and fall in line! the honor roll the boys upon the honor roll, god bless them all, i pray! god watch them when they sleep at night, and guard them through the day. we've stamped their names upon our walls, the list in glory grows, our brave boys and our splendid boys who stand to meet our foes. oh, here are sons of mothers fair and fathers fine and true, the little ones of yesterday, the children that we knew; we thought of them as youngsters gay, still laughing at their games, and then we found the honor roll emblazoned with their names. we missed their laughter and their cheer; it seems but yesterday we had them here to walk with us, and now they've marched away. and here where once their smiles were seen we keep a printed scroll; the absent boy we long to see is on the honor roll. so quickly did the summons come we scarcely marked the change, one day life marched its normal pace, the next all things seemed strange, and when we questioned where they were, the sturdiest of us all, we saw the silent honor roll on each familiar wall. the laughter that we knew has gone; the merry voice of youth no longer rings where graybeards sit, discussing sombre truth. no longer jests are flung about to rouse our weary souls, for they who meant so much to us are on our honor rolls. the princess pats a touch of the plain and the prairie, a bit of the motherland, too; a strain of the fur-trapper wary, a blend of the old and the new; a bit of the pioneer splendor that opened the wilderness' flats, a touch of the home-lover, tender, you'll find in the boys they call pats. the glory and grace of the maple, the strength that is born of the wheat, the pride of a stock that is staple, the bronze of a midsummer heat; a blending of wisdom and daring, the best of a new land, and that's the regiment gallantly bearing the neat little title of pats. a bit of the man who has neighbored with mountains and forests and streams, a touch of the man who has labored to model and fashion his dreams; the strength of an age of clean living, of right-minded fatherly chats, the best that a land could be giving is there in the breasts of the pats. july the fourth, time was the cry went round the world: america for freedom speaks, a new flag is to-day unfurled, an eagle on the mountain shrieks, a king is failing on his throne, a race of men defies his power! and no one could have guessed or known the burden of that splendid hour. a bell rang out that summer day and men and women stood and heard; that tongue of brass had more to say than could be spoken by a word. it spoke the thoughts of honest men, it whispered destiny's intents and rang a warning loudly then to kings of all the continents. the old bell in its holy loft where pigeons nest, has ceased to swing and yet through many a day and oft a weary people hear it sing. that hour long years ago, when first america for freedom fought, the bonds of slavery were burst: that hour began the reign of thought. here comes another summer day: america is on the sea, america has dared to say that other people shall be free. no selfish stain her banner mars, her flag, for truth and right, unfurled, with every stripe and all its stars still speaks its message to the world out where the soldiers fight for men, out where, for others, heroes die, out where they storm the tyrant's den, the starry banner lights the sky. and once again the cry goes out that brings the flush of hope to cheeks grown pale by bitter war and doubt: "america for freedom speaks." spring in the trenches it's coming time for planting in that little patch of ground, where the lad and i made merry as he followed me around; the sun is getting higher, and the skies above are blue, and i'm hungry for the garden, and i wish the war were through. but it's tramp, tramp, tramp, and it's never look behind, and when you see a stranger's kids, pretend that you are blind. the spring is coming back again, the birds begin to mate; the skies are full of kindness, but the world is full of hate. and it's i that should be bending now in peace above the soil, with laughing eyes and little hands about to bless the toil. but it's fight, fight, fight, and it's charge at double-quick; a soldier thinking thoughts of home is one more soldier sick. last year i brought the bulbs to bloom and saw the roses bud; this year i'm ankle deep in mire, and most of it is blood. last year the mother in the door was glad as she could be; to-day her heart is full of pain, and mine is hurting me. but it's shoot, shoot, shoot, and when the bullets hiss, don't let the tears fill up your eyes, for weeping soldiers miss. oh, who will tend the roses now and who will sow the seeds? and who will do the heavy work the little garden needs? and who will tell the lad of mine the things he wants to know, and take his hand and lead him round the paths we used to go? for it's charge, charge, charge, and it's face the foe once more; forget the things you love the most and keep your mind on war. bigger than his dad he has heard his country calling, and has fallen into line, and he's doing something bigger than his daddy ever did; he has caught a greater vision than the finest one of mine, and i know to-day i'm prouder of than sorry for the kid. his speech is soft and vibrant with the messages of truth, and he says some things of duty that i cannot understand; it may be that i'm selfish, but this ending of his youth is not the dream i cherished and it's not the thing i planned. i only know he's bigger in his uniform to-day than i, who stand and watch him as he drills, have ever been; that he sees a greater vision of life's purpose far away, and a finer goal to die for than my eyes have ever seen. i wish i felt as he does, wish i had his sense of right; with the vision he possesses i should be supremely glad; but i sometimes start to choking when i think of him at night-- the boy that has grown bigger, yes, and better than his dad. the boy's adventure "dear father," he wrote me from somewhere in france, where he's waiting with pershing to lead the advance, "there's little the censor permits me to tell save the fact that i'm here and am happy and well. the french people cheered as we marched from our ship at the close of a really remarkable trip; they danced and they screamed and they shouted and ran, and i blush as i write. i was kissed by a man! "i've seen a great deal since i bade you good-bye, i have witnessed a battle far up in the sky; i have heard the dull roar of a long line of guns, and seen the destruction that's worked by the huns; some scenes i'll remember, and some i'll forget, but the welcome he gave me! i'm feeling it yet. oh, try to imagine your boy if you can, as he looked and he felt, being kissed by a man! "'ah, meestaire!' he cried in a voice that was shrill, and his queer little eyes with delight seemed to fill, and before i was wise to the custom, or knew just what he was up to, about me he threw his arms, and he hugged me, and then with a squeak, he planted a chaste little kiss on each cheek. he was stocky and strong and his whiskers were tan. now please keep it dark. i've been kissed by a man." out of it all out of it all shall come splendor and gladness; out of the madness and out of the sadness, clearer and finer the world shall arise. why then keep sorrow and doubt in your eyes? joy shall be ours when the warfare is over; children shall gleefully romp in the clover; here with our heroes at home and at rest, we shall rejoice with the world at its best. not in vain, not in vain, is our bright banner flying; not for naught are the sons of our fond mothers dying; the gloom and despair are not ever to last; the world shall be better when they shall have passed. so mourn not his absence, but smile and be brave; you shall have him again from the brink of the grave in a wonderful world 'neath a wonderful sun; he shall come to your arms with his victory won. the christmas box oh, we have shipped his christmas box with ribbons red 'tis tied, and he shall find the things he likes from them he loves inside, but he must miss the kisses true and all the laughter gay and he must miss the smiles of home upon his christmas day. he'll spend his christmas 'neath the flag; he'll miss each merry face, old glory smiling down on him must take his mother's place, yet in the christmas box we've sent, in fancy he will find the laughter and the tears of joy that he has left behind. his mother's tenderness is there, his father's kindly way, and all that went last year to make his merry christmas day; he'll see once more his sister's smile, he'll hear the baby shout, and as he opens every gift we'll gather round about. he cannot come to share with us the joys of christmas day; the flag has called to him, and he is serving far away. undaunted, unafraid and fine he stands to duty grim, and so this christmas we have tried to ship ourselves to him. a plea god grant me these: the strength to do some needed service here; the wisdom to be brave and true; the gift of vision clear, that in each task that comes to me some purpose i may plainly see. god teach me to believe that i am stationed at a post, although the humblest 'neath the sky, where i am needed most, and that, at last, if i do well, my humble services will tell. god grant me faith to stand on guard, uncheered, unspoke, alone, and see behind such duty hard my service to the throne. whate'er my task, be this my creed: i am on earth to fill a need. your country needs you the country needs a man like you, it has a task for you to do. it has a job for you to face. somewhere for you it has a place. not all the slackers dodge the work of service where the cannon lurk, not all the slackers on life's stage are boys of military age. the old, the youthful and unfit must also do their little bit. the country needs a man like you, 'twill suffer if you prove untrue. what though you cannot bear a gun? that isn't all that's to be done. there are a thousand other ways to serve your country through the days of trial and the nights of storm. you need not wear a uniform or with the men in council sit to serve the flag and do your bit. somewhere for you there is a place, somewhere you have a task to face. there's none so helpless or so frail that cannot, when our foes assail, in some way help our common cause and be deserving of applause. behind the flag we all must be, each at his post, awake to see that in so far as he has striven, his best was to his country given. you can be patient, brave and strong, and not complain when plans go wrong; you can be cheerful at your toil, or till, perhaps, some patch of soil; you can encourage others who have heavier, greater tasks to do; you can be loyal, not in creed alone, but in each thought and deed; you can make sacrifices, too. the country needs a man like you, a creed to keep in mind from day to day that i'm a soldier in the fray; that i must serve, from sun to sun, as well as he who bears a gun the flag that flies above us all, and answer well my country's call. i must not for one hour forget unto the stars and stripes my debt. 'twas spotless on' my day of birth, and when at last i quit this earth old glory still must spotless be for all who follow after me. at some post where my work will fit i must with courage do my bit; some portion of myself i'd give that freedom and the flag may live. and in some way i want to feel that i am doing service real. i must in all i say and do respect the red, the white and blue', nor dim with petty deeds of shame the splendor of old glory's fame; i must not let my standards drag, for my disgrace would stain the flag. the struggle life is a struggle for peace, a longing for rest, a hope for the battles to cease, a dream for the best; and he is not living who stays contented with things, unconcerned with the work of the days and all that it brings. he is dead who sees nothing to change, no wrong to make right; who travels no new way or strange in search of the light; who never sets out for a goal that he sees from afar but contents his indifferent soul with things as they are. life isn't rest--it is toil; it is building a dream; it is tilling a parcel of soil or bridging a stream; it's pursuing the light of a star that but dimly we see, and in wresting from things as they are the joy that should be. as it looks to the boy his comrades have enlisted, but his mother bids him stay, his soul is sick with coward shame, his head hangs low to-day, his eyes no longer sparkle, and his breast is void of pride and i think that she has lost him though she's kept him at her side. oh, i'm sorry for the mother, but i'm sorrier for the lad who must look on life forever as a hopeless dream and sad. he must fancy men are sneering as they see him walk the street, he will feel his cheeks turn crimson as his eyes another's meet; and the boys and girls that knew him as he was but yesterday, will not seem to smile upon him, in the old familiar way. he will never blame his mother, but when he's alone at night, his thoughts will flock to tell him that he isn't doing right. oh, i'm sorry for the mother from whose side a boy must go, and the strong desire to keep him that she feels, i think i know, but the boy that she's so fond of has a life to live on earth, and he hungers to be busy with the work that is of worth. he will sicken and grow timid, he'll be flesh without a heart until death at last shall claim him, if he doesn't do his part. have you kept him, gentle mother? has he lost his old-time cheer? is he silent, sad and sullen? are his eyes no longer clear? is he growing weak and flabby who but yesterday was strong? then a secret grief he's nursing and i'll tell you what is wrong. all his comrades have departed on their country's noblest work, and he hungers to be with them--it is not his wish to shirk. fly a clean flag this i heard the old flag say as i passed it yesterday: "months ago your friendly hands fastened me on slender strands and with patriotic love placed me here to wave above you and yours. i heard you say on that long departed day: 'flag of all that's true and fine, wave above this house of mine; be the first at break of day and the last at night to say to the world this word of cheer: loyalty abideth here.' "here on every wind that's blown, o'er your" portal i have flown; rain and snow have battered me, storms at night have tattered me; dust of street and chimney stack day by day have stained me black, and i've watched you passing there, wondering how much you care. have you noticed that your flag, is to-day a wind-blown rag? has your love so careless grown by the long neglect you've shown that you never raise your eye to the symbol that you fly?" "flag, on which no stain has been, 'tis my sin that you're unclean," then i answered in my shame. "on my head must lie the blame. now with patriotic hands i release you from your strands, and a spotless flag shall fly here to greet each passer-by. nevermore shall flag of mine be a sad and sorry sign telling all who look above i neglect the thing i love. but my flag of faith shall be fit for every eye to see." to a kindly critic if it's wrong to believe in the land that we love and to pray for our flag to the good god above; if it's wrong to believe that our country is best; that honor's her standard, and truth is her crest; if placing her first in our prayers and our song is false to true reason, we're glad to be wrong. if it's wrong to wish victory day after day for the troops of our country now marching away; if it's wrong to believe they are moved by the right and not by the love and the lure of the fight; if to cheer them to battle and bid them be strong is false to right thinking, then let us be wrong. if it's wrong to believe in america's dreams of a freedom on earth that's as real as it seems; if it's error to cherish the hope, through and through, that the stars in old glory's immaculate blue shall shine through the ages, true beacons to men, we pray that no right phrase shall flow from our pen. war's homecoming we little thought how much they meant--the bleeding hearts of france, and british mothers wearing black to mark some troop's advance, the war was, o, so distant then, the grief so far away, we couldn't see the weeping eyes, nor hear the women pray. we couldn't sense the weight of woe that rested on that land, but now our boy is called to go--to-day, we understand. there, some have heard the blackest news that o'er the wires has sped, and some are living day by day beneath the clouds of dread; some fear the worst; some know the worst, but every heart is chilled, and every soul is sorrow touched and laughter there is stilled. there, old folks sit alone and grieve and pray for peace to come, and now our little boy has heard the summons of the drum. their grief was such a distant thing, we made it fruit for speech. we never thought in days of old such pain our hearts would reach. we talked of it, as people do of sorrow far aloof, nor dreamed such care would ever dwell beneath our happy roof. but england's woes are ours to-day, we share the sighs of france; our little boy is on the sea with death to take his chance. next of kin i notice when the news comes in of one who's claimed eternal glory, this simple phrase, "the next of kin," concludes the soldier's final story. this tells the world what voice will choke, what heart that bit of shrapnel broke, what father or what mother brave will think of flanders as a grave. "the next of kin," the cable cold wastes not a precious word in telling, yet cannot you and i behold the sorrow in some humble dwelling, and cannot you and i perceive the brave yet lonely mother grieve and picture, when that news comes in, the anguish of "the next of kin?" for every boy in uniform, another soldier brave is fighting; a double rank the cannons storm, two lines the cables are uniting, and with the hurt each soldier feels, at home the other warrior reels; two suffer, freedom's cause to win: the soldier and "the next of kin." oh, next of kin, be brave, be strong, as brave as was the boy that's missing; the years will many be and long that you will hunger for his kissing. yet he enlisted you with him to share war's bitter price and grim; your service runs through many years because your name with his appears. see it through there are many to cheer when the battle begins there are many to shout for the right; there are many to rail at the world and its sins but few have the grit for the fight. there are thousands to start with a rush for the fray when the fighting seems easy to do, but when danger is present and rough is the way, the few have to see the job through. it is easy to quit with a battle unwon, it is hard to press on to success; it is easy to stop with a purpose undone, it is hard to encounter distress. and many will march when the roadway is clear and the glorious goal is in view, but the many, too often, when dangers appear, aren't willing to see the fight through. they weaken in spirit when trials grow great, they flinch at the clashing of steel; they talk of the strength of the foe at the gate and whine at the hurts that they feel. they begin to regret having ventured for right, they sigh that they dared to be true, they haven't the heart they once had for the fight, they don't want to see the job through. we have set out to battle for justice and truth, we have fearful disasters to meet; we shall weep for the best of our manliest youth, we shall suffer the pangs of defeat. but let us stand firm for the cause that we plead, let the many be brave with the few; the cry of the quitter let none of us heed till we've done what we started to do. hope mine is a song of hope for the days that lie before; for the grander things the morrow brings when the struggle days are o'er. dark be the clouds to-day, bitter the winds that blow, but falter nor fail, through the howling gale-- comes peace in the afterglow. mine is the song of hope, a song for the mother here, who lulls to rest the babe at breast, and hopes for a brighter year. hope is the song she sings, hope is the prayer she prays; as she rocks her boy, she dreams of the joy he'll bring in the future days. mine is the song of hope, a song for the father, too, whose right arm swings, while his anvil sings a song of the journey through. hope is the star that guides, hope is the father's sun; far ahead he sees, through the waving trees, sweet peace when his work is done. mine is the song of hope, of hope that sustains us all; be we young or old, be we weak or bold, do we falter or even fall, brightly the star of hope from the distance is shining still; and with courage new we rise to do, for hope is the god of will. the gold givers oh, some shall stand in glory's light when all the strife is done, and many a mother there shall say, "for truth i gave my son!" but i shall stand in silence then and hear the stories brave, for i must answer at the last that gold is all i gave. when all this age shall pass away, and silenced are the guns, when sweethearts join their loves again, and mothers kiss their sons, when brave unto the brave return, and all they did is told, how pitiful my gift shall seem, when all i gave is gold. when we are asked what did you then, when all the world was red, and some shall say, "i fell in france," and some, "i mourned my dead;" with all the brave assembled there in glory long to live, how trivial our lives shall seem who had but gold to give. the undaunted he tried to travel no man's land, that's guarded well with guns, he tried to race the road of death, where never a coward runs. now he's asking of his doctor, and he's panting hard for breath, how soon he will be ready for another bout with death. you'd think if you had wakened in a shell hole's slime and mud that was partly dirty water, but was mostly human blood, and you had to lie and suffer till the bullets ceased to hum and the night time dropped its cover, so the stretcher boys could come-- you'd think if you had suffered from a fever and its thirst, and could hear the "rapids" spitting and the high explosives burst, and had lived to tell that story--you could face our fellow men in the little peaceful village, though you never fought again. you'd think that once you'd fallen in the shrapnel's deadly rain, once you'd shed your blood for honor, you had borne your share of pain; once you'd traveled no man's country, you'd be satisfied to quit and be invalided homeward, and could say you'd done your bit. but he's lying, patched and bandaged, very white and very weak, and he's trying to be cheerful, though it's agony to speak; he is pleading with the doctor, though he's panting hard for breath, to return him to the trenches for another bout with death. the discovery of a soul _the proof of a man is the danger test_, _that shows him up at his worst or best_. he didn't seem to care for work, he wasn't much at school. his speech was slow and commonplace--you wouldn't call him fool. and yet until the war broke out you'd calmly pass him by, for nothing in his make-up or his way would catch your eye. he seemed indifferent to the world, the kind that doesn't care-- that's satisfied with just enough to eat and drink and wear; that doesn't laugh when others do or cry when others weep, but seems to walk the wakeful world half dormant and asleep; then came the war, and soldiers marched and drums began to roll, and suddenly we realized his body held a soul. we little dreamed how much he loved his country and her flag; about the glorious stars and stripes we'd never heard him brag. but he was first to volunteer, while brilliant men demurred, he took the oath of loyalty without a faltering word, and then we found that he could talk, for one remembered night, there came a preaching pacifist denouncing men who fight, and he got up in uniform and looked at him and said: "i wonder if you ever think about our soldiers dead. all that you are to-day you owe some soldier in his grave; if he had been afraid to fight, you still would be a slave." if he had died a year ago beneath a peaceful sky, unjust our memory would have been; of him our tongues would lie. we should have missed his splendid worth, we should have called him frail and listed him among the weak and sorry men who fail. but few regrets had marked his end; he would have passed unmourned-- perhaps by those who knew him best, indifferently scorned. but now he stands among us all, eyes bright and shoulders true, a strong defender of the faith; a man with work to do; and if he dies, his name shall find its place on history's scroll; the great chance has revealed to men the splendor of his soul. here we are! here we are, britain! the finest and best of us taking our coats off and rolling our sleeves, answering the thoughtless that once made a jest of us, each man a soldier for what he believes. here we are, tight little island, in unity! tell us the job that you want us to do! you can depend on us all with impunity. give us a task and we'll all see it through. here we are, france! every yankee born man of us coming to stand by your side in the fight; liberty's cause makes a whole-hearted clan of us. here we are, willing to die for the right. silently, long from our shores we've admired you, secretly proud of the pluck you've displayed. brothers we are of the love that inspired you; now we are coming, full front, to your aid. here we are, allies! make room in your trenches! shoulder to shoulder we'll share in each drive. here we are! quitting our lathes and our benches, bringing our best that our best shall survive. here we are! liberty's children, red-blooded, coming to share in the struggle with you, ready to die for the flag that's star-studded; tell us the work that you want us to do. what is it, fighting or building you're needing? boring a mountain or bridging a stream, steel work and real work? your call we are heeding. each of us here is a man with a dream. here we are! tacklers of tough jobs and dangers, any old post where you put us we'll fit; coming to serve you as brothers, not strangers; here we are, allies! to offer our bit! we who stay at home when you were just our little boy, on many a night we crept unto your cot and watched o'er you, and all the time you slept. we tucked the covers round your form and smoothed your pillow, too, and sometimes stooped and kissed your cheeks, but that you never knew. just as we came to you back then through many a night and day, our spirits now shall come to you--to kiss and watch and pray. whenever you shall look away into god's patch of sky to think about the folks at home, we shall be standing by. and as we prayed and watched o'er you when you were wrapped in sleep, so through your soldier danger now the old-time watch we'll keep. you will not know that we are there, you will not see or hear, but all the time in prayer and thought we shall be very near. the world has made of you a man; the work of man you do, but unto us you still remain the baby that we knew; and we shall come, as once we did, on wondrous wings of prayer, and you will never know how oft in spirit we are there. we'll stand beside your bed at night, in silence bending low, and all the love we gave you then shall follow where you go. oh, we were proud of you back then, but we are prouder now; we see the stamp of splendor god has placed upon your brow, and we who are the folks at home shall pray the old time prayer, and ask the god of mercy to protect you with his care. and as we came to you of old, although you never knew, the hearts of us, each day and night, shall come with love to you. do your all "do your bit!" how cheap and trite seems that phrase in such a fight! "do your bit!" that cry recall, change it now to "do your all!" do your all, and then do more; do what you're best fitted for; do your utmost, do and give, you have but one life to live. do your finest, do your best, don't let up and stop to rest, don't sit back and idly say: "i did something yesterday." come on! here's another hour, give it all you have of power. here's another day that needs everybody's share of deeds. "do your bit!" of course, but then do it time and time again; giving, doing, all should be up to full capacity. now's no time to pick and choose, we've a war we must not lose. be your duty great or small, do it well and do it all. do by careful, patient living, do by cheerful, open giving; do by serving day by day at whatever post you may; do by sacrificing pleasure, do by scorning hours of leisure. now to god and country give every minute that you live. the future "the worst is yet to come:" so wail the doubters glum, but here's the better view: "my best i've yet to do." the worst some always fear; to-morrow holds no cheer, yet farther on life's lane are joys you shall attain. go forward bravely, then, and play your part as men, for this is ever true: "our best we've yet to do." a father's prayer i sometimes wonder when i read the sorrow in his face if i shall wear that look of care when time has marched apace? my little boy is five years old and his is twenty-one; my little boy is home with me; his boy to war has gone. and i can laugh and dance with life, and i can gayly jest, but heavy is the heart to-day that beats within his breast. time was, his boy was five years old; time was he smiled as i; i wonder what awaits for me when youth has journeyed by? last night i sat at home and watched my little boy at play, and all the time i thought of him whose boy has gone away. and in the joy that i possessed i prayed in silence then that god would quickly bring him back his little boy again. the glory of age "what is the glory of age?" i said, "a hoard of gold and a few dear friends? when you've reached the day that you look ahead and see the place where your journey ends, when time has robbed you of youthful might-- what is the secret of your delight?" and an old man smiled as he answered me: "the glory of age isn't gold or friends, when we've reached the valley of soon-to-be and note the place where our journey ends; the glory of age, be it understood, is a boy out there who is making good. "the greatest joy that can come to man when his sight is dim and his hair is gray; the greatest glory that god can plan to cheer the lives of the old to-day, when they share no more in the battle yell, is a boy out there who is doing well." beautifying the flag to us the flag has little meant. each glorious stripe of red was woven there to represent the blood of heroes dead. on some dim, distant battle line by other men were gained the glories that have made it fine, and idle we've remained. but now the flag shall finer grow and ages yet to be shall find the courage that we show to-day for liberty. of other men the flag has told; it flies for others' deeds; its pride is born of heroes bold who served its by-gone needs. but now our blood shall mingle there with blood of patriots dead, and through the years each stripe shall wear a deeper, truer red. the splendor of the flag shall gleam in every radiant star, and finer shall the banner seem because of what we are. to-day new glory for the flag we give our best to build; of us shall future ages brag, by us their blood be thrilled; and as to us the flag has meant the greatness of the past, the stars and stripes shall represent our courage to the last. the children in the years to be our trials shall discuss, and cheer the emblem of the free, in part, because of us. to the men at home no war is won by cannon fire alone; the soldier bears the grim and dreary role; he dies to serve the flag that he has known; his duty is to gain the distant goal. but if the toiler in his homeland fair falter in faith and shrink from every test, if he be not on duty ever there, lost to the cause is every soldier's best. the men at home, the toiler in the shop, the keen-eyed watcher of the spinning drill hear no command to vault the trench's top; they know not what it is to die or kill, and yet they must be brave and constant, too. upon them lies their precious country's fate; they also serve the flag as soldiers do, 'tis theirs to make a nation's army great. you hold your country's honor in your care. her glory you shall help to make or mar; for they, who now her uniforms must wear can be no braver soldiers than you are. from day to day, in big and little deeds, at bench or lathe or desk or stretch of soil, you are the man your country sorely needs! will you not give to her your finest toil? no war is won by cannon fire alone. the men at home must also share the fight. by what they are, a nation's strength is shown, the army but reflects their love of right. will you not help to hold our battle line, will you not give the fullest of your powers in sacrifice and service that is fine that victory shall speedily be ours? from laughter to labor we have wandered afar in our hunting for pleasure, we have scorned the soul's duty to gather up treasure; we have lived for our laughter and toiled for our winning and paid little heed to the soul's simple sinning. but light were the burdens that freighted us then, god and country, to-day let us prove we are men! we have idled and dreamed in life's merriest places, the years have writ little of care in our faces; we have brought up our children, expectant of gladness, and little we've taught them of life and its sadness. for distant and dim seemed the forces of wrong, god and country, to-day let us prove we are strong! we have had our glad years, now the sad years are coming, we have danced to gay tunes, now we march to war's drumming. we have laughed and have loved as we pleasantly toiled, and now we must show that our souls are unspoiled. we must work that our flag shall in honor still wave, god and country, to-day let us prove we are brave! united forgotten petty difference now, the larger purpose glows, the storm is here, a common fear its deadly lightning shows. the ship of state must bear us all and danger makes us kin, as one, we all shall rise or fall, so shall we strive to win. our banner's flying at the mast, our course lies straight ahead; the ocean's trough is deep and rough, the waves are stained with red. the bond of danger tighter grows, we serve a common plan; send o'er the sea the word that we are all american. one hundred million sturdy souls once more united stand, as one, you will find them all behind the banner of our land. and side by side they work to-day in silken garb or rag, and once again our troops of men are brothers of the flag. and from the storm that hovers low, and from the angry sea where dangers lurk and hate's at work. shall come new victory. the flag shall know not race nor creed, nor different bands of men; a people strong round it shall throng to ne'er divide again. april thoughts listen to the laughter of the brook that's racin' by! listen to the chatter of the black-birds on the fence! stand an' see the beauties of the blue that's in the sky-- then ask of god why mortals haven't any better sense than to quarrel an' to battle where the guns an' cannon rattle an' to slaughter one another an' to fill the world with hate. god brings the buds to blossom where the gentle breezes toss 'em an' the soul is blind to beauty that takes anger for its mate. listen to the singin' of the robins in the trees! see the sunbeams flashin' where they're mirrored by the stream! hear the drowsy buzzin' of the honey-seekin' bees, then draw a little closer to your god the while you dream. when the world is dressed to cheer you don't you feel him standin' near you? when your soul drinks in the beauty of the wonders in his plan, an' you've put away your passions, don't you think the works he fashions in their beauty an' their bigness mock the littleness of man? oh, i never walk an orchard nor a field with daisies strewn, an' i never stand bare-headed gazin' everywhere about at the living joys around me, be it morning, night or noon, but i ask god to forgive me that i ever held a doubt. surely men must walk in blindness, with the whole world tuned to kindness, an' all dumb an' feathered creatures fairly bubblin' o'er with glee to devote themselves to madness that can only end in sadness an' to think that they are being what god put them here to be. the chaplain he was just a small church parson when the war broke out, and he looked and dressed and acted like all parsons that we see. he wore the cleric's broadcloth and he hooked his vest behind, but he had a man's religion and he had a strong man's mind, and he heard the call to duty, and he quit his church and went, and he bravely tramped right with 'em everywhere the boys were sent. he put aside his broadcloth and he put the khaki on; said he'd come to be a soldier and was going to live like one. then he refereed the prize fights that the boys pulled off at night, and if no one else was handy he'd put on the gloves and fight. he wasn't there a fortnight ere he saw the soldiers' needs, and he said: "i'm done with preaching; this is now the time for deeds." he learned the sound of shrapnel, he could tell the size of shell from the shriek it make above him, and he knew just where it fell. in the front line trench he labored, and he knew the feel of mud, and he didn't run from danger and he wasn't scared of blood. he wrote letters for the wounded, and he cheered them with his jokes, and he never made a visit without passing round the smokes. then one day a bullet got him, as he knelt beside a lad who was "going west" right speedy, and they both seemed mighty glad, 'cause he held the boy's hand tighter, and he smiled and whispered low, "now you needn't fear the journey; over there with you i'll go." and they both passed out together, arm in arm i think they went. he had kept his vow to follow everywhere the boys were sent. my part i may never be a hero, i am past the limit now, there are pencil marks of silver time has left upon my brow; i shall win no service medals, i shall hear no cannons' roar, i shall never fight a battle higher up than eagles soar, but i hope my children's children may recall my name with pride as a man who never whimpered when his soul was being tried. for the fighting and the dying for the everlasting truth are the labors designated for the strongest of our youth, and the man that's nearing forty isn't asked to march away, for there is no place in battle for the head that's turning gray. his test is one of patience till the bitter work is done, he must back his country's leaders till the victory is won. when this bitter time is ended i don't want to have it said that i faltered in my courage and i never looked ahead, i don't want it told i added to the burdens and the woe, by preaching dismal doctrines that were cheering to the foe; i want my children's children to respect me and to find that my soul was out there fighting, though my body stayed behind. when this cruel test is over and the boys come back from france i'd not have them say i hindered for a moment their advance; that they found their duty harder than 'twas needful it should be because of the complaining of a lot of men like me. though i'll win no hero's medals and deserve no wild applause, i want to be of service, not a hindrance to the cause. the call some will heed the call to arms, but all must heed the call to grit; the dreamers on the distant farms must rally now to do their bit. the whirring lathes in factories great will sing the martial songs of strife; upon the emery wheel of fate we're grinding now the nation's life. the call is not alone to guns, this is not but a battle test; the world has summoned free men's sons in every field to do their best. the call has come to every man to reach the summit of his powers; to stand to service where he can; a mighty duty now is ours. we must be stalwarts in the field where peace has always kept her throne, no door against the need is sealed, no man to-day can live alone. the young apprentice at the bench, the wise inventor, old and gray, serve with the soldier in the trench, all warriors for the better day. oh, man of science, unto you the call for service now has come! mechanic, banker, lawyer, too, have you not heard the stirring drum? oh, humble digger in the ditch, bend to your spade and do your best, and prove america is rich in manhood fine for every test. each man beneath the starry flag must live his noblest through the strife if tyranny is not to drag into the mire the best of life. though some will wear our uniform, we face to-day a common fate and all must bravely breast the storm and heed the call for courage great. thanksgiving for strength to face the battle's might, for men that dare to die for right, for hearts above the lure of gold and fortune's soft and pleasant way, for courage of our days of old, great god of all, we kneel and pray. we thank thee for our splendid youth. who fight for liberty and truth, within whose breasts there glows anew the glory of the altar fires which our heroic fathers knew-- god make them worthy of their sires! we thank thee for our mothers fair who through the sorrows they must bear still smile, and give their hearts to woe, yet bravely heed the day's command-- that mothers, yet to be, may know a free and glorious motherland. oh, god, we thank thee for the skies where our flag now in glory flies! we thank thee that no love of gain is leading us, but that we fight to keep our banner free from stain and that we die for what is right. oh, god, we thank thee that we may lift up our eyes to thee to-day; we thank thee we can face this test with honor and a spotless name, and that we serve a world distressed unselfishly and free from shame. a patriotic wish i'd like to be the sort of man the flag could boast about; i'd like to be the sort of man it cannot live without; i'd like to be the type of man that really is american: the head-erect and shoulders-square, clean-minded fellow, just and fair, that all men picture when they see the glorious banner of the free. i'd like to be the sort of man the flag now typifies, the kind of man we really want the flag to symbolize; the loyal brother to a trust, the big, unselfish soul and just, the friend of every man oppressed, the strong support of all that's best-- the sturdy chap the banner's meant, where'er it flies, to represent. i'd like to be the sort of man the flag's supposed to mean, the man that all in fancy see, wherever it is seen; the chap that's ready for a fight whenever there's a wrong to right, the friend in every time of need, the doer of the daring deed, the clean and generous handed man that is a real american. a patriot it's funny when a feller wants to do his little bit, and wants to wear a uniform and lug a soldier's kit, and ain't afraid of submarines nor mines that fill the sea, they will not let him go along to fight for liberty they make him stay at home and be his mother's darling pet, but you can bet there'll come a time when they will want me yet. i want to serve the stars and stripes, i want to go and fight, i want to lick the kaiser good, and do the job up right. i know the way to use _a_ gun and i can dig a trench and i would like to go and help the english and the french. but no, they say, you cannot march away to stirring drums; be mother's angel boy at home; stay there and twirl your thumbs. i've read about the daring boys that fight up in the sky; it seems to me that that must be a splendid way to die. i'd like to drive an aeroplane and prove my courage grim and get above a german there and drop a bomb on him, but they won't let me go along to help the latest drive; they say my mother needs me here because i'm only five. memorial day the finest tribute we can pay unto our hero dead to-day, is not a rose wreath, white and red, in memory of the blood they shed; it is to stand beside each mound, each couch of consecrated ground, and pledge ourselves as warriors true unto the work they died to do. into god's valleys where they lie at rest, beneath the open sky, triumphant now, o'er every foe, as living tributes let us go. no wreath of rose or immortelles or spoken word or tolling bells will do to-day, unless we give our pledge that liberty shall live. our hearts must be the roses red we place above our hero dead; to-day beside their graves we must renew allegiance to their trust; must bare our heads and humbly say we hold the flag as dear as they, and stand, as once they stood, to die to keep the stars and stripes on high. the finest tribute we can pay unto our hero dead to-day is not of speech or roses red, but living, throbbing hearts instead that shall renew the pledge they sealed with death upon the battlefield: that freedom's flag shall bear no stain and free men wear no tyrant's chain. the soldier on crutches he came down the stairs on the laughter-filled grill where patriots were eating and drinking their fill, the tap of his crutch on the marble of white caught my ear as i sat all alone there that night. i turned--and a soldier my eyes fell upon, he had fought for his country, and one leg was gone! as he entered a silence fell over the place; every eye in the room was turned up to his face. his head was up high and his eyes seemed aflame with a wonderful light, and he laughed as he came. he was young--not yet thirty--yet never he made one sign of regret for the price he had paid. one moment before this young soldier came in i had caught bits of speech in the clatter and din from the fine men about me in life's dress parade who were boasting the cash sacrifices they'd made; and i'd thought of my own paltry service with pride, when i turned and that hero of battle i spied. i shall never forget the hot flushes of shame that rushed to my cheeks as that young fellow came. he was cheerful and smiling and clear-eyed and fine and out of his face golden light seemed to shine. and i thought as he passed me on crutches: "how small are the gifts that i make if i don't give my all." some day in the future in many a place more soldiers just like him we'll all have to face. we must sit with them, talk with them, laugh with them, too, with the signs of their service forever in view and this was my thought as i looked at him then --oh, god! make me worthy to stand with such men. the friendly greeting oh, we have friends in england, and we have friends in france, and should we have to travel there through some strange circumstance, undaunted we should sail away, and gladly should we go, because awaiting us would be somebody that we know. full many a journey here we make where countless strangers roam, yet everywhere our faces turn we find a friend from home. oh, we have friends in distant towns, and friends 'neath foreign skies, and yet we think of him as lost whene'er a loved one dies. yet he has merely traveled on, as many a friend must do; within a distant city fair he waits for me and you, and when shall come our time to make that journey through the gloam, to welcome us he will be there, the smiling friend from home. we need a few more optimists we need a few more optimists, the kind that double up their fists and set their jaws, determined-like, a blow at infamy to strike. not smiling men, who drift along and compromise with every wrong; not grinning optimists who cry that right was never born to die, but optimists who'll fight to give the truth an honest chance to live. we need a few more optimists for places in our fighting lists, the kind of hopeful men who make real sacrifice for freedom's sake; the optimist, with purpose strong, who stands to battle every wrong, takes off his coat, and buckles in the better joys of earth to win! the optimist who worries lest the vile should overthrow the best. we need a few more optimists, the brave of heart that long resists the force of hate and greed and lust and keeps in god and man his trust, believing, as he makes his fight that everything will end all right-- yet through the dreary days and nights unfalteringly serves and fights, and helps to gain the joys which he believes are some day sure to be. we need a few more optimists of iron hearts and sturdy wrists; not optimists who smugly smile and preach that in a little while the clouds will fade before the sun, but cheerful men who'll bear a gun, and hopeful men, of courage stout, who'll see disaster round about and yet will keep their faith, and fight, and gain the victory for right. taking his place he's doing double duty now; time's silver gleams upon his brow, and there are lines upon his face which only passing years can trace. and yet he's turned back many a page long written in the book of age, for since their boy has marched away, this kindly father, growing gray, is doing for the mother true the many things the boy would do. just as the son came home each night with youthful step and eyes alight, so he returns, and with a shout of greeting puts her grief to rout. he says that she shall never miss the pleasure of that evening kiss, and with strong arms and manner brave he simulates the hug _he_ gave, and loves her, when the day is done, both as a husband and a son. his laugh has caught a clearer ring; his step has claimed the old-time swing, and though _his_ absence hurts him, too, the bravest thing that he can do is just to try to take _his_ place and keep the smiles on mother's face. so, merrily he jests at night-- tells her with all a boy's delight of what has happened in the town, and thus keeps melancholy down. her letters breathe of hope and cheer; no note of gloom she sends from here, and as her husband reads at night the many messages she writes, he chuckles o'er the closing line. she's failed his secret to divine-- "when you get home," she tells the lad, "you'll scarcely know your doting dad; although his hair is turning gray, he seems more like a boy each day." christmas, they give their all, this christmastide, that peace on earth shall reign; upon the snows of flanders now, brave blood has left its stain; with ribbons red we deck our gifts; theirs bear the red of pain. they give their lives that joy shall live and little children play; they pass that all that makes for peace shall not be swept away; they die that children yet unborn shall have their christmas day. come! deck the home with holly wreaths and make this christmas glow, and let old glory wave above the bough of mistletoe! come! keep alive the faith of them who sleep 'neath flanders snow. ye brave of heart who dwell at home, make merry now a-while; the world has need of christmas cheer its sorrows to beguile; and blest is he whose love can light grief's corners with a smile. ring out once more, sweet christmas bells, your message to the sky, proclaim in golden tones again to every passer-by that peace shall rule the lands of earth, and only war shall die. let love's sweet tenderness relieve war's cruel crimson clutch, send forth the christmas spirit, every troubled heart to touch; blest will be all we do for them who do for us so much. the new year come you with dangers to fright us? or hazards to try out our souls? then may you find us undaunted; determined to get to our goals. now, white are the pages you bring us to fill with the tales of our deeds, and i pray we shall square at the finish the work of our lives with our creeds. oh, child of a year, do you wonder what here upon earth you shall find? america shows you a people united in purpose and mind; whatever you bring us of danger, whatever you hold to affright, i pray that we never shall lower our standards of truth and of right. you find us a people united, full pledged to the work of the world, to banish the despot and tyrant, our banner in battle's unfurled; and here to a world that is bleeding and weary and heartsick you come, whatever you've brought us of duty--we'll answer the call of your drum. we may weep in our grief and our sorrows, we may bend 'neath the might of the blow, but never our courage shall falter, and never we'll run from the foe. we know not how troubled our pathways shall be nor how sorely beset, but i pray we shall cling to our honor as men and never our purpose forget. our duty to our flag less hate and greed is what we need and more of service true; more men to love the flag above and keep it first in view. less boast and brag about the flag, more faith in what it means; more heads erect, more self-respect, less talk of war machines. the time to fight to keep it bright is not along the way, nor 'cross the foam, but here at home within ourselves--to-day. 'tis we must love that flag above with all our might and main; for from our hands-- not distant lands-- shall come dishonor's stain. if that flag be dishonored, we have done it---not the foe; if it shall fall, we, first of all, shall have to strike the blow. the unsettled scores the men are talking peace at 'ome, but 'ere we're talking fight, there's many a little debt we've got to square; a sniper sent a bullet through my bunkie's 'ead last night, and 'is body's lying somewhere h'over there. oh, we 'ear a lot of rumors that the war is h'almost through but hi'm thinking that it's only arf begun; every soldier in the trenches has a little debt that's due and hi'm telling you it's not a money one. we 'ave 'eard the bullets whistle and we've 'card the shrapnel sing and we've listened to a dying comrade's pleas, and we've 'eard about the comfort that the days of peace will bring, but we've debts that can't be settled h'over seas. they that 'aven't slept in trenches, 'aven't brothered with the worms, 'aven't 'ad a bunkie slaughtered at their side, may some day get together and arrange some sort of terms, but it isn't likely we'll be satisfied. there are debts we want to settle, 'and to 'and, and face to face, there are one or two hi've promised that hi'd square; and hi cannot 'old my 'ead up, 'ere or in the other place, till hi've settled for my bunkie, lying there. warriors we all are warriors with sin. crusading knights, we come to earth with spotless plumes and shining shields to joust with foes and prove our worth. the world is but a battlefield where strong and weak men fill the lists, and some make war with humble prayers, and some with swords and some with fists. and some for pleasure or for peace forsake their purposes and goals and barter for the scarlet joys of ease and pomp, their knightly souls. we're all enlisted soldiers here, in service for the term called life and each of us in some grim way must bear his portion of the strife. temptations everywhere assail. men do not rise by fearing sin, nor he who keeps within his tent, unharmed, unscratched, the crown shall win. when wrongs are trampling mortals down and rank injustice stalks about, real manhood to the battle flies, and dies or puts the foes to rout. 'tis not the new and shining blade that marks the soldier of the field, his glory is his broken sword, his pride the scars upon his shield; the crimson stains that sin has left upon his soul are tongues that speak the victory of new found strength by one who yesterday was weak. and meaningless the spotless plume, the shining blade that goes through life and quits this naming battlefield without one evidence of strife. we all are warriors with sin, we all are knights in life's crusades, and with some form of tyranny, we're sent to earth to measure blades. the courage of the soul must gleam in conflict with some fearful foe, no man was ever born to life its luxuries alone to know. and he who brothers with a sin to keep his outward garb unsoiled and fears to battle with a wrong, shall find his soul decayed and spoiled. easy service when an empty sleeve or a sightless eye or a legless form i see, i breathe my thanks to my god on high for his watchful care o'er me. and i say to myself, as the cripple goes half stumbling on his way: i may brag and boast, but that brother knows why the old flag floats to-day. i think as i sit in my cozy den puffing one of my many pipes that i've served with all of my fellow men the glorious stars and stripes. then i see a troop in the faded blue and a few in the dusty gray, and i have to laugh at the deeds i do for the flag that floats to-day. i see men tangled in pointed wire, the sport of the blazing sun, mangled and maimed by a leaden fire as the tides of battle run, and i fancy i hear their piteous calls for merciful death, and then the cannons cease and the darkness falls, and those fluttering things are men. out there in the night they beg for death, yet the reaper spurns their cries, and it seems his jest to leave them breath for their pitiful pleas and sighs. and i am here in my cozy room in touch with the joys of life, i am miles away from the fields of doom and the gory scenes of strife. i never have vainly called for aid, nor suffered real pangs of thirst, i have marched with life in its best parade and never have seen its worst. in the flowers of ease i have ever basked, and i think as the flag i see how much of service from some it's asked, how little of toil from me. a father's thoughts because i am his father, they expect me to put grief away; because i am a man, and rough and sometimes short of speech and gruff, the women folks at home believe his absence doesn't make me grieve; but how i felt, they little know, the day i smiled and let him go. they little know the dreams i had long cherished for my sturdy lad; they little guess the wrench it meant that day when off to war he went; they little know the tears i checked while standing, smiling and erect; they never heard my smothered sigh when it was time to say good-bye. "what does his father think and say?" the neighbors ask from day to day. "oh, he's a man," they answer then. "and you know how it is with men. but little do they ever say, they do not feel the self-same way; he seems indifferent and grim and yet he's very proud of him." indifferent and grim! oh, heart, be brave enough to play the part, let not the grief in you be shown, keep all your loneliness unknown, to you the women folks must turn for comfort when their sorrows burn. you must not at this time reveal the pain and anguish that you feel. oh, tongue, be silent through the years, and eyes, keep back always the tears, and let them never see or know my hidden weight of grief and woe. though every golden dream i had was centered in my little lad, alone my sorrow i must bear. they must not know how much i care. though women folks may talk and weep, a man, unseen, his grief must keep, and hide behind his smile and pride the loneliness that dwells inside. and so, from day to day, i go, playing the part of man, although beneath the rough outside and grim, i think and dream and pray for him. the waiter at the camp the officers' friend is the waiter at camp. in the night air 'twas cold and was bitterly damp, and they asked me to dine, which i readily did, for at dining i've talents i never keep hid. then a bright-eyed young fellow came in with the meat, and straightway the troop of us started to eat. i silently noticed that young fellow wait at each officer's side 'til he'd filled up his plate; i was startled a bit at the very first look by the size of the helping each officer took, and i thought as i sat there among them that night of the army's effect on a man's appetite. the waiter at last brought the platter to me and modestly proper i started to be. a small piece of meat then i gracefully took; the young fellow stood there and gave me a look. "better get all you want," he remarked to me then, "i pass this way once, but i don't come again." i turned in amazement. he nodded his head in a way that convinced me he meant what he said. i knew from his manner and smile on his lip that the rule in the army is "no second trip." and i thought as he left me my food to attack, life gives us one chance, but it never comes back. the complacent slacker when he was just a lad in school, he used to sit around and fool and watch the clock and say: "i can't see that i'll ever need this stuff the teacher makes me read, i'll work no more to-day. and anyhow it's almost june and school days will be over soon." one time we played a baseball game, and when a chance for stealing came, on second base he stood, and when we asked him why, he said: "what was the use, they're far ahead, one run would do no good. the game is almost over now, we couldn't win it anyhow." the same old slacker still is he, with men at war on land and sea, and our lads plunging in it; he spreads afar his old excuse. "i'd like to help, but what's the use, the allied troops will win it. there's nothing now to make us fret, there, they'll have it won before we get there." the worst of slackers is the man who will not help whene'er he can, but plays the idle rover, and tells to all beset with doubt there's naught to be alarmed about, the storm will soon be over. let no such dangerous person lead us, to-day in france they sadly need us. a christmas greeting here's to you, little mother, with your boy so far away; may the joy of service smother all your grief this christmas day; may the magic of his splendor thrill your spirit through and through and may all that's fine and tender make a smiling day for you. may you never know the sadness that from day to day you dread; may you never find but gladness in the flag that's overhead; may the good god watch above him as he stands to duty stern, and at last to all who love him may he have a safe return. little mother, take the blessing of a grateful nation's heart; may the news that is distressing never cause your tears to start; may there be no fears to haunt you, and no lonely hours and sad; may your trials never daunt you, but may every day be glad. little mother, could i do it, this my christmas gift would be: that he'd safely battle through it, this to you i'd guarantee. and i'd pledge to you this morning joys to banish all your cares, gifts of gold and silver scorning, i would answer all your prayers. ideals better than land or gold or trade are a high ideal and a purpose true; better than all of the wealth we've made is the work for others that now we do. for rome grew rich and she turned to song and danced to music and drank her wine, but she sapped the strength of her fibres strong and a gilded shroud was her splendor fine. the rome of old with its wealth and wine was the handiwork of a sturdy race; they builded well and they made it fine and they dreamed of it as their children's place. they thought the joys they had won to give, and which seemed so certain and fixed and sure, to the end of time in the world would live and the rome they'd fashioned would long endure. they passed to their children the hoarded gold, their marble halls and their fertile fields! but not the spirit of rome of old, nor the roman courage that never yields. they left them the wealth that their hands had won, but they failed to leave them a purpose true. they left them thinking life's work all done, and rome went down and was lost to view. we must guard ourselves lest we follow rome. we must leave our children the finer things. we must teach them love of the spot called home and the lasting joy that a purpose brings. for vain are our flag and our battles won, and vain are our lands and our stores of gold, if our children feel that life's work is done. we must give them a high ideal to hold. rebellion "my crown prince was fine and fair," a sorrowful father said, "but he marched away with his regiment and they tell me that he's dead! 'we all must go,' he whispered low, 'we must fight for the fatherland.' now the heart of me's torn with the grief i know, and i cannot understand, for none of the kaiser's princes lie out there where my soldier sleeps; here's a land where grief is the common lot, but never the kaiser weeps. "my crown prince was a kindly prince, and his eyes were gentle, too, and glad were the days of his youth to me when his wonderful smile i knew. then the kaiser flattered and spoke him well, and he sent him out to die, but his crown prince hasn't felt one hurt and the heart of me questions why? he talks of war in his regal way and he boasts of his strength to strike, but his boys all live and he doesn't know what the sting of a bullet's like. "rebellion gnaws at the soul of me as i think of his crown prince gay, and my prince cold in the arms of death, and harsh are the things i say. i join with the grief-torn muttering men who challenge the kaiser's right to build his joys on the graves of ours. we shall rise in our wrath to smite! and this is the thing we shall ask of him: to give us the reason why our boys must fall on his battlefields, but never his boys must die?" drafted the biggest moment in our lives was that when first he cried, from that day unto this, for him, we've struggled side by side. we can recount his daily deeds, and backwards we can look, and proudly live again the time when first a step he took. i see him trudging off to school, his mother at his side, and when she left him there alone she hurried home and cried. and then the sturdy chap of eight that was, i proudly see, who packed a little grip and took a fishing trip with me. among the lists of boys to go his name has now appeared; to us has come the sacrifice that mothers all have feared; and though we dread the parting hour when he shall march away, we love him and the flag too much to ask of him to stay. his baby ways shall march with him, and every joy we've had, somewhere in france some day shall be a little brown-eyed lad; a toddler and a child at school, the chum that once i knew shall wear our country's uniform, for they've been drafted, too. reflection you have given me riches and ease, you have given me joys through the years, i have sat in the shade of your trees, with the song of your birds in my ears. i have drunk of your bountiful wine and done as i've chosen to do, but, oh wonderful country of mine, 'how little have i done for you! you have given me safe harbor from harm, untroubled i've slept through the nights and have waked to the new morning's charm and claimed as my own its delights. i have taken the finest of fine from your orchards and fields where it grew, but, oh wonderful country of mine, how little i've given to you! you have given me a home and a place where in safety my babies may play; health blooms on each bright dimpled face and laughter is theirs every day. you have guarded from danger the shrine where i worship when toiling is through, but, oh wonderful country of mine, how little have i done for you! i have taken your gifts without thought, i have reveled in joys that you gave, that i see now with blood had been bought, the blood of your earlier braves. i have lived without making one sign that the source of my riches i knew, now, oh wonderful country of mine, i'm here to do something for you! a wish god grant my children may not think in terms of gold when i have passed away and my poor form is cold. when i no more shall be, if of me they would brag, i'd have them speak of me as one who loved the flag. god grant my children may not speak of me as one who trod a selfish way, when i am dead and gone. when they recall my name i'd have them tell that i held dear my country's fame and kept her standards high. not for the things i gave would i be counted kind; when i am in my grave, if they my worth would find, i'd have them read it there in red and white and blue and stars of radiance rare! and say that i was true. living if through the years we're not to do much finer deeds than we have done; if we must merely wander through time's garden, idling in the sun; if there is nothing big ahead, why do we fear to join the dead? unless to-morrow means that we shall do some needed service here; that tasks are waiting you and me that will be lost, save we appear; then why this dreadful thought of sorrow that we may never see to-morrow? if all our finest deeds are done, and all our splendor's in the past; if there's no battle to be won, what matter if to-day's our last? is life so sweet that we would live though nothing back to life we give? not to have lived through seventy years is greatness. fitter to be sung in poet's praises and in cheers is he who dies in action, young; who ventures all for one great deed and gives his life to serve life's need. life's slacker the saddest sort of death to die would be to quit the game called life and know, beneath the gentle sky, you'd lived a slacker in the strife. that nothing men on earth would find to mark the spot that you had filled; that you must go and leave behind no patch of soil your hands had tilled. i know no greater shame than this: to feel that yours were empty years; that after death no man would miss your presence in this vale of tears; that you had breathed the fragrant air and sat by kindly fires that burn, and in earth's riches had a share but gave no labor in return. yet some men die this way, nor care: they enter and they leave life's door and at the end, their record's bare-- the world's no better than before. a few false tears are shed, and then, in busy service, they're forgot. we have no time to mourn for men who lived on earth but served it not. a man in perfect peace to die must leave some mark of toil behind, some building towering to the sky, some symbol that his heart was kind, some roadway where strange feet may tread that out of gratitude he made; he cannot bravely look ahead unless his debt to life is paid. the proof of worth though victory's proof of the skill you possess, defeat is the proof of your grit; a weakling can smile in his days of success, but at trouble's first sign he will quit. so the test of the heart and the test of your pluck isn't skies that are sunny and fair, but how do you stand to the blow that is struck and how do you battle despair? a fool can seem wise when the pathway is clear and it's easy to see the way out, but the test of man's judgment is something to fear, and what does he do when in doubt? and the proof of his faith is the courage he shows when sorrows lie deep in his breast; it's the way that he suffers the griefs that he knows that brings out his worst or his best. the test of a man is how much he will bear for a cause which he knows to be right, how long will he stand in the depths of despair, how much will he suffer and fight? there are many to serve when the victory's near and few are the hurts to be borne, but it calls for a leader of courage to cheer the men in a battle forlorn. it's the way you hold out against odds that are great that proves what your courage is worth, it's the way that you stand to the bruises of fate that shows up your stature and girth. and victory's nothing but proof of your skill, veneered with a glory that's thin, unless it is proof of unfaltering will, and unless you have suffered to win. follow a famous father i follow a famous father, his honor is mine to wear; he gave me a name that was free from shame, a name he was proud to bear. he lived in the morning sunlight, and marched in the ranks of right. he was always true to the best he knew and the shield that he wore was bright. i follow a famous father, and never a day goes by but i feel that he looks down to me to carry his standard high. he stood to the sternest trials as only a brave man can; though the way be long, i must never wrong the name of so good a man. i follow a famous father, not known to the printed page, nor written down in the world's renown as a prince of his little age. but never a stain attached to him and never he stooped to shame; he was bold and brave and to me he gave the pride of an honest name. i follow a famous father, and him i must keep in mind; though his form is gone, i must carry on the name that he left behind. it was mine on the day he gave it, it shone as a monarch's crown, and as fair to see as it came to me it must be when i pass it down. the important thing he was playing in the garden when we called him in for tea, but he didn't seem to hear us, so i went out there to see what the little rogue was up to, and i stooped and asked him why, when he heard his mother calling, he had made her no reply. "i am playing war," he told me, "and i'm up against defeat, and until i stop the germans i can't take the time to eat." "isn't supper so important that you'll quit your round of play? don't you want to eat the shortcake mother made for you to-day?" then i asked him, but he answered as he shook his little head: "i don't dare to stop for shortcake, if i do they'll kill me dead! when i drive them from their trenches, then to supper i'll come in, but i mustn't stop a minute, 'cause this war i've got to win." i left him in his battle, left him there to end his play, for he'd taught to me a lesson that is needed much to-day; not the lure of cake could turn him from the work he had to do; there was nothing so important as to see his struggle through. and i wondered all that evening, as he slumbered in his bed if we'd risen to the meaning of the work that lies ahead? are we roused to the importance of the danger in our way? are we thinking still of pleasures as we thought but yesterday? are our comforts and our riches in our minds still uppermost? must we wait, to see our danger, till the foe is on our coast? oh, there's nothing so important, nothing now that's worth a pin save the war that we are fighting. it's a war we've got to win. selfishness search history, my boy, and see what petty selfishness has done. find if you can one victory that little minds have ever won. there is no record there to read of men who fought for self alone, no instance of a single deed splendor they may proudly own. through all life's story you will find the miser--with his hoarded gold-- a hermit, dreary and unkind, an outcast from the human fold. men hold him up to view with scorn, a creature by his wealth enslaved, a spirit craven and forlorn, doomed by the money he has saved. no man was ever truly great who sought to serve himself alone, who put himself above the state, above the friends about him thrown. no man was ever truly glad who risked his joy on hoarded pelf, and gave of nothing that he had through fear of needing it himself. for selfishness is wintry cold, and bitter are its joys at last, the very charms it tries to hold, with woes are quickly overcast. and only he shall gladly live, and bravely die when god shall call, who gathers but that he may give, and with his fellows shares his all. constant beauty it's good to have the trees again, the singing of the breeze again, it's good to see the lilacs bloom as lovely as of old. it's good that we can feel again, the touch of beauties real again, for hearts and minds, of sorrow now, have all that they can hold. the roses haven't changed a bit, nor have the peonies stranged a bit, they bud and bloom the way they did before the war began. the world is upside down to-day, there's much to make us frown to-day and gloom and sadness everywhere beset the path of man. but now the lilacs bloom again and give us their perfume again and now the roses smile at us and nod along the way; and it is good to see again the blossoms on each tree again and feel that nature hasn't changed the way we have to-day. oh, we have changed from what we were, we're not the carefree lot we were, our hearts are filled with sorrow now and grave concern and pain, but it is good to see once more the budding lilac tree once more, and find the constant roses here to comfort us again. when the drums shall cease to beat when will the laughter ring again in the way that it used to do? not till the soldiers come home again, not till the war is through. when will the holly gleam again and the christmas candles burn? not till the swords are sheathed once more and the brave of our land return. when will happy hearts meet again in the lights of the christmas tree? not till the cannons cease their roar and the sailors come from sea. when shall we sing as we used to do and dance in the old-time way? not till the soldiers come home again and the bugles cease to play. oh, dull is the red of the holly now and faintly the candles burn; and we long for the smile of the missing face and the absent one's return. we long for the laughter we used to know and the love that made giving sweet, but we must wait for the joys of old till the drums shall cease to beat. we shall laugh once more as we used to do, and dance in the old-time way, for this is the pledge they have made to us who serve in the war to-day; and the joys of home that we treasure so are the joys that their lives defend, and they shall give us our christmas time as soon as the war shall end. prophecy we shall thank our god for graces that we've never known before; we shall look on manlier faces when our troubled days are o'er. we shall rise a better nation from the battle's grief and grime, and shall win our soul's salvation in this bitter trial time. and the old flag waving o'er us in the dancing morning sun will be daily singing for us of a splendor new begun. when the rifles cease to rattle and the cannon cease to roar, when is passed the smoke of battle and the death lists are no more, with a yet undreamed of beauty as a people we shall rise, and a love of right and duty shall be gleaming in our eyes. as a country, tried by sorrow, with a heritage of worth, we shall stand in that to-morrow with the leaders of the earth. transcriber's note: italicized words or phrases are enclosed by underscores; example: _word_ with the colors songs of the american service by everard jack appleton author of "the quiet courage" cincinnati stewart & kidd company copyright, by stewart & kidd company all rights reserved copyright in england to the best flag of all: the stars and stripes. contents i--with the colors the colors loyalty the old national guard the alien the 'skeeter fleet little mother soldiers of the soil the lady's man cookie jim the sandwich girl bugler bill heinie the hostler our job her johnny the first fleet briggs of base no. the penguin driver waitin' we're all right here reprisal the soul of sergeant todd the busy lady overdoing it the givers hullo, soldier, how's the boy? beans behind the lines the disappointed good-bye, boys! that's all an american creed ii--in other keys youth o' the year unfinished paid in advance we rode at night now--and then understood the christmas spirit the reason the modern way because----! that smile the gift of gifts the neighbors uncle bill's idea 'lizabeth ann's picture the small boy explains the bold lover imagination willing to trade the lonely child th' little feller's gone the fisherman's son the dog confesses br'er rabbit in de bresh pile when with the colors the colors it isn't just colors and bunting-- the red and the blue and the white. it's something heaps better and finer,-- it's the _soul_ of my country _in sight!_ there's a lot of ceremony 'bout the flag, though many half-baked patriots believe salutin' it and hangin' it correct "is only loyalty upon the sleeve." but we who work beneath the flag to-day, who'll honor it--and die for it, perhaps-- get a slightly different view of the old red, white and blue than is visioned by th' criticisin' chaps. it isn't just for decoratin' things, it isn't just an emblem, clean and bright, no matter what its "hoist" or what its "fly," to us it means our country--wrong or right! the sobby stuff that some good people spout won't help a man to understand this view, but: wherever that flag goes, the man who follows, _knows_ that a better, cleaner citizen _goes too!_ it's not just a banner to look at,-- for which we're expected to fight; it's something that represents _freedom;_ it's the _soul_ of my country--in sight! loyalty this is no time to quibble or to fool; to argue over who was wrong, who right; to measure fealty with a worn foot-rule; to ask: "shall we keep still or shall we fight?" the clock of fate has struck; the hour is here; war is upon us now--not far away; one question only rises, clarion clear: "how may i serve my country, day by day?" not all of us may join the khakied throng of those who answer and go forth to stem the tide of war. but we can all be strong and steady in our loyalty to them! not with unfettered thought, or tongue let loose in bitterness and hate--a childish game! but with a faith, untroubled by abuse, that honors those who put the rest to shame! there is no middle ground on which to stand; we've done with useless pro-and-con debates; the one-time friend, so welcome in this land, has turned upon us at our very gates. there is no way, with honor, to stand back-- real patriotism isn't cool--then hot; you cannot trim the flag to fit your lack; you are american--or else you're not! the old national guard you pull a lot of funny stuff about us, when there's peace, the jokes you spring are sometimes rough, and make a guy see red; but when there's trouble in the air you "vaudevillians" cease, and them that laughed the loudest laugh, salute the flag instead! oh, it's kid the boys along when there's nothing going wrong; but when your country's facin' war, you sing a different song! the khaki that they doll us in ain't seen war service--no! the most of it has been worn thin a-loafin' 'round the mess; folks think it's great to josh us when things are goin' slow, but when the country's all het up--we ain't so worse, i guess! then it's, "look! the guard is here; fine set of men, muh dear."... (we'd like it better if you spread your jollies through th' year!) we're only folks--th' reg'lar kind--that answered to th' call; we may be dumb and also blind--but still we'll see it through! just wearin' khaki doesn't change our insides--not a'tall! we're human (does that seem so strange?) waitin' to fight--for you! we mayn't be worth a cuss in this ugly foreign muss, but when the nation needs some help, why--pass the job to us! the alien (of course, this didn't happen, but if it had-- would you have been shocked?) she was a pretty little thing, round-headed, bronze-haired and trim as a yacht. and when she married a handsome, polished prussian (before the war was ours) her friends all said she'd made no mistake. he had much money, and he wasn't arrogant-- to her. their baby came-- big and blue-eyed, solemn and serious, with his father's arrogance in the small. she knew how wonderful a child he was and said so. the husband knew it, too-- because the child looked like him, and they were happy until the nation roused itself, stretched and yawned and got into the hellish game of kill. then the man, who had been almost human, dropped his mask, and uncovered his ragged soul. having no sense of right or wrong-- no spiritual standards for measurements; feeding upon that same egotism that swept his country into the depths of hate-- he sneered and laughed at her pale patriotism and the country that inspired it. there was no open break between them, for a child's small hands clung to both and kept them close. shutting her eyes to all else save that she was his wife, she played her part well. his work--his bluff at work, instead-- was something big and important (always he looked the importance) that had to do with ships-- ships that idled at their docks to-day because they were interned. and there was always money-- more money than she had ever known,-- which he lavished--on himself and his desires. not that he gave her nothing, for he did.... they lived in a big hotel, and the child had everything it should have and much it should not. she, too, was cared for well, after his wants were satisfied. then-- the silent blow fell. secret service men called upon him, and next day he was taken away to a detention camp for alien enemies. interned like the anchor-chafing ships that once had flown his flag! the woman, up in arms, dinned at officials until (so easy-going and so slow to learn) they told her what he had done. that night she stared long at their child, asleep, and at its father's picture, on her dresser.... did the wife-courage that transcends all other kinds of bravery keep her awake for hours, planning, scheming, thinking? * * * * * a week later she and the child-- a blue-eyed, self-assertive mite-- were at the camp, she carrying it (the nurse was left behind) and the passports that allowed her to see him one hour, with a guard five yards away. some of his polite impudence was gone, yet he threw back his head and shoulders and shrugged as his wife and boy came in. "always late," said he, after a perfunctory kiss, "you--and your country!" she stared long at him, holding the child close, her own round, bronze head bowed. then, with a swift glance at the guard thoughtfully chewing a straw and looking at the city of shacks, she spoke. "did you know, karl," she whispered, "that my brother was on that transport-- my only brother--a soldier--my only blood? if it had gone down--that transport--been sunk--" "well?" said he. that was all. "my brother--my only--karl!" "well?" said he again. "what of it?" then--her little head lifted, her eyes gone mad-- "this!" she said. "rather than give life to another human scorpion like you-- man in form only!--lower than the floor of hell itself; rather than have my blood mingle with the foul poison that is yours, to make a child of ours-- this: i give him back to you-- and recall my love--all of my love!" again he shrugged his shoulders, yawned--and saw, too late. swift as the eagle that drives a lamb to death she whipped a hat-pin from her dainty hat, drove it with steady aim into the baby's heart and handed back to the gulping man all that was left of what had once meant joy-- a dead baby with red bubbles on its lips! the 'skeeter fleet mighty little doin'--yet a lot to do-- while the navy's standin' guard, we are lookin' out; patrol boats in shoals, good old craft and new hustle here and skitter there--what's it all about? speed boats and slow boats loaf around or run, but ev'ry unit of this fleet mounts a wicked gun! pleasure craft a-plenty, all dolled up in gray grim and ugly war-paint dress, we're a gloomy lot, slidin' in and out, never in the way. gosh! it's wearin' on the nerves, waitin' round--for what? some boats are bum boats, layin' for the hun-- but ev'ry boat that flies our flag mounts a wicked gun! stickin' for the big show! will it ever start? when it does, good night, irene! we won't make a squeak. "boy scouts of the sea," watch us do our part if a raider or a sub. gives us just a peek! tin boats and wood boats-- ev'ry single one longs to get in action with its wicked little gun! little mother _little mother, little mother, with the shadows in your eyes and the icy hand of fear about your heart, you cannot help your boy prepare to make his sacrifice unless you make yours bravely, at the start!_ he is training, as a million others train; he is giving what the others give--their best; make him feel your faith in him, though your troubled eyes grow dim; let him know that you can stand the acid test! because he's joined the colors--he's not dead! because he's found his duty--he's not lost! through your mother-love, my dear, keep him steady, keep him near to the soul he loves--your soul--whate'er the cost! you're not alone in heartaches or in doubts; all mothers feel this burden newly coined; then call your trembling pride to your colors--to your side-- "be a sport!" and make him glad that he has joined! _little mother, little mother, with the shadows in your eyes and the icy hand of fear about your heart, there is this that you can do: "play the game"; there honor lies. now your boy and country need you--do your part!_ soldiers of the soil it's a high-falutin' title they have handed us; it's very complimentary an' grand; but a year or so ago they called us "hicks," you know-- an' joshed the farmer and his hired hand! now it's, "save the country, farmer! be a soldier of the soil! show your patriotism, pardner, by your never-ending toil." so we're croppin' more than ever, an' we're speedin' up the farm; oh, it's great to be a soldier-- a sweatin', sun-burnt soldier,-- a soldier in the furrows-- away from "war's alarm!" while fightin' blight and blister, we hardly get a chance to read about our "comrades" a-doin' things in france. to raise the grub to feed 'em is some job, believe me--plus! and i ain't so sure a soldier-- a shootin', scrappin' soldier, that's livin' close to dyin'-- ain't got the best of us! but we'll harrer and we'll harvest, an' we'll meet this new demand like the farmers always meet it-- the farmers--and the land. an' we hope, when it is over an' this war has gone to seed, you will know us soldiers better-- th' sweatin', reapin' soldiers, th' soldiers that have hustled to raise th' grub you need! it's a mighty fancy title you have given us, a name that sounds too fine to really stick; but maybe you'll forget (when you figure out your debt) to call th' man who works a farm a "hick." the ladies' man billy is a ladies' man; billy dances fine (always was a bear-cat at the game); billy pulls the social stuff all along the line-- but he knows this business, just the same. he can march; he can drill as hard as any rook; and he knows his manual without his little book. maybe he was soft at first--ev'rybody's that; golfing was his hardest labor then; now he's in the service (where you don't grow fat), digging, drilling, like us other men. he can eat, he can sleep like any healthy brute-- and the captain says that billy-boy is learning how to shoot! when he joined the training camp, billy says, "no doubt, i will draw some clerical position;" but he's shown he can _command_; so--the news is out-- he will get a regular commission! he can talk; he can dance (he is still the ladies' pet) but the way he barks his orders out gets _action_, you c'n bet! cookie jim the capting says, says he to us: "your duty is to do your best; we can't all lead in this here muss, so mind your job! that is the test o' soldierin', o' soldierin'-- to mind your job, while soldierin'!" when jimmy joined the colors first, he knowed that soon he'd be a non-com. officer,--oh, sure, he had that idee firm; but jimmy got another think, fer quite eventually they had him workin' like a turk, th' pore, astonished worm. the rest of us, we gotta eat, and jimmy--he can cook! (he makes a stew that tastes as good as mother used to make.) an' when he starts to flappin' cakes, why, every hungry rook is droolin' at the mouth for them, a-waitin' fer his take. he's ranked a sergeant, but he don't mix up with no recruits; he rides a horse when we parade (which ain't so often now); but where he shines is when we eat; the grub that jimmy shoots at hungry troopers every day is certainly "some chow." he's jest a "dough-boy," of a sort; it's jimmy's job to cook; don't hafter drill, don't hafter tote a lot of arms with him; jest messes up th' stuff we eat, and we don't hafter look-- it's _always_ clean! so here's a good luck and health to cookie jim! the capting says, says he: "you rooks have gotta lot to learn, i'll say, 'cept jimmy; he's the best o' cooks troop z has had fer many a day while soldierin', while soldierin'-- he does his work, while soldierin'!" the sandwich girl this is the story as told to me; it may be a fairy-tale new, but i know the man, and i know that he lies very infrequently, too! when the boys in khaki first were called to serve, guarding railroad bridges and the like, bob was just a private in the old n. g., fond of all the work--except the hike. when they sent his comp'ny down the road a bit, "gee!" he said, "i'd like to commandeer some one's car and drive it--marching gets my goat!" (bob was quite a gas-car engineer.) lonesome work, this pacing up and down a bridge. now and then a loaded train goes by; but at night--just nothing; everything was dead; empty world beneath an empty sky. then the chauffeur lady got into the game, drove her car each midnight to our tents, bringing us hot coffee, sandwiches, and pie; all the others thought that was immense. but bob, ungrateful cuss, he would never say, like the rest, that she had saved their lives; he was too blamed busy, like the one-armed man papering--the one that had the hives! bob would eat the lunches--eat and come again, silent, but as hungry as a pup; finish with a piece o' pie, swallow it--and go; never had to make him hurry up! then one night we heard him talking to the girl, like he was complaining to her: "say! can't you change the stuffing? i am sick of ham! have a heart! i'd just as lief eat hay!" did we all jump on him? you can bet we did: "who gave you the right to kick, you steer, over what she brings us? she's a first-rate pal; talk some more and get her on her ear!" bob was somewhat flustered; thought we hadn't heard. then he said, "well, ain't you tired o' ham?" "what of that?" says wilcox. "think of how she works! spends her cash ...!" (all bob said then was, "damn!") grabbing up his springfield, "listen, you!" he snaps. "that's my motor and my gasoline. sure she's spending money--but it comes from me; she's my sister, and her name's irene!" then, as he marched himself into the night, we looked at each other a spell. "we've ditched our good luck--he won't _let_ her come back," says wilcox. "now isn't _that_ hell!" bugler bill bugler bill--mild-mannered, shy-- is straight.... but i wonder if bill _would_ lie? bugler bill is a pensive lad, whether he's workin' or not; serious-faced an' pitiful sad-- (think he was goin' t' be shot!) whenever he bugles, some of us cry-- reveille, taps, or mess-- with musical sob-stuff bill gets by, plaintive and full of distress! bugler bill is never real gay, but built on a sour-face plan; bill wouldn't laugh, whatever you'd say; looks like a love-poisoned man. "grin, ye hyenas," he'll say as he smokes; "_i_ ain't a frivolous guy--" "thinkin' of all of the pain you caused folks while learnin' to play?" asks i. bugler bill, he sighs as he turns, shakin' his head at me. "a long while ago th' bugle i learns-- so don't you git funny," says he. "my audience laughed till it cried salty tears, an' everyone called me a joy. i was a clown in a circus for years-- _that's_ why i'm solemn, my boy!" bugler bill come "out of the draft"-- d'you s'pose at _that_ joke he actually laughed? heinie the hostler _he's not very handsome or clever, he's slow in his wits--and he's fat, and yet he's a soldier of uncle sam's-- now, whaddy you know about that?_ we always called him dummy, and thought he wouldn't fight; we sneered at him and jeered at him-- he was--and is--a sight! his feet are big, his head is small, his german blood is slow, but at the call for volunteers, why, didn't heinie go? he's workin' as a hostler (he used to be a clerk) he don't enjoy his job, that boy, but heinie is no shirk. "this is _my_ country just as much as it is yours," says he; "i'm gonna do what i _can_ do to _keep_ it mine!... you'll see! "my father, he come over here to get away from things; he couldn't abide on th' other side-- aristocrats and kings. the stars and stripes mean liberty, i've always understood; so gimme the right to work--or fight-- i betcha i'll make good. "as a chambermaid to horses in a battery that's new, the work is rough and mean enough and wouldn't appeal to you; but i've got my place and i'll stick to it-- can any man do more? i've never had a chance, like dad, to prove myself before." _perhaps he won't get a commission; perhaps he is dull, and all that; but somehow i feel that he's better than me-- now whaddy you know about that?_ our job you mustn't _hate_ the enemy--that wastes a lot of "pep"-- the colonel passed the word around the training camp to-day. the captain says with modern war we gotta all catch step; "cut out the rough-necked rage and talk, and don't you think or say: "'pirates, rapists, murderers; poisoners and lying thieves; super-vandals, run amuck--black devils quoting sermons; this world was mostly heaven-made, our chaplain, he believes; but hell itself conceived and spawned the military germans! "the enemy is good at killing kids, and old folks, too; torpedoing hospital ships and blowin' up our plants; but cogitatin' on their line of wicked things won't do; we'll never hate 'em off the map--just give the guns a chance!" so we don't go in for loathin', and with anger we don't burn; we're drillin', and we're diggin', and we're workin' all the while; to put 'er in the target is the trick we hafter learn-- and ev'ry man's a better shot when he can shoot--and smile! the folks at home will spend their time a-broodin' over all the nasty devils do and on the details they can dwell; it's up to us to learn this game, and then--when comes the call-- pump lead into the enemy--and send him _back_ to hell. her johnny since johnny has joined the marine corps, of course he will do what he's told, and johnny will be at home on the sea the day he is eighteen years old. just what they expect of my baby ain't clear to his maw; my, oh, my! but johnny's a-wearin' the blue--and ain't carin'-- he's gone! is it wrong if i cry? it ain't been so long, i remember, that johnny, my baby, was sick whenever he'd get on a boat, and he'd fret till we'd land--which was usually quick. but now, with his gun and his kit-bag, he's answered the call, bless his heart! and he'll square out his jaw and think of his maw and go in to win from the start! my johnny's not fightin' for pleasure (i know he'll be sea-sick, pore kid!) but he said, "if i stayed, they'd call me afraid; i gotta sign up"--and he did. so now i sit here, sorter dreamin' of the days he was mine. they are done-- i'm proud; but i wish--i could fix up a dish of doughnuts for johnny, my son! the first fleet we slid into the harbor here, a line of battle-cruisers gray, with hungry guns as silent as the bands aboard that did not play. the fog was soft, the fog was damp, the hush was thick and wide as space, but ev'ry man was standing at attention in his given place. we'd made the port, with time to spare-- and uncle sam's first fleet was there! then came those other navy men-- our allies in this troubled cause-- weary of holding back the hun, clipping, too slow, his cruel claws. our admiral, a few-words man, greeted the visitors.... "we're here," he said, and that was all. they smiled-- and said they hoped the weather'd clear. but still those men with tired eyes felt mighty grateful, i surmise! around our fleet--not very large-- we took them, thoughtful faces set; and then back to the fog-soaked town they went--uncomfortably wet; but in those eyes a happier light, that told him what they'd like to say-- that they were glad he had come back, as he had hoped to do some day. another fleet, with fresher men, gave them a chance to breathe again! before they left to go ashore (a crowd had gathered on the quay), "when can you start to work?" they asked. "how many hours will it be before you're ready?" with a smile our fighting admiral replied (and there was joy in what he said, mingled with pardonable pride): "soon as the enemy we meet!... we're ready now--men, guns, and fleet." so that is how we started in to do our share--the navy's "bit"; they were surprised, but admiral sims had surely made a three-base hit with what he said.... and now it's up to us to do our hearty best to make the seas the old-time seas; till that is done there'll be no rest. it is a job to stop the hun, but--it's a job that must be done! briggs of base no. it may be that you know him. a slim and likely kid; red-headed, tall, and soft of speech and glance. he never took a prize at school (his talents always hid), and yet he's got a medal from the government of france! he didn't kill a lot of men; he never injured one; he didn't hold a trench alone; he never manned a gun; he drove an ambulance--that's all; but those above him knew he'd take it into hell and back if he was ordered to! that night (he'd been right on the job for twenty hours or more) they telephoned again for him-- and as he cranked--he swore. half dead for sleep, he drove too far, straight into no man's land, and there he gathered up four men who didn't understand or care what happened.... then a chap sagging with gobs of mud he shoved into his throbbing car that smelled of drugs and blood. the other roared, but briggs, sleep-deaf, stared at the moon on high-- 'twas like some spent star-shell glued on a blue-black, tired sky-- and didn't try to hear or think; he only tried to keep his car from sliding off the road-- and not to fall asleep. the ambulance went skidding back (his chains had lost themselves), while now and then a growl came from its stretcher-ladened shelves. briggs never stopped, but when the groans were punctured with a curse he told the weary moon, "at least this flivver is no hearse!" and slowly yawned again.... at last they rounded trouble bend, base eight before them--and that ride was at a welcome end.... the blood-stained orderlies came out to take the wounded in, opened the doors to lift the wrecks.... before they could begin there tumbled out the mud-caked man, whose mouth was shot away; a man who stared like some wild beast finally brought to bay; for briggs, base eight, american, had brought (beside his four) a german officer, half drunk for need of rest! who swore and cried, and then sank back again and fell asleep.... that's why they've decorated little briggs-- red-headed, tall, and shy! "i didn't do a thing," he growls; "'twas just a fool mistake, and he'd have captured me, of course, if _he_ had been awake. he tried to talk (his battered mouth was just a shredded scar); but we were wasting time, and so i pushed him in the car and came on back.... now, what is there about that sort of stuff to make a fuss for? i am not a hero.... i'm a bluff!" the surgeon smiles.... "if he can make a capture in the night when doing red cross work, what would he do if he should _fight_?" he asks, and looks a long way off to where the pounding guns are making other harmless wrecks of one-time hellish huns. i wonder if you know him? a slim and quiet kid, red-headed, tall, and soft of speech and glance; he doesn't like to have you talk about the thing he did-- and yet he's got a medal from the government of france. the penguin driver at home, he drove a taxi, a job he'd now disdain; he's learning (on a queer machine) to drive an aeroplane. it doesn't fly--it glumps along and bumps him, ev'ry chance; his tumbling, rumbling "penguin" out there--somewhere in france. it isn't fun to drive it, but he's not out for fun; he's going to learn to drop good bombs upon the no-good hun! and so, until he graduates, he makes his penguin prance-- his bumping, jumping penguin out there--somewhere in france. as soon as he's a pilot, (and earned his golden wings) he'll take the air on high, you bet and do some bully things! the prussians will be sorry he ever learned to dance with a rearing, tearing penguin out there--somewhere in france. waitin' back of the front in this durn trainin' camp, day after day we are stuck, an' we swear whenever we hear th' regular tramp of th' men who are through and are goin' somewhere. we're all of us willin', but why keep us drillin' forever?... just waitin' for somethin' to do! at home they are readin' th' outlandish name of a battle that's won or a hero that's dead of a stunt that had won him a place in this game-- but all that i've won is a cold in my head! while others are fightin' we're readin' or writin'-- an' the censors will see that it don't get to you! we long for a scrap that will sizzle the blood; we hone for a chance to bust in a head; this marchin' an' diggin' in acres of mud ain't as excitin' as bein' plain dead. war may be a curse, but this here is worse-- this dreamin' th' dreams that never come true. all set for a mix-up that we can't begin; ready and anxious for whatever comes, we're linked to the side-lines.... ain't it a sin, spendin' good hours a-twiddlin' thumbs? seems like a crime to waste so much time a-waitin'--an' waitin'! you'd find it so, too. my bunkie is peevish, and i'm out of tune; the capting's a grouch whenever we hike; if we don't get into this muss pretty soon, we fellers are likely to go on a strike! we signed for a scrap, not a tea or a nap, or to wait, and to wait, and to wait-- till it's _through!_ we're all right here! what's th' meanin' of the look you see in soldiers' eyes? some of them you thought would kick an' stall around an' howl; but just listen (if they'll talk) an' hear, to your surprise, a lot of laughs, a lot o' tales--but never once a growl! business man and bell hop, farmer boy and clerk; easy-going spendthrifts, men that have to work; firemen and brokers, chauffeurs still "in gear"; the army is the melting pot-- we're all right here! desk men and road men, men who sweep the street; coal men and plumbers (if they have good feet); showmen and film stars, all have mislaid fear. funny crowd; but we should fret-- we're all right here! keen men and dull men, razor-edged or dumb, high-grade and low-grade, some, plain medium; feet upon the drill-ground, hearts all beating high; _you_ are glad that you are here, and so, old top, _am i!_ that's the meaning of the call; ev'ry man is proud he is in the common cause, with a bunch of men fighting for democracy, lined up with this crowd-- god! it's pretty nifty _just to be a man again!_ reprisal sister susie's sittin' knittin' sweaters, wristlets, scarfs, an' socks; she ain't "sewin' shirts for soldiers" 'cause she got so many knocks from th' papers 'bout her sewin'-- now she's knittin' pounds of yarn into things to send away.... well, i don't care, don't care a darn! hasn't knit no scarf or sweater, hasn't made no socks for me; little brother, he can rustle for himself alone, you see! maw is on the help committee, paw is drillin' with th' guard; brother's soldierin'--and sister's knittin' fast an' awful hard! no, they won't pay me no 'tention, so i'm goin' to run away, join th' army as a--as a bellboy, may be, without pay. then i'll get a scarf an' sweater and some socks, soon as i go, from some _other_ feller's sister that i do not even _know_. the soul of sergeant todd "i wasn't so much of a soldier," said the soul of sergeant todd, (fumbling at his medal, that statement sounded odd.) "i wasn't so much of a fighter, but when they came, and came, yelling and shooting, i just got mad, and i reckon i did the same. into my trench they piled--just boys-- making a most outlandish noise." a corporal's soul beside him nodded and mustered a smile: "you handled a dozen at once," he said; "they didn't come single file. if you wasn't 'much of a soldier,' or shirked in your duty--well, say, what sort of a chance have other men got when tested on judgment day? you fought them all, you did; and when they quit, you started in again!" "shut up!" said the soul of sergeant todd; "you're still in my squad, mcquade, i say that i lacked what you did not lack--courage to die, unafraid. i was a coward, a trembling coward, deep in my craven heart; i fought with the fear of that fear at my soul, playing no hero's part! you can't understand it--but i had none of the courage--_to die!_ "and now that i'm dead," said the troubled soul of the one-time sergeant todd, "it didn't seem right that those who live should think i have met our god as a brave man does: his honor clear, with his courage unscathed and whole. on this high plane there is no room for a fear-troubled human soul; so sergeant todd" (he bowed his head) "_fears no more_--for his body's dead!" the busy lady we meet ev'ry week to make surgical dressings-- and one woman does it dead wrong; i watched her a day--then i just _had_ to say, "my dear! if i may--that's too long!" while i was explaining the teacher came by-- she's so cross that her mouth's just a _line_-- and found fault with me and my work.... after that i'll mind _no one's_ business _but mine!_ to-day i was filling my neighbor's slow mind with war-garden ideas and lore, when a dog i don't _know_ just _ruined_ mine--so i'll not advise _her_ any more! then a talk that i gave to the home service group on "waste" was _quite_ spoiled--though 'twas fine-- by my bread burning up while i talked.... after this i'll mind _no one's_ business but _mine!_ at a lecture on "hospital units at work" a woman (who looked fifty-three) ere the talk had _begun_ started _crying_.... her son has gone, she confided to me. "but you should be _brave_ and 'buck up'," i remarked. "and _yours_?" she asked.... how did she divine that _i_ am not married?... oh, well, after this i'll mind _no one's_ business--b-but mine! overdoing it this horrid old war is right _in_ our house making itself _at home_, goodness sakes! the scraps from our table won't feed a _mouse_ we've cut out desserts, salads, and cakes. monday is meatless and tuesday is dry, wednesday is _sugarless_, too, gee whiz! our plates must be _cleaned_, they tell us. that's why we _eat_ the garbage before it _is_! so i bought a melon the other day when ma was 'tending a red cross tea. i wanted it _awful_ bad.... anyway it wasn't so _big_--just right for me-- and then, just to keep from wasting a _drop_, i _ate it all up!_... our colored liz says pa told the doctor, "my fault, old top-- "'we eat the garbage before it is.'" the doctor was writing a 'scription note when i come to, turned over and grinned, and he frowned at pa, as he wrote and wrote, till pa grew red like his cheeks was _skinned_. "eating the garbage? now, listen, man, if that's your game it's good for _my_ biz. but if _i_ was _you_, i surely would 'can' "'we eat the garbage before it is!'" the givers _"i've given a lot of my time and work to helping my country," says he; "no one can tell you that i am a shirk in the great cause of liberty!" (perhaps you have met him? well, then, forget him!)_ john lampas was a greek, john lampas isn't now; he's just a plain american and eating soldier chow. he joined the army recently, but first--he gave away his touring car, his watch, his cash to the red cross one day, and then enlisted. "that's all i can do," he said; "and i'm glad to give it, for true!" he doesn't ask for praise, for jollies, or for guff; he gave because this land gave him a _chance_--which was enough! he hasn't got a dollar; he's just a khakied man, but, somehow, he seems mighty like a _true_ american! his cash and his watch and his auto he gave, and then himself. was that foolish, or brave? _so when i hear that other chap congratulate himself because he gave "some time"--i'd like to rap him once across his selfish paws! (because i have met him-- i want to forget him!)_ hullo, soldier! how's the boy? we're not a bit deluded by the notion that this is just a picnic, or that we enlisted for a trip across the ocean-- there's work ahead, not just a joyous spree. of course we sing and talk and sometimes dance; but get this in your mind--that when we hear "hullo, soldier! how's the boy?" as we disembark in france, _they_ will hear us answer, "ready!" loud and clear; they will see that we _are_ ready, never fear. don't you think that we are just a bunch of flivvers; we've measured up the job that must be done and we know what we are facing, though the shivers don't turn our spines to rubber--not a one! the prussian scorned the world. well, let him scorn it (the world exchanges loathing for that scorn); we haven't put on khaki to adorn it, but to make the prussian sorry he was born; and to send him back, his "kultur" banner torn! so it doesn't matter that some foolish people bemoan the fact this army's on the go; unless it _is_, the harvest they will reap'll be slavery or death, they ought to know. it isn't what they want or what we'd like-- it's what we've _got_ to do.... when others say, "hullo, soldier! how's the boy?" as we drill and shoot and hike, they must hear us answer, "ready!" ev'ry day, _it's this nation's debt to france we've come to pay!_ beans a simple ditty private smithy sang for me, entitled "beans."... the tune was not a joy; the words were commonplace as they could be, but just to hear his earnest voice--"oh, boy!" when first i went a-sojerin' i couldn't eat the stuff the cookies gave the bunch of us, for it was rough and tough. but since i've been a-sojerin' and learned what _livin'_ means the grub we get tastes mighty good, e-special-lee th' beans, especially th' beans! we all were soft and flabby-- our hands and muscles, too-- we had been used to easy things to eat, to think, to do. but when we tackled trench work, with all that diggin' means, we learned to like the sojer grub, e-special-lee th' beans, especially th' beans. so now we're very diff'rent when mess-call comes around; we've got our appetites all set a-waitin' for that sound; it's always "second helpin's" behind the mess-tent screens; we're glad for uncle sam's good grub, e-special-lee th' beans, especially th' beans! a very simple ditty, you'll agree with me; a commonplace production; but the joy and unction that he puts into the melody, the _splendid appetite_ he sings--oh, boy! behind the lines we number hundreds of thousands, and we're nowhere near the front; we're pen and pencil pushers, or "serving" the adding machines; we'll never reach the firing-line, nor bear its hellish brunt-- but where'd _they_ be if it weren't for us, workers behind the scenes? book-keeper, paymaster, spectacled clerk, doing our bit, though it's every day work-- we're all of us part of the service! we're the backwash whirl of the pool of war gathering in the men, we cannot fight as others fight, though just as loyal and true; we're the silent corps of the men behind, over and over again doing our part in the war for right, small though it seem to you. figuring, checking-up, testing all day, knowing no hours--and not too much pay-- we're all of us part of the service. if it takes ten men behind the front to put one on the line, (we all remember the speech that cheers the backwash, anyhow!) we're putting them there--and do not ask for furloughs.... that's a sign we're not the _guests_ of the government--_we're in the service now._ a cog in the big machine? maybe-- but a cog that doesn't complain, you see-- we're _all_ of us part of the service! the disappointed there's a red cross button on his left lapel, and a liberty bond pin on his right; there's a u. s. flag above the red cross, too; his patriotism's never out of sight! his loyalty is spread on his hollow breast (and sometimes he's pathetic, i confess), but the button that he's most ashamed to wear is the one that reads exempt u. s. there's an aching heart in his -chest, there's a look of deep longing in his eyes; behind his heavy glasses there gleams a hope that maybe he can grow an inch in size! there's a hero-throb in the heart of that boy, though he wears too much "scenery"--ah, yes!-- but the badge that hurts he really tries to hide-- it's the one that reads exempt u. s. you fellows that are in--have a heart for those who want to be, but can't! for they must know a bitterness of soul you can never feel-- _they_ haven't got a chance on earth to go! so it's, "stay back home with the old and unfit," (there's nothing else to do but that, i guess!) the badge he'd be glad to throw a mile away is the one that reads exempt u. s. goodbye, boys! line after line, you swung along, you men, who only a while ago were just a part of the city's throng working for self, sedate and slow. but now--what a diff'rence! living throbs of the nation's heart! her reborn men; and some who saw you gulped back sobs-- and wished you were marching home again! our eyes were dim as you went past, for we _knew you_--at last! we felt that every senseless joke about a soldier, wherever made, would make _us_ ashamed.... for now we choke whenever the colors and _you_ parade! wherever that o. d. uniform shall gladden the eyes of we useless men we can't forget who is meeting the storm-- that some of you won't come home again! you went.... we talked.... god blot the past! for _we_ know _you_--at last! that's all to take this trouble seriously, but not to gloom or whine; to never overestimate our strength, or to decline to see this is no picnic, but do our earnest part with brain and muscles, newly trained-- to keep a steady heart! to fight, but not to lower our standards in the dust; to meet a savage enemy whose words the world can't trust. to guard our foolish tempers-- or keep them out of sight! to never falter, doubt, or fear the outcome will be _right_! to laugh--whenever laughter is best to keep us fit; to shake hands with privation when face to face with it. to give without complaining or boasting what we give; to make this world a safer world for those who have to live! to part with old traditions that hampered in the past; to see that heart-wrung "aliens" as enemies aren't classed, but treated--while deserving it-- as human beings, too; * * * * * just to _be clean_--in mind and soul-- that's _all_ we have to do! an american creed straight thinking, straight talking, straight doing, and a firm belief in the might of right. patience linked with patriotism, justice added to kindliness, uncompromising devotion to this country, and active, not passive, americanism. to talk less, to mean more, to complain less, to accomplish more, and to so live that every one of us is ready to look eternity in the face at any moment, and be unafraid! in other keys youth o' the year "write me," she ordered, nodding her head, "a song of the rippling spring that is gone-- a song that's different from songs that are dead-- different as sunset is from the dawn. sparkling with happiness, heavy with dew, trilling and thrilling, all the way through; fill it with heaven's own laughing blue-- write it!" she said. so i wrote it--"love's pawn." i spoke of the sunshine caught in her hair; i sang of the peach blossom's pink in her face; i mentioned the heavenly blue with great care that colored her wonderful eyes. and her grace i likened to that of a slender young tree bowing and laughing when breezes blow free; in fact, there was naught in the spring i could see save this girl who with love would ever keep pace. she took it and read it, that poor thing of mine-- old as a saga, young as the year-- drank in the similes (flattering wine!), then gave her verdict, "you are a _dear_; surely no girl ever had such a song written for her; i will treasure it long; it's _so_ original--clever--and strong; how _could_ you know me so well--in one year?" i read it myself--and grew red, i confess, as a good workman should, when a poor job is done; but the joy of her laugh and the sweet, swift caress overpaid me, a hundred to one!... and then as she stood on the brow of the hill and swayed in the wind, as youth ever will, i think that i heard her silv'ry laugh trill.... but perish the thought that she'd spoken in fun! unfinished the radiant dawn flows up the empty sky, its singing colors heralding the day, and yet, before the tardy sun is high, unfinished morning fades and slips away. while nature holds her fragrant breath at dawn watching the loveliness she's made--it's gone! from dew-drenched garden thrills a thrush's call-- that liquid note that all night long was stilled-- the living chalice, brown and bright and small, seems with the joy of living overfilled-- then suddenly, unfinished, clear and sweet the song is drowned in noises from the street. so at the edge of dusk my love for you would speak to your white soul, would humbly come to tell the age-old story, ever new-- but in the pulsing twilight love is dumb! oh, heart of mine, within your quiet breast unfinished dawn--and song--and love--find rest! paid in advance what is the cost of a day in spring-- a wind-swept, rain-washed golden day? a day that with joy is bubbling-- and dancing adown a world mad-gay? you've paid for that day with days gone by-- the gloomy days and the days of rain; the days that you'd like to forget--and try-- days that were tuned to a note of pain. others there are who will never forget the lowering clouds and the sodden world, but--though you paid as they paid, eyes wet-- your banner of courage was still unfurled! that was the price of this day in june, paid in advance with a shrug and a smile-- while others complained, you heard a tune, making the gloomiest day worth while! we rode at night we rode at night, and the cut-steel stars daggered the black of the quiet sky; yet venus had taken the place of mars in the scheme of the silent worlds on high. the ribbon of road ran straight ahead; the night air whipped your hair and your face, our hearts kept time to the horses' pace, and we were alive, and our blood was red! we rode at night.... though you did not speak i nearer drew--there was none to see-- love lent me strength to an arm not weak, and i swept you out of your saddle--to me! i rowelled your horse and he thundered on, while in my arms you cuddled, and sighed; and i kissed your hair and lips--and lied when you asked if the coming light was the dawn? we rode at night; and our love, new-found, gloried our way, as the pace slowed down; heart against heart, your fingers wound close about mine, ere we reached the town. you cared, you cared! though your firm white hand was cut by the reins you had held too long, "dear cave-man, i love you," you said; "is it wrong?" o, wonderful night in a wonderful land! we ride no more, for the years have fled, the wine of hot youth is down to the lees; broken in body, i dream, instead, of the gold-shot past that age ever sees. we ride no more.... yet the scar is still there on the brave little hand that i kissed that night, and my love is as strong as the hand is white; but i wonder--i wonder--do you still care? now--and then a thousand years from now, how will this earth conduct itself? will there be wars, and men inventing things? or will there be a dearth of ideas (such as we feel, now and then?) nobody knows. we can surmise, perchance-- but glancing that far oft is quite some glance! a thousand years from now--in time's swift flight-- the aeroplane itself may be passe, and transportation on a beam of light the natural and the ordinary way. men may have bodies made of metals cold to match the hearts and brains those bodies hold! a thousand years from now--why should we care what science then brings forth--we won't be here to worry over things or to compare the present with our past--won't that be queer? but men, as now, will hope (as we have done) that each new year will be a better one! understood out of the ruck and the roar of life he stepped aside to rest one day, and the flowers that grew along the way lifted him out of the wearisome strife that had claimed his every waking thought for years ... and a miracle had been wrought! "why have i never seen the rose just as a _rose_ before?" asked he. "always its cost was the point to me, and not its sweetness! do you suppose that all these years--how long, god knows!-- i really have not _understood_ the rose?" walking along the quiet street he noted a sick and fretting child; and he waved his hand and paused and smiled till the baby laughed--and its laugh was sweet. his eyes were dim as his hand he kissed to the child, and he whispered, "and _that_ i have missed!" to the end of the day that was full of care the song in his heart was strong and new, and the woman who loved him heard it too: "now that his soul is awake, i dare hope that he understands me," she said; but i fear he didn't--until he was dead! the christmas spirit "a merry christmas!" you who make each day a little less unhappy for some soul weighted with sorrow; you who have been gay for others' sake--although you paid the toll in the still watches of the weary night, fighting despair. you who have faced the world with spirit and put cowardice to flight; you, with your rugged banner still unfurled-- "a merry christmas!" for in you i see the vision of the man that i would be! "a merry christmas!" through the winter chill, the singing spring--hot summer and drear fall, you go your way, seeking for good, not ill, remembering life's joy and not its gall; clasping the hand that trembles, when you may, spending your love whole-heartedly the while for those who need it _now_, nor wait that day when they no longer care for word or smile. doing your part with all sincerity-- a vision of the man that i would be! the reason the fetching airs you have; the way you sing, dear; the pretty uplift of your round, firm chin; into my heart the sunshine daily bring, dear; to be downcast when you're here were a sin! yet ev'ry motion, ev'ry smile and word, dear, i know full well--and lost are their effect. all of your bell-like tones you see, i've heard, dear, when they were meant for me--and came direct. that golden hair! how well you know its worth, dear, to draw enraptured praise from lovers bold! i, too, know well that from its very birth, dear, its meshes have entrapped the young and old. yet, when i watch you laughing, teasing--you, dear, who have been given such a hold on hearts, i do not thrill as all the others do, dear; lost on me (in a manner) are your arts! not that i'm jealous, indifferent, or cold, dear; not that i don't approve of all your charms; not that you're "just a little bit too old," dear; nor that you are a tiny babe in arms! no, no; you're sweet, and fresh, and fair, dear, unspoiled, delightful--really "all the rage." but somehow i can't seem to rightly care, dear-- i wooed your mother--when she was your age! the modern way of tender missives--decorated treasures-- of violets and roses, passing sweet; of throbbing heart-songs, tuned to lilting measures; of fervent verse--with somewhat halting feet; of every dainty valentine that's fashioned you've had a rather goodly share each year; so will you take, in place of love-impassioned epistles, something quieter, my dear? three words i'll send--that is, if they're enough to take the place of all that flossy stuff! throughout the year life is so full of trouble, saint valentine, alas! is shoved aside; beneath grim work the lover's back must double, and then he lets poor sentiment go slide! we try to think of what you'd have us say, dear, but when we've coaxed a good thought half way out, a money-making idea's in the way, dear, and then love's gentle troops are put to rout. so--with a business missive in each hand-- will three words do? or do you more demand? gone are the days when troubadors sang daily of hearts and flowers, lips and eyes and hair; we take (i fear) our deep emotions gaily, and think we haven't time to love or care. yet once a year it shouldn't be impossible to valentine a little, that is true; then gloss the faults of mine you think are glossible, and i will troubador a bit for you; so, by the stars that shine above you, hark to my valentine, my dear, _i love you!_ because--! this thing of writing "homely verse," with country phrases, jokes and slang; with "jiminies!" "by hecks!" and such, with "backwoods" odor, taste and tang-- this thing, i say, of making light of country life is funny--not! i'd like to know where we would be if farms were all to go to pot! we talk a lot of "backyard farms," "intensive gard'ning"--"how to raise all vegetables that you need on ten square feet in twenty days." we figure fortunes that six hens will bring us--if we keep 'em penned; and yet, when farmers are the butt of jokes, who rises to defend? i'm weary of this silly pose, this pseudo-humor, sickly wit; i will not laugh or even smile when at the farmers jokesmiths hit. especially this time of year i do denounce it! (uncle jim out on his farm lives well--and he has asked us all to visit him!) that smile i sure do like that kid, although i know he's rotten spoiled, and ought to be suppressed. he's boiling over with boy-nonsense! so the neighbors have no chance to get a rest. not bad, you understand; just "some unlucky" in getting caught at things, once in a while; yet when he does, he never runs--he's plucky! but plays that smile of his, that flashing smile. sometimes when he has done a foolish thing-- like "hoeing weeds" with our best garden hose, or in the rose bed "built a min'rul spring," he's bound to make me peevish, goodness knows! yet when he tries to "'splain it all" to me, i don't succumb a moment to his guile; i'm stern, as stern, indeed, as i can be-- until he smiles that mother-given smile! perhaps he doesn't understand how strong a weapon he possesses--gracious me! disarmed by it, i can not right the wrong by scolding him, however forcefully. i do believe, if fate itself were bent on breaking him, 'twould hesitate a while and feel ashamed!... he wins without intent because--god bless him!--he knows _when_ to smile. the gift of gifts if antoinette were sitting here before the cheery blaze, and she should ask me what i'd like to-morrow--day of days-- would not my heart leap to my mouth, as any chap's would do, while leaning down to her pink ear, i softly whispered, "you!" if antoinette were just to give me half a chance to say what gift of gifts i'd like the best, how long would i delay in taking her into my arms and keeping her there, too, while earnestly i answer her with one brief, heartfelt "you!" if antoinette, dear antoinette, were simply to suggest that question, don't you think that i would quickly do the rest? well, you'd be wrong, because, alas! a year ago--or two-- she asked jim what he wanted, and the lucky chap said "you!" the neighbors for years and years i practiced-- tum-tum, tum-tum, tee-tum! pounding up and down the scale, white keys, black keys-- they all fell beneath my faithful hammering; and then--my pretty neighbor across the street put in a player-piano that could tear a hole through classics that i'd never learned even to dent! i was mad--hopping mad-- but i got even with her. (she was studying for the operatic stage.) i bought a phonograph--cheap-- and some records--not cheap. they made her gargling voice sound like an imitation with a small i. then we both laughed--and quit our exercises. to-day she's a moving picture actress, using her big eyes in a financially-effective way, while i write things in prose or jingle or verse that is free-on-bail. sometimes i get by with it; and sometimes she doesn't spoil a film-- isn't the public lucky that we didn't stick to our callings? uncle bill's idea i've figgered out that worryin' don't pay a little bit, fer every feller's got to have some trouble in his day; an' wonderin' what's comin' next don't help to sidetrack hit-- you can't foretell afflictions, or stop 'em, thataway! it's better jest to take what's sent and stand it, ef you ain't content! looks like to me that every one has got a large amount of things to bear that he don't like, as through this life he goes; and though of happy days we're apt to lose the rightful count, things even up before we die, as every old man knows. there ain't no great monopoly on sickness ner bad luck, i gee! we've got to stand our share of pain and meet a heap of sorrow; we've got to shoulder burdens that no one likes to tote; but worryin' about the load, and thinkin' of th' morrow don't make it one mite easier, er cheerfuller, i note! th' way to do is jest t' grin and hope for better times ag'in; "but i _can't_ grin!" some people say. then don't--but bear it, anyway! 'lizabeth ann's picture ma wanted a good, new picture of me; so pa says, "'lizabeth ann, you come down town at noon to-day, and we'll go to the picture man; but don't tell mother--we'll have a surprise for her on christmas day, and give her a real nice photograft--i know just what she will say." "oh, goody!" i says, "i am awful glad! i'll be there at noon, you see." (i like to have a secret with pa--it's awful much fun for me.) i runned away at 'leven o'clock, and ma didn't see me go, although i had dressed in my very best--and that takes time, you know-- my party frock, and my best kid shoes; my furs and my "picture" hat, and my new red coat--the one she says, "be careful, my dear, of that." and when i got to his office, pa looked awful surprised, and said, "dear me, what a dressed-up little girl! why, really, you turn my head!" and then we went to the picture man. he's nice enough, i s'pose, but what do you think he said to me? "you seem to be mostly clothes!" so pa and the man made me _undress_, till all that i had on me was my shirtwaist slip--my arms and neck was bare as they both could be! it made me feel umbarrassed! and then i guess that i nearly cried, but pa just patted me on the head and said _he_ was satisfied. and now the pictures are finished up, and one is already framed; but ma'll be mad, i am pretty sure--i know that _i_ feel ashamed; for all that you see is my head and neck--and not a bit of my dress-- she'll think i was funny to go down-town with so little on, i guess! yet pa says, "never you mind, my dear--blame it on me or the man; but mother will like it, you see if she don't--she wanted _you_, 'lizabeth ann." the small boy explains some people say the sky is blue acause it's warshed by rains up there; i dunno if 'at's so, do you? and i don't care--and i don't care! i ain't no sky, an' i don't like to have my face warshed, anyhow; my nurse says i'm a "naughty tike to run away" or raise a row. but ef she daubed mud on like this a-purpose, so's the boys would play with her--and not call her a "sis," she'd hate to warsh it all away! that's why the blue sky'll never mean a in-spi-ra-tion er a "joy"; a-course it can be nice an' clean-- it won't be called a "sissy-boy." the bold lover he held her hand, and joy shone in his eyes; the world and all therein to him was fair; what mattered now the gloomy, lowering skies? for what the future held he did not care! he only knew he loved her and that she was everything a real sweetheart should be. he held her hand.... the car was crowded, too; the passengers could not suppress their smiles. the love he felt, perhaps, obscured his view, so wrapt was he in all her pretty wiles. and when he kissed her rosy lips, a hush fell on them as they saw her slowly blush! he held her hand and gazed about with pride, as though to challenge those who'd say him nay; he held her hand--and nestling to her side, the interested audience heard him say; "oh, momie, dear, you're sweet as any rose-- i love you more dan _any_body knows." imagination oncet, when i was a gret big man, i got mad at the way ol' nurses bossed the childruns an' so i wouldn't stay; i jest got up and pushed my house right over--yes, i did; an' then i turned the streets all round, and runned away and hid! when i come back, my childruns was cryin' awful loud, fer nobody knowed _wher_ they lived, an' there was _such_ a crowd. i says, "now, folks must shet their eyes--don't open them a crack!"-- an' then i straightened out the streets, an' put the houses back. 'n oncet i was a neluphant, as big as all outdoors, 'n every time i turned around it shook the roofs and floors; i walked down to the river, and i drunk it up--all up, jest like it was some cambric tea in my ol' silver cup. an' when the people come fer me, i jest set down, kerplunk! an' squashed 'em flat--an' picked them up--an' packed 'em in my trunk! 'n then i twist my trunk off, an' throwed it all away-- you better let me go, louise--i might do that to-day! you won't? all right--you'd better did, for one time long ago, before i gotter be a boy, i was a bear--oh, no-- i was a snake--a yaller snake, an' i was ten miles long, 'n all i et was nurse girls--yes, i did, although 'twas wrong. that was a million years ago, but something--inside me-- tells me i'm goin' to be a snake again--jest watch and see! you don't believe a word i say? well, i don't care--i do-- how could i 'member all these things, unlessen they was true? willing to trade the doctor brung a baby up to our house last week-- a little bit of thing it is--but my! it's gotta squeak! it makes a noise that's twice as big as you expect to hear, and then ma says, "go right away--you mustn't tease him, dear!" she seems to like it more than me-- but i ain't jealous, no, siree! i told the boys, and billy black, he says, "well, that is nice, but i would rather have my dog--they're worth more at the price, for pa says babies cost a lot to feed and dress and train, and rover, he is smart, he is, and gotter splendid brain!" i kinder feel that very way-- but ma says baby's come to stay. frank brown has got a billygoat that pulls him on his sled, and kenneth's got a ponycart; but pa looked cross and said i mustn't talk so foolish when i asked him if i might go trade our baby for a pony or a goat, last night. i s'pose he knew _nobody'd_ trade a goat for any baby made! i wouldn't mind it, i believe, if any boy i knew would _envy_ me for what we've got, but that's what they won't do! the lonely child it takes so long to grow up big and get to be a man, i wisht sometimes that i'd been born as old as mary ann; (she is the cook, and she's so old her teeth come out at night), 'cause then i wouldn't want a boy to play with or to fight. but now i go upstairs and down and get in people's way, because there ain't _no_ children here to play with every day. the house next door is big and fine, but nobody lives there; and all the winders, like big eyes, just stare at me, and stare, until i run back in our house and 'tend like i can't see, and feel my way around the rooms till ma, she says to me: "my goodness, rob, what is this game? pretending you are blind? dear me! the child has surely got a most peculiar mind." i've ast my pa to go and buy a brother for me, too; but he jest shakes his head and says that it would never do; and then he takes a book up quick and reads to me and tries to make me laugh and talk to him; but sometimes ma, she cries. but even then i seem to see the empty house next door and all those big, dark window-eyes that stared at me before. some time i'm going to run away and find a father-man who has whole lots of boys and girls--for i am sure i can-- and when i do, i'm going to ast him please to come and take the house next door and live in it--and--do it for my sake! and if he does, oh, won't it be a happy day for me? i'll get a lot of brothers, then, without _no_ bother--see? the little feller's gone th' little feller's gone! since he was so big, him an' i have been like good old cronies, agreein' on the sly to skip the years between. he was jest goin' on five years--an' i am "grandpa brown," although he named me "santa claus" when fust he come to town-- an' my white beard he seen. but now it seems to me a'most as soon as he was born, th' little feller's gone. he won't be standin' by the gate to holler to me, "hi! wait fer me, santy!" like he done when i went stumpin' by t' fetch the cows back home. we'll never sit agin an' argue which way we should go; or figger if that bird was jest a blackwing er a crow, nor through the meadows roam. fer he has found a place up there where it is always dawn-- th' little feller's gone. he was so full of fun i uster feel my heavy years drop from me when i went with him. sometimes he'd pull my ears and say, "hear dat bob white? dat is a quail a-whistlin' in de woods, somewhere--le's go an' ketch him--we can sprinkle salt upon his tail, you know!" and then he'd laugh outright; but now, i don't take int'rust in a thing that's goin' on-- th' little feller's gone. it must be right, but somehow i can't look at it that way-- why should he go, so young and good, and me--so worn out--stay? but mebbe up in heaven he will think of me and wait and holler "hi!" when he sees me a-limpin' to the gate, and mebbe (where is my old han'kerchief a-got to now?) he'll say to peter, "let him in--_i_ like him, anyhow!" the fisherman's son when pa comes back home from his trip, all brown and freckle-faced, he's fatter than he's been for months-- there ain't no cloth to waste when he puts on his old fall suit and sits out on the lawn, and tells about the fish he caught-- but my! how ma does yawn! pa smokes a puff or two, and then he says, "you ought to see the one i caught on thursday--long as 'tis from you to me. i had him on the bank; yes, sir, as sure as you are born, and then he jumped right back again--" but ma--how she does yawn! i got a hook and line that ain't like pa's, but still it's fun to go down to the creek and fish and keep out of the sun. ma gives me sandwiches to eat, and when the last bite's gone i guess i go to sleep, sometimes-- at least i know i yawn. but one day i _did_ ketch a fish; ma took it, and it weighed a pound, she said; but pa looked cross and said, "it must have strayed." we had it cooked for supper, too, and ma and i ate some; but pa, he wouldn't, and ma laughed; but all she _said_ was "hu-u-m!" the dog confesses i am a lucky dog, i know, and all my friends agree the people that i live with now are good as gold to me because three times i saved a life--and that is why they give me everything a dog could want--and will, while i shall live. but i've a conscience, and i must confess the truth--or else i'll bust! one day the cart that bobbie drives ran up on pony's heels, and off he bolted! i went, too, and mixed up with the wheels, until the cart came to a stop, and bobbie-boy was saved-- then folks wept o'er the noble way that i, a dog, behaved. (the truth is, i got in that mix avoiding pony's vicious kicks!) another time, when bobbie went to play out on the dock he fell into the water there, (he'd stumbled on a block); i sprang in after him, of course, and dragged him back to land-- then everybody said the way i acted was "just grand." (the rat that i was chasing when i plunged, i never saw again!) you see this stubby tail of mine? i got that when a car came near to crushing bobbie-boy--it gave us all a jar; i knocked him off the track in time, but one wheel caught my tail and cut it short; it hurt, of course, and i let out a wail-- (the cur that i had hoped to fight across the street, was out of sight!) so, though i haven't meant to be a noble brute at all, i have to take the praise they give, and hear them patiently; but there is comfort in this thought--although it may seem small-- there are some human heroes who are "posing"--just like me! br'er rabbit in de bresh pile br'er rabbit sorter snoozin' in de big bresh pile, years laid back an' pink eyes shet up tight, snow a-layin' deep an' gittin' deeper all de while-- br'er rabbit glad dat he is outer sight. pretty soon he hear a noise--dat's br'er fox, he know, gropin' th'ough de quiet woods, out in de cold an' snow; "is dat you, br'er rab?" he say--but br'er rab lay low an' never let on dat he heerd him right. "come out an' take a little stroll," seys br'er fox, seys he, sniffin' at de bresh pile an' walkin' all aroun'; "much obleeged," seys br'er rab; "but dis will do fer me-- hate ter walk when snow is on de groun'." "woods is lookin' pretty," says br'er fox; "de sun is shinin' jest like diamon's--come on, and have some fun!" "hafter thank you kindly, but my diamon' days is done," seys br'er rab, "dey huhts my eyes, i foun'." br'er fox, he lick he chops, an' set down where he at (gotter git some plan to bring him out); den he say, "dere's lettuce here--make you nice an' fat!" but br'er rab lay back he haid an' shout: "oh, br'er fox, you surely is a liar--dat you is; de lettuce days is done gone by--an' all de leaves is friz; you'll hafter try anudder way--mah name is leery liz!" (ol' br'er rabbit slangy, widdout doubt!) "dar comes a man!" seys br'er fox; "he gotter dog an' gun! br'er rab, you better come wid me!" "ef dat is true," seys br'er rab, "_you_ orter jump an' run-- he gwine t' shoot when youah red haid he see!" "i got a better house dan dis," seys br'er fox; "come on and live wid me--i treat you well--de man and dog is gone!" "an' s'ply you wid fresh meat? oh, no, i hasn't jest bin bawn," seys br'er rab; "you make me laff," seys he. den br'er fox, he slink away, and bahk like he was sad, an' br'er rab, he shake he sides wid laffin'--ain't he bad? he small, but still, he gotter mind--an' jest fer dat he glad-- ol' br'er rabbit, in de big bresh pile! when when to the tired heart and soul and brain there comes, at last, the unrepeated call, where silence and eternal rest are all ahead of me, without one touch of pain-- pause at the edge of this desired dawn, turn down a glass, and then--be glad i'm gone! for what the future holds who knows, or cares? the past is done, the now is here alway-- so, lighten it for those who needs must stay, breathe no regrets for him who onward fares. back to the night, face to the coming dawn, bid him god-speed, and then--be glad he's gone! golden stars by henry van dyke * * * * * * the valley of vision fighting for peace the unknown quantity the ruling passion the blue flower out-of-doors in the holy land days off little rivers fisherman's luck poems, collection in one volume golden stars the red flower the grand canyon, and other poems the white bees, and other poems the builders, and other poems music, and other poems the toiling of felix, and other poems the house of rimmon charles scribner's sons * * * * * * golden stars and other verses following "the red flower" by henry van dyke new york charles scribner's sons copyright, , , by charles scribner's sons published february, copyright, , by the outlook company copyright, , by the new york herald co. copyright, , by new york times co. copyright, , by new york tribune, inc. copyright, , by land & water pub. co. copyright, , by the public ledger copyright, , by the press publishing co. [illustration] note the only reason for printing this little book is that many people have expressed a desire to have the memorial poem, "golden stars," in a permanent form. the other verses are included simply because they are a wayside record of some of the varied feelings of an old lover of peace who was willing to fight for it,--feelings which may find a response in other american hearts. henry van dyke. avalon, january , . contents page the peaceful warrior the winds of war-news righteous wrath facta non verba from glory unto glory signs of the zodiac britain, france, america the red cross easter road, america's welcome home the surrender of the german fleet golden stars the peaceful warrior i have no joy in strife, peace is my great desire; yet god forbid i lose my life through fear to face the fire. a peaceful man must fight for that which peace demands,-- freedom and faith, honor and right, defend with heart and hands. farewell, my friendly books; farewell, ye woods and streams; the fate that calls me forward looks to a duty beyond dreams. oh, better to be dead with a face turned to the sky, than live beneath a slavish dread and serve a giant lie. stand up, my heart, and strive for the things most dear to thee! why should we care to be alive unless the world is free? may, . the winds of war-news the winds of war-news change and veer now westerly and full of cheer, now easterly, depressing, sour with tidings of the teutons' power. but thou, america, whose heart with brave allies has taken part, be not a weathercock to change with these wild winds that shift and range. be thou a compass ever true, through sullen clouds or skies of blue, to that great star which rules the night,-- the star of liberty and right. lover of peace, oh set thy soul, thy strength, thy wealth, thy conscience whole, to win the peace thine eyes foresee,-- the triumph of democracy. december , . righteous wrath there are many kinds of hatred, as many kinds of fire; and some are fierce and fatal with murderous desire; and some are mean and craven, revengeful, sullen, slow, they hurt the man that holds them more than they hurt his foe. and yet there is a hatred that purifies the heart: the anger of the better against the baser part, against the false and wicked, against the tyrant's sword, against the enemies of love, and all that hate the lord. o cleansing indignation, o flame of righteous wrath, give me a soul to feel thee and follow in thy path! save me from selfish virtue, arm me for fearless fight, and give me strength to carry on, a soldier of the right! january, . _facta non verba_ _deeds not words_: i say so too! and yet i find it somehow true, a word may help a man in need, to nobler act and braver deed. from glory unto glory american flag song i o dark the night and dim the day when first our flag arose; it fluttered bravely in the fray to meet o'erwhelming foes. our fathers saw the splendor shine, they dared and suffered all; they won our freedom by the sign-- the holy sign, the radiant sign-- of the stars that never fall. _chorus_ all hail to thee, young glory! among the flags of earth we'll ne'er forget the story of thy heroic birth. ii o wild the later storm that shook the pillars of the state, when brother against brother took the final arms of fate. but union lived and peace divine enfolded brothers all; the flag floats o'er them with the sign-- the loyal sign, the equal sign-- of the stars that never fall. _chorus_ all hail to thee, old glory! of thee our heart's desire foretells a golden story, for thou hast come through fire. iii o fiercer than all wars before that raged on land or sea, the giant robber's world-wide war for the things that shall not be! thy sister banners hold the line; to thee, dear flag, they call; and thou hast joined them with the sign-- the heavenly sign, the victor sign-- of the stars that never fall. _chorus_ all hail to thee, new glory! we follow thee unfurled to write the larger story of freedom for the world. september , . signs of the zodiac who knows how many thousand years ago the twelvefold zodiac was made to show the course of stars above and men below? the great sun plows his furrow by its "lines": from all its "houses" mystic meaning shines: deep lore of life is written in its "signs." _aries_--sacrifice. snow-white and sacred is the sacrifice that heaven demands for what our heart doth prize: the man who fears to suffer, ne'er can rise. _taurus_--strength. rejoice, my friend, if god has made you strong: put forth your force to move the world along: yet never shame your strength to do a wrong. _gemini_--brotherhood. bitter his life who lives for self alone, poor would he be with riches and a throne: but friendship doubles all we are and own. _cancer_--the wisdom of retreat. learn from the crab, o runner fresh and fleet, sideways to move, or backward, when discreet; life is not all advance,--sometimes retreat! _leo_--fire. the sign of leo is the sign of fire. hatred we hate: but no man should desire a heart too cold to flame with righteous ire. _virgo_--love. mysterious symbol, words are all in vain to tell the secret power by which you reign, the more we love, the less we can explain. _libra_--justice. examine well the scales with which you weigh; let justice rule your conduct every day; for when you face the judge you'll need fair play _scorpio_--self-defense. there's not a creature in the realm of night but has the wish to live, likewise the right: don't tread upon the scorpion, or he'll fight. _sagittarius_--the archer. life is an arrow, therefore you must know what mark to aim at, how to use the bow,-- then draw it to the head and let it go! _capricornus_--the goat. the goat looks solemn, yet he likes to run, and leap the rocks, and gambol in the sun: the truly wise enjoy a little fun. _aquarius_--water. "like water spilt upon the ground,"--alas, our little lives flow swiftly on and pass; yet may they bring rich harvests and green grass! _pisces_--the fishes. last of the sacred signs, ye bring to me a word of hope, a word of mystery,-- we all are swimmers in god's mighty sea. february . . britain, france, america the rough expanse of democratic sea which parts the lands that live by liberty is no division; for their hearts are one. to fight together till their cause is won. for land and water let us make our pact, and seal the solemn word with valiant act: no continent is firm, no ocean pure, until on both the rights of man are sure. april, . the red cross sign of the love divine that bends to bear the load of all who suffer, all who bleed, along life's thorny road: sign of the heart humane, that through the darkest fight would bring to wounded friend and foe a ministry of light: o dear and holy sign, lead onward like a star! the armies of the just are thine, and all we have and are. october , , for the red cross christmas roll call. easter road under the cloud of world-wide war, while earth is drenched with sorrow, i have no heart for idle merrymaking, or for the fashioning of glad raiment.-- i will retrace the divine footmarks, on the road of the first easter down through the valley of utter darkness dripping with blood and tears; over the hill of the skull, the little hill of great anguish, the ambuscade of death. into the no-man's-land of hades bearing despatches of hope to spirits in prison, mortally stricken and triumphant went the faithful captain of salvation. then upward, swiftly upward,-- victory, liberty, glory, the feet that were wounded walked in the tranquil garden, bathed in dew and the light of deathless dawn. o my soul, my comrades, soldiers of freedom, follow the pathway of easter, for there is no other, follow it through to peace, yea, follow it fighting. this armageddon is not darker than calvary. the day will break when the dragon is vanquished; he that exalteth himself as god shall be cast down, and the lords of war shall fall, and the long, long terror be ended, victory, justice, peace enduring! they that die in this cause shall live forever, and they that live shall never die, they shall rejoice together in the easter of a new world. march , . america's welcome home oh, gallantly they fared forth in khaki and in blue, america's crusading host of warriors bold and true; they battled for the rights of man beside our brave allies, and now they're coming home to us with glory in their eyes. _oh, it's home again, and home again, america for me! our hearts are turning home again and there we long to be, in our beautiful big country beyond the ocean bars, where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars._ our boys have seen the old world as none have seen before. they know the grisly horror of the german gods of war: the noble faith of britain and the hero-heart of france, the soul of belgium's fortitude and italy's romance. they bore our country's great word across the rolling sea, "america swears brotherhood with all the just and free." they wrote that word victorious on fields of mortal strife, and many a valiant lad was proud to seal it with his life. oh, welcome home in heaven's peace, dear spirits of the dead! and welcome home ye living sons america hath bred! the lords of war are beaten down, your glorious task is done; you fought to make the whole world free, and the victory is won. _now it's home again, and home again, our hearts are turning west, of all the lands beneath the sun america is best. we're going home to our own folks, beyond the ocean bars, where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars._ november , . a sequel to "america for me," written in . the surrender of the german fleet ship after ship, and every one with a high-resounding name, from the robber-nest of heligoland the german war-fleet came; not victory or death they sought, but a rendezvous of shame. _sing out, sing out, a joyful shout, ye lovers of the sea! the "kaiser" and the "kaiserin," the "könig" and the "prinz," the potentates of piracy, are coming to surrender, and the ocean shall be free._ they never dared the final fate of battle on the blue; their sea-wolves murdered merchantmen and mocked the drowning crew; they stained the wave with martyr-blood,--but we sent our transports through! what flags are these that dumbly droop from the gaff o' the mainmast tall? the black of the kaiser's iron cross, the red of the empire's fall! come down, come down, ye pirate flags. yea, strike your colors all. the union jack and the tricolor and the starry flag o' the west shall guard the fruit of freedom's war and the victory confest, the flags of the brave and just and free shall rule on the ocean's breast. _sing out, sing out, a mighty shout, ye lovers of the sea! the "kaiser" and the "kaiserin," the "könig" and the "prinz" the robber-lords of death and sin, have come to their surrender, and the ocean shall be free!_ november , . golden stars i it was my lot of late to travel far through all america's domain, a willing, grey-haired servitor bearing the fiery cross of righteous war. and everywhere, on mountain, vale and plain, in crowded street and lonely cottage door, i saw the symbol of the bright blue star. millions of stars! rejoice, dear land, rejoice that god hath made thee great enough to give beneath thy starry flag unfurled a gift to all the world,-- thy living sons that liberty might live. ii it seems but yesterday they sallied forth boys of the east, the west, the south, the north, high-hearted, keen, with laughter and with song, fearless of lurking danger on the sea, eager to fight in flanders or in france against the monstrous german wrong, and sure of victory! brothers in soul with british and with french they held their ground in many a bloody trench; and when the swift word came-- _advance!_ over the top they went through waves of flame,-- confident, reckless, irresistible, real americans,-- their rush was never stayed until the foe fell back, defeated and dismayed. o land that bore them, write upon thy roll of battles won to liberate the human soul, château thierry and saint mihiel and the fierce agony of the argonne; yea, count among thy little rivers, dear because of friends whose feet have trodden there, the marne, the meuse, and the moselle. iii now the vile sword in potsdam forged and bathed in hell, is beaten down, the victory given to the sword forged in faith and bathed in heaven. now home again our heroes come: oh, welcome them with bugle and with drum, ring bells, blow whistles, make a joyful noise unto the lord, and welcome home our blue-star boys, whose manhood has made known to all the world america, unselfish, brave and free, the great republic, who lives not to herself alone. iv but many a lad we hold dear in our heart of hearts is missing from the home-returning host. ah, say not they are lost, for they have found and given their life in sacrificial strife: their service stars have changed from blue to gold! that sudden rapture took them far away, yet are they here with us today, even as the heavenly stars we cannot see through the bright veil of sunlight shed their influence still on our vexed life, and promise peace from god to all men of good will. v what wreaths shall we entwine for our dear boys to deck their holy shrine? mountain-laurel, morning-glory, goldenrod and asters blue, purple loosestrife, prince's-pine, wild-azalea, meadow-rue, nodding-lilies, columbine,-- all the native blooms that grew in these fresh woods and pastures new, wherein they loved to ramble and to play. bring no exotic flowers: america was in their hearts, and they are ours for ever and a day. vi o happy warriors, forgive the tear falling from eyes that miss you; forgive the word of grief from mother-lips that ne'er on earth shall kiss you; hear only what our hearts would have you hear,-- glory and praise and gratitude and pride from the dear country in whose cause you died. now you have run your race and won your prize, old age shall never burden you, the fears and conflicts that beset our lingering years shall never vex your souls in paradise. immortal, young, and crowned with victory, from life's long battle you have found release. and he who died for all on calvary has welcomed you, brave soldiers of the cross, into eternal peace. vii come, let us gird our loins and lift our load, companions who are left on life's rough road, and bravely take the way that we must tread to keep true faith with our beloved dead. to conquer war they dared their lives to give, to safeguard peace our hearts must learn to live. help us, dear god, our forward faith to hold! we want a better world than that of old. lead us on paths of high endeavor, toiling upward, climbing ever, ready to suffer for the right, until at last we gain a loftier height, more worthy to behold our guiding stars, our hero-stars of gold. ode for the memorial service, princeton university, december , . "hello, soldier!" khaki verse by edward dyson many of these verse were originally printed in the "bulletin," others in "punch," "the leader" and melbourne "herald." some few are now published for the first time. the paper famine leaving me no option but to print on peculiar paper, not wholly prohibitive or to defer the publication of my verses for an unknown period, the natural longing of a parent to parade his "well be- gotten" prevails. if my book is unusual and bizarre from a craftman's point of view, i plead the unusual times and extraordinary conditions. of these times and conditions. i hope "hello soldier" is in some measure characteriastic.--edward dyson. australia. australia, my native land, a stirring whisper in your ear-- 'tis time for you to understand your rating now is a , dear. you've done some rousing things of late. that lift you from the simple state in which you chose to vegetate. the persons so superior, whose patronage no more endures, now have to fire a salvo for the glory that is fairly yours. at length you need no sort of crutch, you stand alone, you're voted "much"-- get busy and behave as such. no man from oskosh, or from hull, or any other chosen place can rise with a distended skull, and cast aspersions in your face. you're given all the world to know your proper standing as a foe, and hats are off, and rightly so. you furnished heroes for the fray, your sterling merit's widely blown to all men's satisfaction say, now have you proved it to your own? now have you strength to stand and shine in your own light and say, "divine the thing is that i do. it's mine!" the cannon's stroke throws customs down the black and bottomless abyss, and quaking are the gilded crown and palsied feet of prejudice. the guns have killed, but it is true they bring to life things good and new. god grant they have awakened you! my ears are greedy for the toast of confidence before our guest, the loyal song, the manly boast your splendid faith to manifest. in works of art and livelihood shirk not the creed, "what's ours is good," dread not to have it understood. australia, lift your royal brow, and have the courage of our pride, audacity becomes you now, be splendidly self-satisfied, no land from lowliness and dearth has won to eminence on earth that was not conscious of its worth. contents australia billy khaki as the troops went through marshal neigh v.c. in hospital sister ann bricks mud mickie mollynoo jam weeping willie billjim the crusaders peace, blessed peace the happy gardeners the germ joey's job the girl i left behind me how herman won the cross when tommy came marching home hello, soldier! the moralist repaired out of khaki the single-handed team battle passes the letters of the dead bullets unredeemed the living picture the immortal strain the unborn the common men the church bells the young lieutenant the one at home the hapless army billy khaki marching somewhat out of order when the band is cock-a-hoop, there's a lilting kind of magic in the swagger of the troop, swinging all aboard the steamer with her nose toward the sea. what is calling, billy khaki, that you're foot- ing it so free? though his lines are none too level, and he lacks a bit of style. and he's swanking like the devil where the women wave and smile, he will answer with a rifle trim and true from stock to bore, where the comrades crouch and stifle in the reeking pit of war. what is calling, billy khaki? there is thunder down the sky, and the merry magpie bugle splits the morn- ing with its cry, while your feet are beating rhythms up the dusty hills and down, and the drums are all a-talking in the hollow of the town. billy khaki, is't the splendor of the song the kiddies sing, or the whipping of the flags aloft that sets your heart a-swing? is't the cheering like a paean of the toss- ing, teeming crowds, or the boom of distant cannon flatly bumping on the clouds ? what's calling, calling, billy? 'tis the rattle far away of the cavalry at gallop and artillery in play; 'tis the great gun's fierce concussion, and the smell of seven hells when the long ranks go to pieces in the sneezing of the shells. but your eyes are laughing, billy, and a ribald song you sing, while the old men sit and tell us war it is a ghastly thing, when the swift machines are busy and the grim, squat fortress nocks at your bolts as vain as eggs of gulls that spatter on the rocks. when the horses sweep upon you to complete a sudden rout, or in fire and smoke and fury some brave regiment goes out, war is cruel, bill, and ugly. but full well you know the rest, yet your heart is for the battle, and your face is to the west. for if war is beastly, billy, you can picture something worse-- there's the wrecking of an empire, and its broken people's curse; there are nations reft of freedom, and of hope and kindly mirth, and the shadow of an evil black upon the bitter earth. so we know what's calling, billy. 'tis the spirit of our race, and its stir is in your pulses, and its light is on your face as you march with clipping boot-heels through the piping, howling town to uphold the land we live in, and to pull a tyrant down. thou his lines are none too level, and he's not a whale for style, and he's swanking like the devil when the women wave and smile he will answer with a rifle, trim and true from stuck to bore, when the comrades sit and stifle in the smoking pit of war. as the troop went through i heard this day, as i may no more, the world's heart throb at my workshop door. the sun was keen, and the day was still; the township drowsed in, a haze of heat. a stir far off on the sleepy hill, the measured beat of their buoyant feet, and the lilt and thrum of a little drum, the song they sang in a cadence low, the piping note of a piccolo. the township woke, and the doors flew wide; the women trotted their boys beside. across the bridge on a single heel the soldiers came in a golden glow, with throb of song and the chink of steel, the gallant crow of the piccolo. good and brown they were, and their arms swung bare. their fine young faces revived in me a boyhood's vision of chivalry. the lean, hard regiment tramping down, bushies, miners and boys from town. from 'mid the watchers the road along one fell in line with the khaki men. he took the stride, and he caught their song, and steve went then, and meneer, and ben, long dave mccree, and the weavers three, all whisked away by the "come! come! come!" the lusty surge of the vaunting drum. i swore a prayer for each soldier lad. he was the son that might have had; the tall, bold boy who was never mine, all brave with dust that the eyes laughed through, his shoulders square, and his chin in line, was marching too with the gallant few. passed the muffled beat of their swanking feet, the swell of drum, the exulting crow, the wild-bird note of the piccolo. they dipped away in the listless trees; a mother wept on her beaded knees for sons gone out to the long war's end; but more than mother or man wept i who had no son in the world to send. the hour lagged by, and drifting high came the fitful hum of the little drum, and faint, but still with an ardent flow, the pibroch, call of the piccolo. marshal neigh, v.c. he came from tumbled country past the humps of buffalo where the snow sits on the mountain 'n' the summer aches below. he'd a silly name like archie. squattin' sullen on the ship, he knew nex' to holy nothin' through the gor- forsaken trip. no thoughts he had of women, no refreshin' talk of beer; if he'd battled, loved, or suffered vital facts did not appear; but the parsons and the poets couldn't teach him to discourse when it come to pokin' guyver at a pore, deluded horse. if nags got sour 'n' kicked agin the rules of things at sea, artie argued matters with 'em, 'n' he'd kid 'em up a tree. "here's a pony got hystericks. pipe the word for privit rowe," the sargint yapped, 'n' all the ship came cluckin' to the show. he'd chat him confidential, 'n' he'd pet 'n' paw the moke; he'd tickle him, 'n' flatter him, 'n' try him with a joke; 'n' presently that neddy sobers up, 'n' sez "ive course, since you puts it that way, cobber, i will be a better horse." there was one pertickler whaler, known aboard ez marshal neigh, whose monkey tricks with privit rowe was better than a play. he'd done stunts in someone's circus, 'n' he loved a merry bout, whirlin' in to bust his boiler, or to kick the bottom out. rowe he sez: "well, there's an idjit! oh, yes, let her whiz, you beauty! where's yer 'orse sense, little feller? where's yer bloomin' sense iv duty? well, you orter serve yer country!" then there'd come a painful hush, 'n' that nag would drop his head-piece, 'n', so 'elp me cat, he'd blush. we was heaped ashore be suez, rifle, horse, 'n' man, 'n' tent, where the land is sand, the water, 'n' the gory firmament. we had intervals iv longin', we had sweaty spells of work in the ash-pit iv gehenner, dumbly waitin' fer the turk. we goes driftin' on the desert, nothin' doin', nothin' said, till we get to think we're nowhere, 'n' arf fancy we are dead, 'n' the only 'uman interest on the red hori- zon's brim is marshal neigh's queer faney fer the lad that straddles him. plain-livin's nearly, bored us stiff. the major calls on rowe to devise an entertainment. what his charger doesn't know isn't in the regulations. him 'n' rowe is brothers met, 'n' that horse's sense iv humor is the oddest fancy yet. but the turk arrives one mornin' on the outer edge iv space. from back iv things his guns is floppin' kegs about the place, 'n' privit artie rowe along with others iv the force goes pig-rootin' inter battle, holdin' converse with his horse. little abdul's quite a fighter, 'n' he mixes it with skill; but the anzacs have him snouted,, 'n', oh, ma, he's feelin' ill. they wake the all-fired desert, 'n' the land for ever dead is alive 'n' fairly creepin', and the skies are droppin' lead. when they've got the ot'man goin', little gaudy hunts begin. it fer us to chiv his trousers. 'n' to round the stragglers in. cuttin' closest to the raw, 'n' swearin' lovin' all the way, is artie from molinga on his neddy, marshal neigh. we're pursuin' sundry camels turkey-trottin' anyhow with the carriage iv an emu 'n' the action iv a cow, when a sand dune busts, 'n' belches arf a million iv the foe. they uncork a blanky batt'ry, 'n' it's, allah, let her go! we're not stayin' dinner, thank you. lie along yer horse 'n' yell, while the bullets pip yer britches 'n' you sniff the flue of hell. here it is that artie takes it good 'n' solid in the crust, he dives from out the saddle, 'n' is swallered in the dust. i got through 'n' saw them pointin' where the marshal faced the band. he was goin' where we came from, sniffin' bodies in the sand. till he found rowe snugglin' under, took him where his pants was slack, 'n' be all the asiatic gods, he brought his soldier back! with a bullet in his buttock, 'n' a drill hole in his ear, he dumped artie down among us. square 'n' all, how did we cheer! there's no medals struck fer neddies, but we rule there orter be, 'n' the pride iv all the light horse is old marshal neigh, v.c. in hospital. it is thirty moons since i slung me hook from the job at the hay and corn, took me solemn oath, 'n' i straight forsook all the ways of life, dinkum ways 'n' crook, 'n' the things on which it was good to look since the day when a bloke was born. i was give a gun, 'n' a bay'net bright, 'n' a 'ell of a swag iv work, n' i dipped my lid to the big pub light, to the ole push cobbers i give "good-night!" slipped a kiss to 'er, 'n' i wings me flight for a date with the demon turk. ez we pricked our heel to the skitin' drum. square 'n' all, i was gone a mile. with a perky air, 'n' a 'eart ez glum ez a long-dead cod, i was blind 'n' dumb, holdin' do the tear that was bound to come at a word or a friendly smile. now i've seen it all, i may come out dead, but i 'ope never more a fool. i have scorched, 'n' thirsted, 'n' froze, 'n' bled, 'n' bin taught the use of the human head, for when all is done 'n' when all is said, war's a wonderful sort of school. i've bin taught to get 'em 'n' never fret, 'n' to sleep without dreamin' when we have swarmed a slope with the red rain wet; i 'ave learned a pile, 'n' i'm learnin' yet; but the thing i've learned that i won't forget is a way of not judgin' men. we was shot down there in a dirty place-- from the mansions 'n' huts we'd come-- 'n' of all the welter the 'ardest case was a little swine with a dimpled face, who a year ago was dispensin' lace in a carlton em-por-ee-um. in the moochin' days of me giddy youth, when i kidded meself a treat, i'd have pass him one ez a gooey. 'strewth on the track iv huns, he's a eight-day sleuth, 'n' at tearin' into 'em nail 'n' tooth he's got julius caesar beat! i ain't proud with him ; 'n' i'm modest, too, when dividin' a can of swill with a algy boy from the wilds iv kew. cos i do not know what the cow will do when a fritzy offers to sock me through; 'n' it's good to be livin' still. there you are, you see! oh! it makes you sore, when a bloke you despised at 'ome in them pifflin' days of the years before takes a odds-on chance with the god of war, 'n' he tows you out with his left lung tore, 'n' a crack in his bleedin' dome! 'twas a lad called hugh done ez much for me. (he has curls 'n' he's fair 'n' slim). well, i mind the days in the port when we puts it over hugh coz we don't agree with his tone 'n' style, 'n' my foot was free when the push made a hack of him. now he's paid me back. i had struck a snag, and must creep through the battle spume all a flamin' age, with a grinnin' jag in me thigh, for water, or jest a fag. like a crippled snake i was forced to drag shattered flesh till the crack of doom. when they saw me he was the one who came. 'n' he give me a raffish grin 'n' a swig. i wasn't so bad that shame didn't get me then, for the lad was lame. they had passed him his, but his 'art was game. 'n' he coughed ez he brought me in. i have tackled god on me bended knees, so he'll save him alive 'n' whole, for the sake of one who he thinks he sees when the nurse's hands bring a kind of ease; and i thank god, too, for the things like these that have give me a sort of soul. there are percies, algies, 'n' claudes i've met who could take it 'n' come agen, while the bullets flew in a screamin' jet. what in pain, 'n' death, and in mire 'n' sweat i 'ave learned from them that i won't forget is a way of not judgin' men. sister ann. i'm lyin' in a narrow bed, 'n' starin' at a wall. where all is white my plastered head is whitest of it all. my life is jist a whitewashed blank, with flamin' spurts of pain. i dunno who i've got to thank, i've p'raps been trod on by a tank, or caught out in the rain when skies were peltin' fish-plates, bricks 'n' lengths of bullock-chain. i'm lyin' here, a sulky swine, 'n' hatin' of the bloke who's in the doss right next to mine with 'arf his girders broke. he never done no 'arm t me, 'n' he's pertickler ill; but i have got him snouted, see, 'n' all old earth beside but she come with the chemist's swill, 'n' puts a kind, soft 'and on mine, 'n' all my nark is still. she ain't a beaut, she's thirty two, she scales eleven stone; but, 'struth, i didn't think it true there was such women grown! she's nurse 'n' sister, mum 'n' dad, 'n' all that straight 'n' fine in every girl i ever had. when gabr'el comes, 'n' all the glad young saints are tipped the sign, you'll see this donah take her place, first angel in the line! she's sweet 'n' cool, her touch is dew-- wet lilies on yer brow. (jist 'ark et me what never knew of lilies up to now). she fits your case in 'arf a wink, 'n' knows how, why, 'n' where. if you are five days gone in drink, n' hoverin' on perdition's brink, it is her brother there. god how pain will take a man, and he has spoke with her! i dunno if she ever sleeps ten minutes at a stretch. a dozen times a night she creeps to soothe a screamin' wretch who has a tiger-headed hun a-gnawin' at his chest. 'n' when the long, 'ard flght is won, 'n' he is still 'n' nearly done, she smiles down on his rest, 'n' minds me of a mother with a baby at her breast. the curly kid we cuddled when there was no splendid row (it seemed a little matter then, but feels so wondrous now). it's part of her. she's joan iv ark, flo nightingale, all fair 'n' dinkum dames who've made their mark if she comes tip-toe in the dark, we blighters feel her there. the whole pack perks up like a bird, 'n' sorter takes the air. she chats you in a 'ighland botch; but if our sis saw fit to pitch hindoo instead of scotch i'd get the hang of it, because her heart it is that talks what now is plain to me. at war where bloody murder stalks, 'n' nick his hottest samples hawks. i have been given to see what simple human kindness is, what brotherhood may be. bricks. dear ned, i now take up my pen to write you these few lines, and hopin' how they find you fit. gorbli', it seems an age since jumbo ducked the port, 'n' drilled 'n' polished to the nines, he walked his pork on collins like a hero off the stage, then hiked a rifle 'cross the sea this bleedin' war to wage. the things what's 'appened lately calls to jumbo's mind that day our push took on the peewee pack, 'n' belted out their lard, with twenty cops to top it off. but now i'm stowed away, a bullet in me gizzard where i took it good and hard, a-dealin'-stoush 'n' mullock to the prussian flamin' guard. at bullcoor mortal charnce had dumped a mutton-truck of us from good ole port ker-flummox where we didn't orter be, all in a 'elpless hole-the pug, bill carkeek, son, 'n' gus, don, steve, 'n' jack, 'n' seven more, 'n', as it 'appens, me, with nothin' in since breakfast, 'n' a week to go for tea. worked loose from caddy's bunch, we went it gay until we found we'd took to 'arf the ragin' german hempire on our own. then down we went so 'umble, with our noses in the ground, takin' cover in the rubble. if a german head was shown it was fare-the-well to herman with a bullet through the bone. we slogged the cows remorseless, 'n' they laid for us a treat. we held that stinkin' cellar, though, 'n' when the day was done son pussied on his bingie where a maxie trim 'n' neat had spit out loaded lightnin', and he slugged a tubby hun, then choked a fritzie with his dukes, 'n' pinched the sooner's gun! we rigged her on her knuckle-bones. cri', how she lapped 'em up! we hosed 'em out with livin' lead. that was the second day. me left eye i'd 'ave give for jest a bubble in a cup, three fingers i'd 'ave parted for a bone i've flung away; but the butcher wasn't callin', 'n' the fountain didn't play. t'was rotten mozzle, neddo. we had blown out ever clip, 'n' 'blooed the hammunition for the little box of tricks. each took a batten in his fist. sez billy "let 'er rip!" but son he claws his stubble. sez--he: "hold a brace of ticks." then "yow!" he pipes 'n' "strewth!" he sez, "it's bricks, you blighters, bricks!" there's more than 'arf a million spilt where somethin' hit a pub; we creeps among 'n' sorts 'em, stack afore, 'n' stack behind; the hun is comin' at us with his napper like a tub-- you couldn't 'ope to miss it, pickled, par- alysed, 'n' blind. sez sonny: "lay 'em open! give 'em blotches on the rind!" then bricks was flyin' in the wind. mine dinted otto's chin; ole nosey got his brother, which he never more will roam. when ulrich stopped a port bookay he rolled his alley in. their fire was somethin' fierce. poor son was blowin' blood 'n' foam, "fill up," he coughs, "'n' plug 'em! s'elp me gord, we're goin' 'ome!" with bricks we drove right at 'em 'n' we wanged 'em best we could. 'twas either bed 'n' breakfast or a scribble and a wreath. haynes bust a prussian's almond, took the bay'net where he stood, then heaved his last 'arf-brunswick, split the demon's grinnin' teeth, and son went down in glory, with a german underneath! we'd started out with gibbers in our clobber and our 'ats. they gave us floatin' lead enough to stop an army cor. we yelled like fiends, 'n' countered with a lovely flight of bats, then rushed in close formation, heavin' cot- tages, n' tore through blinded, bleedin' bosches, 'n' lor love yeh, it was war! we came peltin', headfirst, 'elpless, in a drain among a lot of dirty, damned old tommies (gord! the best that ever blew!) eight left of us, all punctured, each man holdin' what he'd got. me wild, a rat hole in me lung, but in me mauley, too, a bull-nosed brick with whiskers where no whiskers ever grew. there's nothin' doin' now. i wear me blan- kets like a toff. the way this fat nurse pets me, strewth, it's well to be so sick, a-dreamin' of our contract 'n' the way we pulled it off. i reckon haig is phonin' hughes: "hullo, there, billy. quick-- a dozen of the pushes and a thousan' tons of brick!" mud. this war's a waste of slurry, and its at- mosphere is mud, all is bog from here to sunset. wadin' through we're the victims of a thicker sort of universal flood, with discomforts that old noah never knew. we have dubbed our trench the cecil. there's a brass-plate and a dome, and a quagmire where the doormat used to be, if you're calling, second tuesday is our reg'- lar day at home, so delighted if you'll toddle in to tea! there is mud along the corridors enough to bog a cow; in the air there hangs a musty kind of woof; there's a frog-pond in the parlour, and the kitchen is a slough. she has neither doors nor windows, nor a roof. when they post our bald somnambulist as missing from his flat we take soundings for the digger with a prop. by the day the board is gratis, by the week it's half of that; for the season there's a corresponding drop. opening off the spacious hallway is my natty little suite, a commodious and accessible abode. by judicious disposition, with exclusion of my feet, there is sleeping room for oliver the toad. though the ventilation's gusty, and in gobs the ceiling falls-- which with oral respiration disagrees-- though there comes a certain quantity of seepage from the walls, there are some i knew in diggings worse than these. on my right is cobber carkeek. there's a spring above his head, and his mattress is a special kind of clay. he's a most punctilious bloke about the fashion of his bed, and he makes it with a shovel every day. man is dust. if so, the cobber has been puddled up a treat. on domestic sanitation he's a toff, for he lights a fire on sunday, bakes his sur- face in the heat, then he takes a little maul, and cracks it off. after hanging out a winter in this cimmerian hole we're forgetting sheets, and baths, and tidy skins. in the dark and deadly calm last night they took us on patrol. seven, little fellows, thinking of their sins. it was ours like blinded snails to prowl the soggy, slimy night, with a feeler pricking out at every pore for the death that stalks in darkness, or the blinking stab of light, and the other trifling matters that are war. that's the stuff to get your liver, that's the acid on a man, for it tries his hones, and seeks his marrow throngh. you have got the thought to comfort you that life is but a span, if fritz squirts his loathly limelight over you. we got back again at daybreak. cobber ducked to doss and said, from the soft, embracing mud: "no more i'll roam. "oh, thank heaven, blokes," he murmured, "for the comforts of a bed! gorstruth, but ain't it good to have a home!" mickie mollynoo. a mile-long panto dragon ploddin' 'opeless all the day, stuffed out with kits, 'n' spiked with rifles, steamin' in its sweat, a-heavin' down the misty road, club-footed through the clay, by waggons bogged 'n' buckin' guns, the wildest welter yet, like 'arf creation's tenants shiftin' early in the wet. we're marchin' out, we dunno where, to meet we dunno who; but here we lights eventual, 'n' sighs 'n' slips the kit, 'n', 'struth, the first to take us on is mickie mollynoo! a copper of the port he was, when 'istory was writ. sez i : "we're sent to face the foe, 'n', selp me, this is it." a shine john. hop is mollynoo. a mix-up with the push is all his joy. one evenin' when his baton's flyin' free i takes a baby brick, 'n' drives it hard agin the cush, 'n' privit mick is scattered out fer all the world to see, but not afore indelible he's put his mark on me. i got the signs masonic all inlaid along me lug where molly, p.c., swiped me in them 'appy, careless days. he's sargin' now, a vet'ran; i'm a newchum and a mug, 'n' when he sorter fixes me there's some- thin' in his gaze that's pensive like. "move on!" sez he. "keep movin' there!" he says. if after this i dreams of scraps promiscuous and crool, the mills in butcher's alley when the watch is on the wine, those nights he raided wylie's shed to break the two-up school, i takes a screw at molly. with a grin that ain't divine he's toyin' with a scar of old i reckernise as mine. 'n' so i'm layin' for it, 'n' i'm wonderin' how 'n' what. we're signed on with the germans, 'n' there ain't a vacant date; but sure it's comin' to me, 'n' it's comin' 'ard 'n' 'ot. me lurk is patient waitin', but i'm trim- min' while i wait a brick to jab or swing with, in a willin' tatertate. oh, judge me wonder! there's a scrim that follers on a raid. i'm roughin' it all-in with hans. he sock me such a bat i slides on somethin' narsty, 'n' me little grave is made; but molly butts my hun, 'n' leaves no face beneath his hat, 'n', "'scuse me, mister herr," sez he, "i have a lien on that!" he helps me under cover, 'n' he 'ands me somethin' wet (i've got a lick or two that leaves me feelin' pretty sick). "lor love yeh, ole john hop," sez i, "yiv buried me in debt." "don't minton ut at all," he sez, 'n' eyes me arf-a-tick. 'n' back there in the trench i sits, 'n' trims another brick. 'tis all this how a month or more; then mollynoo sez he: "come aisy, jumm, yeh loafer, little hell 'n' all to view. a job most illegant is on, cut out fer you 'n' me. the damnedest, dirtiest fighter on the continent is you, bar one, yeh gougin' thafe, 'n' that is sargin' mollynoo!" i take, with knife 'n' pistol, arf a brick to line me shirt. we creeps a thousan' yards or so to jigger up a gun which seven huns is workin' on the irish like a squirt. we gets across them, me 'n' him. i pots the extra one; mick chokes his third in comfort, 'n', be'old, the thing is done! he stands above me, rakin' sweat from off his gleamin' nut. "me dipper's leakin', mick," sez i; "me leg is bit in two." sez he: "bleed there in comfort, i'm for bringin' help, ye scut." he's back in twenty minutes, with a dillied german crew. "three'll carry in the gun," sez he, "the rest will carry you." i dunno how he got 'em, but he made them barrer me. they lugged the gun before him, 'n' he yarded them like geese. then mickie s'lutes the major. "they're in custody," sez he, "fer conduc' calculated to provoke a breach iv peace, a-tearin' iv me uniform, 'n' 'saultin' the po-lice." then down he dumped. his wounds would make a 'arf a column list. when hack to front i chucks me bricks 'n' smiles the best i can. he grins at me: "yer right," sez he, "hold out yer bla'-guard fist, i couldn't fight yeh, blarst yeh, if yeh dinted in me pan. this messin' round wid germans makes a chicken iv a man." jam. (a hymn of hate). what is meant by active service 'ere where sin is leakin' loose, 'n' the oldest 'and's as nervis as a dog-bedevilled goose, has bin writ be every poet what can rhyme it worth a dam, but the 'orror as we know it is jist jam, jam, jam! oh, the 'ymn of 'ate we owe it-- stodgy, splodgy, seepy, soaky, sanguinary jam! there's the "fearful roar iv battle," what gets underneath yer 'at, mooin' like a million cattle each as big as ararat; there's the red field green 'n' slippy (and i'm cleaner where i am), but the thing that's got me nippy it is jam, jam, jam! druv us sour it has, 'n' dippy, sticky, sicky, slimy, sloppy, stummick-strafin' jam! of the mud that's in the trenches writers make a solemn fuss; for the vermin 'n' the stenches little ladies pity us; but the yearn that's honest dinkum, 'n' the prayer what ain't a sham is that fritz may bust 'n' sink 'em ships of jam, jam, jam! for we bolt 'em, chew 'em, drink 'em, million billion bar'ls of beastly, cloyin' clammy jam! we are sorry-sick of peaches, 'n' we're full right up of plum, 'n' innards fairly screeches when the tins of apple come. back of blighty piled in cases, jist as close as they can cram, fillin' all the open spaces, is the 'jam, jam, jam! oh, the woe the soldiers face is, monday, sunday, ruddy, muddy, boundless bogs of jam. weepin' willie. whey our trooper hit wide water every heart was yearin' back to the little 'ouse at coogee or a hut at bar- renjack. she was 'ookin' up to spike the stars, or rootin' in the wave, an' me liver turned a hand spring with each buck the beggar gave. then we pulls a sick 'n' silly smile 'n' tips a saucy lid, crackin' hardy. willie didn't. willie snivelled like a kid. at gallip' the steamer dumped us, 'n' we got right down to work, whoopin' up the hill splendacious, playin' tiggie with the turk. when the stinkin' abdul hit us we curled down upon a stone, 'n' we yelled for greater glory, crackin' 'ardy on our own. not so willie. he was cursin', cold ez death 'n' grey ez steel, 'n' the smallest thing that busted made the little blighter squeal. in the bitter day's that follered, spillin' life be- side the sea, we would fake a spry expression for the things that had to be, always dressin' up the winder, crackin' 'ardy though we felt fearful creepy in the whiskers, very cold be- neath the belt. but his jills would sniff 'n' shiver in the mother of a fright, 'n' go blubberin' 'n' quakin' out to waller in the fight. in the west we liked the weather, 'n' we fat- tened in the mud, crackin' 'ardy, stewed together, rats an' slurry men 'n' blood. weepin' willie wouldn't have it these was pleasin' things abed, 'n' he shuddered in his shimmy if they passed him with the dead. when he cried about his mother, in a gentle voice he'd tell them as dumb-well didn't like it they could go to sudden 'ell. there was nothin' sweet for willie in a rough- up in the wet; but if all things scared him purple, not a thing had stopped him yet. if some chaps was wanted urgent special dirty work to do willie went in with a shudder, but he alwiz saw it through. oh, a busy little body was our willie in a crush! then he'd cry out in the night about the faces in the slush. well they pinked him one fine mornin' with a thumpin' 'unk iv shell; put it in 'n' all across him. what he was you couldn't tell. i saw him stitched 'n' mended where he whimpered in his bed, 'n' he'd on'y lived because he was afraid to die, he said. sez he "struth, they're out there fightin', trimmin' boshes good 'n' smart, while i'm bedded here 'n' 'elpless. it fair breaks a feller's 'eart." but he came again last tuesday '-n' we go it in a breath-- "london's big 'n' black 'n' noisy. it would scare a bloke to death." he's away now in the trenches, white 'n' nervous, but, you bet, playin' lovely 'ands of poker with his busy bay-o-net, 'fraid of givin' 'n' of takin', 'fraid of gases, 'fraid of guns-- but a champion lightweight terror to the gor- forsaken 'uns! billjim down to it is plugger bill, lyin' crumpled, white 'n' still. me 'n' him chips in when the scrap begins, carin' nothin' for our skins, chi-iked as the 'eavenly twins- bill 'n' jim. they 'ave outed bill at last, slugged me cobber hard 'n' fast. it's a kill. see the purple of his lip 'n' the red 'n' oozy drip! ends our great ole partnership- jim 'n' bill mates we was when we was kids; camp, 'n' ship, 'n' pyramids, him 'n' me hung together, 'n' we tore up the heights from helles shore, bill a long 'arf head afore, fine to see! then it was we took a touch- simple puncture, nothin' much; but we lay 'n' we stays the count, it seems, in a sorter realm of dreams where the sun infernal gleams night 'n' day; boilin', fryin' achin', dumb, waitin' till the stretchers come, patiently. i hangs on to 'arf a cup. which i wants ole bill to sup. damn if he ain't savin' up his for me! when they come to lift my head i am softly kiddin' dead, for a game, so's they'll first take on his gills. over, though, me scheme he spills- bli'me, this ole take-down bill's done the same! but he isn't kiddin' now, and it knocks me anyhow seein' him. we was both agreed before, though it got 'em by the score, two was goin' to beat this war- but 'n' jim. mate o' mine, yiv stayed it through. hard luck, bill-for me 'n' you hard 'n' grim. they have got me cobber true, but i'm stickin' tight ez glue.... bill, there's one who'll plug for two- it is jim! the crusaders. what price yer humble, dicko smith, in gaudy putties girt, with sand-blight in his optics, and much leaner than he started, round the 'oly land cavorting in three- quarters of a shirt, and imposin' on the natives ez one dick the lion 'earted? we are drivin' out the infidel, we're hittin' up the turk, same ez richard slung his right across the saracen invader in old days of which i'm readin'. now we're gettin' in our work, 'n' what price me nibs, i ask yeh, ez a qualified crusader! 'ere i am, a thirsty templar in the fields of palestine, where that hefty little fighter, bobby sable, smit the heathen, and where richard coor de lion trimmed the moslem good 'n' fine, 'n' he took the belt from saladin, the slickest dago breathin'. there's no plume upon me helmet, 'n' no red cross on me chest, 'n' so fur they haven't dressed me in a swanking load of metal; we've no 'oly grail i know of, but we do our little best with a jamtin, 'n' a billy, 'n' a battered ole mess kettle. quite a lot of guyver missin' from our brand of chivalry; we don't make a pert procession when we're movin' up the forces; we've no pretty, pawin' stallion, 'n' no pennants flowin' free, 'n' no giddy, gaudy bedquilts make a circus of the 'orses. we 'most always slip the cattle 'n' we cut out all the dog when it fairly comes to buttin' into battle's hectic fever, goin' forward on our wishbones, with our noses in the bog, 'n' we 'eave a pot iv blazes at the cursed unbeliever. fancy-dress them old crusaders wore, and alwiz kep' a band. what we wear's so near to nothin' that it's often 'ardly proper, and we swings a tank iv iron scrap across the 'oly land from a dinkie gun we nipped ashore the other side of jopper. we ain't ever very natty, for the climate here is hot; when it isn't liquid mud the dust is thicker than the vermin. ten to one our bold noureddin is some wad- dlin' turkish pot, 'n' the saladin we're on to is a snortin' red-eyed german. but be'old the eighth crusade, 'n' dicko smith is in the van, dicko coor de lion from carlton what could teach king dick a trifle, for he'd bomb his royal jills from out his baked-pertater can, or he'd pink him full of leakage with a quaint repeatin' rif e. we have sunk our claws in mizpah, and siloam is in view. by my 'alidom from agra we will send the faithful reelin'! those old-timers botched the contract, but we mean to put it through. knights templars from balmain, the port, monaro, nhill, andl ealin'. we 'are wipin' up jerus'lem; we were ready with a hose spoutin' lead, a dandy cleaner that you bet you can rely on; and moss isaacs, cohn, and cohen, moses, offelbloom 'n' those can all pack their bettin' bags, and come right home again to zion. peace, blessed peace. here in the flamin' thick of thick of things, with death across the way, 'n' traps what little fritz the german flings explodin' in yer lunch pe'aps, it ain't all glory for a bloke', it ain't all corfee 'ot and stoo, nor wavin' banners in the smoke, or practisin' the bay'net stroke-- we has our little troubles, too! here's trigger ribb bin seein' red 'n' raisin' cain because he had, back in the caverns iv his 'ead, a 'oller tooth run ravin' mad. pore trigger up 'n' down the trench was jiggin' like a blithered loan, 'n' every time she give a wrench you orter seen the beggar blench, you orter 'eard him play a toon. the sullen shells was pawin' blind, a-feelin' for us grim as sin, while now 'n' then we'd likely find a dizzy bomb come limpin' in. but trigger simply let 'er sizz. he 'ardly begged to be excused. this was no damn concern of his. he twined a muffler round his phiz, 'n' fearful was the words he used. lest we be getting' cock-a-whoop ole 'ans tries out his box of tricks. his bullets all around the coop is peckin' like a million chicks. but trigger when they barks his snout don't sniff at it. he won't confess they're on the earth--ignores the clout, 'n' makes the same old sung about his brimmin' mug of bitterness. they raided us there in the mud one day afore the dead sun rose. me oath, the mess of stuff and blood would give a slaughterman the joes! and when the scrap is past and done, where's trigger ribb? the noble youth has got his bay'net in a hun, while down his cheeks the salt tears run. sez he to me "gorbli'--this tooth!" a shell hoist trigger in a tree. we found him motherin' his jor. "if this ache's goin' on," sez he, "so 'elp me, it'll spoil the war!" five collared trigger on his perch, they wired his molar to a bough, then give the anguished one a lurch, 'n' down he pitches. from that birch his riddled tooth is hangin' now. this afternoon it's merry 'ell; grenades is comin' by the peck; a big gun times us true 'n well, and, oh! we gets it in the neck. they lick out flames hat reach a mile, the drip of lead will never cease. but trigger's pottin' all the while; he sports a fond 'n' foolish smile- "thank gord," he sez, "a bit of peace!" the happy gardeners. we were storemen, clerks and packers on an ammunition dump twice the size of cootamundra, and the goods we had to hump they were bombs as big as water-butts, and cartridges in tons, shells that looked like blessed gasmains, and a line in traction-guns. we had struck a warehouse dignity in dealing with the stocks. it was, "sign here, mr. eddie!" "clarkson, forward to the socks!" our floor-walker was a major, with a nozzle like a peach, and a stutter in his trilbies; and a limping kind of speech. we were off at eight to business, we were free for lunch at one, and we talked of new spring fashions, and the brisk trade being done. after five we sought our dugouts lying snug beneath the hill, each with hollyhocks before it and geraniums on the sill. singing "home, sweet home," we swept, and scrubbed, and dusted up the place, then smoked out on the doorstep in the twi- light's tender grace. after which with spade and rake we sought our special garden plot, and we 'tended to the cabbage and the shrink- ing young shallot. so long lived we unmolested that this seemed indeed "the life." set apart from mirk and worry and the inci- dence of strife; and we trimmed our kitchen eden, swapping vegetable lore, whi e the whole demented world beside was muddled up with war. there was little talk of boches and of bloody battle scenes, but a deal about bill's spuds and billy carkeek's butter-beans; porky specialised on onion and he had a sort of gift for a cabbage plump and tender that it took two men to lift. in the pleasant sabbath morning, when the sun lit on our "street," and illumed the happy dugout with effulgence kind and sweet, it was fine to see us forking, raking, picking off the bugs, treading flat the snails and woodlice and demolishing the slugs. then one day old fritz got going. he had a hint of us, and the shell the blighter posted was as roomy as a 'bus; he was groping round the dump, and kind of pecking after it; when he plugged the hill the world heeled up, the dome of heaven split. then, gott and consternation! swooped a shell a and stuck her nose in carkeek's beans. those beans came up! a cry of grief arose! as we watched them--plunk! another shell cut loose, and everywhere flew the spuds of billy murphy. there were turnips in the air. bill! she tore a quarter-acre from the land- scape. with it burst tommy's carrots, and we watched them, and in whispers prayed and cursed. then a wail of anguish 'scaped us. boomed in porky's cabbage plot a detestable concussion. porky's cabbages were not! there the breaking strain was reached, for porky fetched an awful cry, and he rushed away and armed himself. with loathing in his eye, up and over went the hero. he was savage through and through, and he tore across the distance like a mad- dened kangaroo. they had left a woeful sight indeed--frail cab- bages all rent, turnips mangled, little carrots all in one red burial blent, parsnips ruined, lettuce shattered, torn and wilted beet and bean, and a black and grinning gap where once our garden flourished green. . . . . . . five and fifty hours had passed when came a german in his shirt. on his back he carried porky black with blood, and smoke and dirt. "i sniped six of 'em," said porky, "an' me pris'ner here," he sez- "i done in the crooel swine what strafed me helpless cabba-ges." the germ i took to khaki at a word, and fashioned dreams of wonder. i rode the great sea like a bird, chock full of blood and thunder. i saw myself upon the field of battle, framed in glory, compelling stubborn foes to yield as captives to my sword and shield-- this is another story. we sat about in sun and sand, we broke old cairo's images, met here and there a swarthy band in little, friendly scrimmages, and here it is i start to kid no moslem born can hit me. the germ then that had long laid hid came out of pharaoh's pyramid, and covertly he bit me. for some few days i wore an air of pensive introspection, and then i curled down anywhere. they whispered of infection, and hoist me on two sticks as though i bore the leper's label, and took me where, all in a row of tiny beds, two score or so were raising second babel; but no man talked to any one. and no bloke knew another. this soldier raved about his gun, and that one of his mother. they were the victims of the germ, the imp that satan pricks in, first cousin to the coffin worm, whose uncomputed legions squirm some foul, atomic styx in. the germ rides with the plunging shell, or on the belts that fret you, or in a speck of dust may well one thousand years to get you; well ambushed in a tunic fold he waits his special mission, and never lad so big and bold but turns to water in his hold and dribbles to perdition. where is war's pomp and circumstance, the gauds in which we prank it? germ ends for us our fine romance, wrapped in a dingy blanket. we set out braggartly in mirth, world's bravest men and tallest, to do the mightiest thing on earth, and here we're lying, nothing worth, succumbent to the smallest! joey's job. in days before the trouble jo was rated as a slob. he chose to sit in hourly expectation of a job. he'd loop hisself upon a post, for seldom friends had he, a gift of patient waitin' his distinctif quality. he'd linger in a doorway, or he'd loiter on the grass, edgin' modestly aside to let the fleetin' moments pass. jo' begged a bob from mother, but more often got a clout, and settled down with cigarettes to smoke the devil out. the one consistent member of the never trouble club, he put a satin finish on the frontage of the pub. his shoulder-blades were pokin' out from polishin' the pine; but if a job ran at him joey's footwork was divine. jo strayed in at the cobbler's door, but, scoffed at as a fool, he found the conversation too exhaustin' as a rule; or, canted on the smithy coke, he'd hoist his feet and yawn, his boots slid up his shinbones, and his pants displayin' brawn: and if the copper chanced along 'twas beauty- ful to see joe wear away and made hisself a fadest memory. then came the universal nark. the kaiser let her rip. they cleared the ring. the scrap was for the whole world's championship. jo brown was takin' notice, lurkin' shy be- neath his hat, and every day he crept to see the drillin' on the flat. he waited, watchin' from the furze the blokes in butcher's blue, for the burst of inspiration that would tell him what to do. he couldn't lean, he couldn't lie. he yelled out in the night. jo understood--he'd all these years been spoilin' for a fight! right into things he flung himself. he took his kit and gun, mooched gladly in the dust, or roasted gaily in the sun. "gorstruth," he said, with shining eyes, "it means a frightful war, 'n' now i know this is the thing that heaven meant me for." jo went away a corporal and fought again the turk, and like a duck to water joey cottoned to the work. if anythin' was doin' it would presently come out that joseph brown from booragool was there or thereabout. he got a batch of medals, and a glorious renown attached all of a sudden to the name of sergeant brown. then people talked of joey as the dearest friend they had; they were chummy with his uncles, or ac- quainted with his dad. joe goes to france, and presently he figure as the best two-handed all-in fighter in the armies of the west, and men of every age at home and high and low degree, we gather now, once went to school with sergeant brown, v.c. then hayes and jo, in flanders met, and very proud was hayes to shake a townsman by the hand, and sing the hero's praise, "oh, yes," says jo, "i'm doin' well, 'n' yet i might do more. if i was in a hurry, mate, to finish up this war i'd lay out every fritz on earth, but, strike me, what a yob a man would be to work himself out of a flamnin' job!" now jo's a swell lieutenant, and he's keepin' up the pace. ha "record" says lieutenant brown's an honor to the place. the town gets special mention every time he scores. we bet if peace don't mess his chances up, he'll be field-marshal yet. dad, mother and the uncles brown and all our people know that providence began this war to find a grip for jo! the girl i left behind me. i said: "i leave my bit of land- in khaki they've entwined me, i go abroad to lend a hand." said she: "my love, i understand. i will be true, and though we part a thousand years you hold my heart"- the girl i left behind me. i went away to fight the huns- no coward thought could bind me, i sizzled n the tropic suns, i faced the bayonets and the guns. and when in daring deeds i shone one little woman spurred me on- the girl i left behind me. out there, in grim gallipoli. hard going they assigned me, i pricked the turk up from the sea; i riddled him, he punctured me; and, bleeding in my rags, i said: "she'll meet me somewhere if i'm dead- the girl i left behind me. in france we broke the german's face- they tried with gas to blind me. in mud we bogged from front to base, and dirt was ours, but not disgrace. they carved me till i couldn't stand. said i "now for the lodden, and the girl i left behind me. i came ashore, and struck the track; for dust you scarce could find me. the dear girl gave no welcome back- shed changed her names and state, alack! "you've been a time, i must say, ned, in finishing your old war." said the girl i left behind me. i flung a song up to the skies. for battles gods designed me. i think of fifi's laughing eyes, and nami, dusk, but sweet and wise, and chortle in my heart to find how very far i've left behind- the girl i left behind me how herman won the cross once in a blue eternity they gave us dabs of rum to close the seams 'n' keep the flume in liquor-tight condition; but, soft 'n' sentimental, when the long, cold evenin's come, i'd dream me nibs was dronking' to the height of his ambition, with rights of suction over all the breweries there are, where barrels squat, like brahma gods, in mother hardy's bar. i had me fit of longin' on the night the ger- mans came, all breathin' lioke a gas attack. the air was halcholic. we smelt 'em in the darkness, 'n' our rage went up in flame. it was envy, squealin' envy, put the ginger in the frolic. we shot 'em full of spelter, then went over it to spite the swines what drunk the liquor that was ours by common right. "if this ain't stopped, 'n' quick," sez we, "there won't be left a drop to celebrate the vict'ry when we capture their position." i'm prowlin' blind, when sharp there comes a fond, familiar plop- swung round a post, a german in a pitiful condition looms over me. he's sprung a cork, and shales a flask on high, 'n' sings of beer that touchin' it would make a butcher cry. sez he: "berloffed kamarid, you haf some drinks mit you." i meant to spike him where he waved, but altered me intention. 'n' "if you put it thus," sez i, "i don't care if i do." we had a drink together. there's a tem- por'y suspension of hostilities to sample contraband 'n' other stuff in the enemy's possession. which i think he's had enough. that hun had thirty pockets, 'n' he'd stowed a flask in each, 'n' presently i'm thinkin' i could love him like a brother. he's talkin' fond 'n' friendly in outlandish parts of speech. "you're prisoner of war," i sez; 'n' then we had another. ten flasks he pours into his hat, 'n' fills it to the brim, 'n' weeps 'n' sez his frau she will be waitin' up for him. we drink each other's health, 'n' know no henmity nor fear. i see i've got to pinch him, but he's out to do his div. in, 'n' don't care if he don't go home till day- light doth appear. sez he: "i pud you home to bed upside dot 'ouse you live in." he shakes his finger in me eye: "mein friendt, you're preddy trunk!" then arm in arm through no man's land we does a social bunk. there's fear afoot. comes more than once the glug of sudden death. we're rockin' fine 'n' careless where the rifle fire is breakin', 'n' singin' most uproar'ous, in the bomb's disgustin' breath, of girls, 'n' drink, 'n' cheerful sprees, 'n' 'herman thinks he's takin' a cobber home to somewhere in an subbub damp 'n' dim, whereas i know fer certain it is me is takin' him. somehow, sometime, i lands him where he's safely put to bed. i wake nex' day, 'n' holy smoke! i'm pri- soner with the german. me mouth is like an ashpan, there's hot fish- bolts in me head, 'n' through the barb-wire peerin' is me foreigh cobber 'erman. "ve capdure each lasd nighd," sez he "you home haf bring me, boss." for bravery in takin' me, he got the iron cross! when tommy came marching home. devine came back the other day. we'd planned a great home-comin'. no long trombone we had to play, no fine, heroic drummin'. with two sticks and a milk-can borne put up a martial clatter, while carter blew a bullock-horn says tom devine, with healthy scorn; "gorstruth! what is the matter?" we set three colored petticoats from baker's chimneys blowin' ('tis not the bravest flag that floats, yet 'twas the finest goin'); we cheered our hero all we knew, no song of praise neglectin', to show our pride as he limped through he merely spat and snorted, "who "the deuce are yous expectin'?" they lured him to my shop somehow, and sued for news of battle. says tom: "who rides the mail track now? who herdin' stringer's cattle?" a dint the turk put in his head. he covers with a ringlet. he'd won a medal, so we read. "i might 'ave 'ad it pinched," he said- "i've sewn it in my singlet!" says cole "but, 'struth, you must 'ave seen a fearful swag of scrappin'." and tom agrees "where men are keen that's pretty sure to 'appen. one night a little bloke from hay who plugged a pentridge warder got such a doin' that at day, amazed, they ticked him for a stray distinguished service order. "then sydney bob was rather vexed with green--who'd pinched his braces, that was 'continued in our next' in half a score of places. mccubbin threw his grub at lea (you know how sticky stew is); they fought till neither man could see. you talk of fight--gorstrike me, we saw stacks of it at suez!" hello, soldier! back again 'n' nothin' missin' barrin' arf a hand, where an abdul bit me, chokin' in the holy land. 'struth, they got some dirty fighters in the moslem pack, bull-nosed slugs their sneakin' snipers spat ters in yer back blows a gapin' sort iv pit in what a helephant could sit in. bounced their bullets, if yeh please, like the 'oppers in a cheese, off me rubber pelt in droves, moppin' up the other coves. so here's me once more at large in bay-street, port, a bloomin' sargin'. "cri, it jumbo." "have a beer." "wot-o, anzac; you're a dear." back once more on moley's corner, loafin' like a dook; back on bourke, me livin' image, not a slinkin' spook; solid ez the day i started, medals on me chest, switchin' with me pert melacca, swankin' with the best where the little wimmen's flowin', with their veils 'n' ribbons blowin'- see their eyes of bloo 'n' brown butterflyin' 'bout the town! back at 'ome-oh, 'struth, it's good! long, cold lagers from the wood, ev'ry cobber jumpin' at you, strangers duckin' in to bat you- "good ole jumbo, how're you?" "'ello, soldier, howja do?" back at grillo's where the nigger googs his whitey eyes, plucks his black ole greasy banjo while the cod-steak fries; fish 'n' chips, a pint iv local, and the tidy girl dancin' glad attendance on yeh 'zif yeh was an earl; trailin' round the blazin' city, feelin' all content 'n' pretty, where the smart procession goes, prinked 'n' polished to the shows, one among the happy drive- 'sworth the world to be alive! dames ez smilin' ez a mother, ev'ry man ver fav'rit brother: "'ello, jumbo, how is it ?" "arr there, soldier! good 'n' fit?" takin' hozone at st. kilder's good enough for me, seein' summer and the star-blink simmer in the sea; cantin' up me bloomin' cady, toyin' with a cig., blowin' out me pout a little, chattin' wide 'n' big when there's skirt around to skite to. say, 'oo has a better right to? done me bit 'n' done it well, got the tag iv plate to tell; square gallipoli surviver, with a touch iv colonel's guyver. "sargin' jumbo, good ole son!" "soldier, soldier, you're the one!" back again, a wounded hero, moochin' up 'n' down, feelin' 'sthough i'd got a fond arf-nelson on the town; never was so gay, so 'elp me, never felt so kind; fresh from 'ell a paradise ain't very hard to find. after filth, 'n' flies, 'n' slaughter fat brown babies in the water, singin' people on the sand makes a boshter happy land! war what toughened hone 'n' hide turned a feller soft inside! great it is, the 'earty greetin's, friendly digs, 'n' cheerful meetin's "'ello, jumbo, howja do?" "soldier, soldier, how're you?" the moralist. three other soldier blokes 'n' me packed 'ome from foreign lands; bit into each the god of battles' everlastin' brands. they limped in time, 'n' coughed in tune, 'n' one was short an ear, 'n' one was short a tier of ribs 'n' all was short of beer. i speaks up like a temp'rance gent, but ever since the sky was bent the thirst of man 'as never yet bin squenched with argument. bill's skull was welded all across, jim 'ad an eye in soak, sam 'obbled on a patent leg, 'n' every man was broke; they sang a song of "mother" with their faces titled up. says bill-o: "'ere's yer 'eroes, sling the bloomin' votive cup! we got no beer, the soup was bad- now oo will stand the soldier lad the swag of honest liquor that for years he hasn't 'ad?" sez i: "respeck yer uniform! remember oo you are!" they'd pinched a wicker barrer, 'arf a pram 'n' 'arf a car. in this ole bill-o nestled 'neath a blanket, on his face a someone's darlin' sorter look, a touch iv boy'ood's grace. the gentle ladies stopped to 'ear, 'n' dropped a symperthetic tear, a dollar or a deener for the pore haff ict dear. the others trucked the wounded to a hentrance up a lane. i sez: "sich conduck's shameful!" bill-o took to ease his pain one long 'un and another. the conductor picked his brand; the gripman lent his countenance to wot he 'ad in 'and. and when they moved their stand 'twas sam lay pale 'n' peaceful in the pram, 'n' twenty flappers stroked his paw, 'n' said he was a lamb. the gathered in the tokens and they blooed 'em as above, while jim-o done the hinvalid 'oom sammy had to shove. sez i: "no noble 'eroes what's bin fightin' for their king should smirch theirselves by doin' this dis- 'onerable thing." but fine old gents 'n' donahs prim they stopped 'n' slid the beans to jim. you betcher life i let 'im hear just what i though of 'im. nine, g.m. at st. kilder, saw the finish of the prowl. each 'ad his full-'n'-plentv, and was blowin' in the tow'l. as neither bloke cud stand alone, they leaned 'n' argufied which was the patient sufferer oo's turn it was to ride. each 'eld a san'wich and a can. sez i: "this shouldn't 'ave began- 'tain't conduck wot it worthy of a soldier and a man." i cud 'a' cried with injured pride. afore a push the three got scrappin', vague 'n' foolish, which the cripple boy should be. sam slips his scientific leg, 'n' flings it in the drain- "i'll auto 'ome," he sez, "or never see me 'ome again." but i am thinkin' 'ard oo he tucked 'elpiess in the pram might be. comes sudden reckerlection. great gohan- ners, it is me! repaired hauled i was from out the tip fritz made with his demonstration, all broke up, a fractured hip in me darby kell a rip settn' up a cool sensation like excessive ventilation one 'and cluttered up a treat- on me oath you wouldn't know it from a 'andsome plate of meat. they had sorter pied me feet, and a bullet of the foe hit where no decent bloke could show it. 'arf a year they've botched me now; ev'ry scientific schemer in the cor' has faked me prow, soled 'n' heeled a bloke somehow- gawd, the last one was a screamer. wirin' up me flamin' femur! comes a guy and pipes you square, gogglin' at you through his glasses, swings you in the barber's chair, tilts you this end up with care, lets you have a whiff of gasses chattin' off-hand with the lasses. then he slices clean 'n' swift, like a cobbler cuts his leather, gives the splintered knob a lift- s'elp me tater, it's a gift how they glues you all together, sayin' it's bin nicer weather! surgeon wipes his 'ands, a verse chort e softly as he pitches probes and sponges to the nurse, thinks the lunch might have bin worse; close your little gap he hitches, whistlin' as he jabs the stitches. i'm caught in with fiddle-strings, stuck about with bits 'n' patches, fixed with ligatures 'n' springs, lath 'n' plastered, swung in slings skewered with little wooden matches, hung with hinges, knobs 'n' latches. till i lay behind me screen, serious 'n' sober one day, satisfied 'n' all serene, 'arf a man 'n' 'arf machine what they winds up ev'ry monday 'n' it tilts all ways by sunday. 'ome again i'll come, a neat, semi-autymatic loafer, number up, 'n' all complete, creakin' round on collins street, with a licence (which i'll owe for) my own car and my own shofer! out of khaki. i slung me khaki suit to-day. civilian now front heel to chin i 'op round on a single shin; at home in peace i'm bound to stay. 'n' so they've took me duds away. it 'urt like strippin' off me skin! i put it on three years ago, the ole brown rig. there wasn't then a prouder chicken in the pen. jist twenty turned, me nibs you'd know for how i give me chest a throw, a man among the best of men. me little no the touch i give, me chin's ez solid ez a rock, 'n' level with the town 'all clock, a five-inch grin across me chiv. "lor' love us, this is how to live," sez i, 'n' felt i owned the block. glad eyes was ever on the lurk, 'n' little 'earts was thumpin' warm for nippers trainin' with the swarm to swat ole kaiser bill, or work a toe-hold on the heathen turk. fair dink, i loved the uniform! i soused mine in the brine that day when tophet spilt, 'n' in the roar of shells that split the sea 'n' tore our boats to chips, we broke any up through the pelt of leaden spray, 'n' got our first real taste of war. they shot me tunic all to rags; then in the perpendic'lar spree me trousers wore off to the knee. the right-abouts of many bags was ground off in the dust 'n' crags a-sittin' in gallipoli. i wore the khaki on the somme- most time 'twas jist a coat of mud; i once come through the battle scud stripped mother-naked by a bomb; 'n' once it' took its color from me own 'n' one good cobber's blood. they cheered the khaki through the street when we come home with pipers gay, but now i'm jist a bloke in grey. harf-lost, lob-sided, incomplete, it's nothin' but me spook you'll meet, ghost-walkin' in the light o' day. the single-handed team we're more than partners, ned 'n' me, two sections permanently righted. yiv seen us on the mooch, maybe, like remnants lovin'ly united. ned's only got one stump, the left; by 'appy chance i've got its brother, of his two dukes he's been bereft; my left was mauled, 'n' had to go, it fortunitly 'appens though, i kept the other. ned lost one ear, the left, 'n' struth, he dropped the correspondin' weeper. a hun he crooled me lovely youth by bombin' out me right 'and peeper. he done a guy too with me ear, the right, 'n' now i dunno whether 'twas fate's intention, butt it's clear when trimmed each as the other's mate 'twas up to us two, soon or late, to get together. 'board ship there's me like arf a peach, 'n' ned's the other arf, but soon it strikes' bill carkeek that side by each we makes a satisfact'rv unit. a 'andy cobber on the ship fakes up for us a set of clutches that damps us firmly hip to hip. in seven minutes we can peg the mile out on a timber leg 'n' two steel crutches. we now go halves, like si'mese twins, 'n' as a team i hold we're bosker-- the blighter on the street that grins has got to deal with edwin-oscar. at balls we two-step, waltz, 'n' swing, 'n' proppin' walls no one has seen us. when at the bar i never ring the double on ole ned. for both one hand must serve, 'n', on me oath, it's fair between us. we jolt one knife 'n' fork, 'n' find one horse enough for both to ride on, and neither feller rides behind. some sez we put a pile of side on. well, where's the single-handed brace will take us on? we'll put the peg in, train fine, 'n' jump, or box, or race, or wrestle them; 'n' more than that to clinch a match, so 'elp me cat, we'll throw a leg in! he's five feet eight, i'm little less; he's roman, i'm a sort of proddy; but no sectarian bitterness will disunite this sec'lar body-- we're hitched for good, we're two in one. our taste's the same, from togs to tipple. but, straight, it makes me sad, ole son, to think if he should croak or me, the pore bloke what is left might be a bloomin' cripple. battle passes a quaint old gabled cottage sleeps be- tween the raving hills. to right and left are livid strife, but on the deep, wide sills the purple pot-flowers swell and glow, and o'er the walls and eaves prinked creeper steals caressing hands, the poplar drips its leaves. within the garden hot and sweet fair form and woven color meet, while down the clear, cool stones, 'tween banks with branch and blossom gay, a little, bridged, blind rivulet goes touching out its way. peace lingers hidden from the knife, the tear- ing blinding shell, where falls the spattered sunlight on a lichen- covered well. no voice is here, no fall of feet, no smoke lifts cool and grey, but on the granite stoop a cat blinks vaguely at the day. from hill to hill across the vale storms man's terrific iron gale; the cot roof on a brooding dove recks not the distant gun. a brown hen scolds her chickens chasing midges in the sun. now down the eastward slope they come. no call of life, no beat of drum, but stealthily, and in the green, low hid, with rifle and machine, spit hate and death; and red blood flows to shame the whiteness of the rose. crack followes crash; the bestial roar of gastly and insensate war breaks on the cot. a rending stoke, the red roof springs, and in the smoke and spume of shells the riven walls pile where the splintered elm-tree spawls. from westward, streaming down hill, shot-ravaged, thinned, but urgent still, the brown, fierce, blooded anzacs sweep, and hell leaps a up. the lilies weep strange crimson tears. tight-lipped and mute, the grim, gaunt soldiers stab and shoot. it passes. frantic, fleeing death, wild-eyed, foam-flecked and every breath a labored agony, like deer that feel the hounds' keen teeth, appear the prussian men, and, wild to slay the hunters press upon their prey. cries fade and fitful shots die down. the tumbled ruin now smoke faintly in the summer light, and lifts the trodden bough. a sigh stirs in the trampled green, and held and tainted red the rill creeps o'er a dead man's face and steals along its bed. one deep among the lilacs thrown shock all the stillness with a moan. peace like the snowflake lights again where utter silence lies, and softly with white finger-tips she seals a soldier eyes. the letters of the dead. a letter came from dick to-day; a greeting glad he sends to me. he tells of one more bloody fray-- of how with bomb and rifle they have put their mark for all to see across rock-ribbed gallipoli. "how are you doing? hope all's well, i in great nick, and like the work. though there may be a brimstone smell, and other pungent hints of hell, not satan's self can make us shirk our task of hitting up the turk. "you bet old slacks is not half bad he knows his business in a scrim. he gets cold steel, or we are glad to stop him with a bullet, lad. or sling a bomb his hair to trim; but, straight, we throw no mud at him. "he fights and falls, and comes again, and knocks our charging lines about. he's game at heart, and tough in grain, and canters through the leaded rain, chock full of mettle--not a doubt 't will do us proud to put him out. "but that's our job; to see it through we've made our minds up, come what may, this noon we had our work to do. the shells were dropping two by two; we fairly felt their bullets play among our hair for half a day. "one clipped my ear, a red-hot kiss, another beggar chipped my shin. they pass you with a vicious hiss that makes you duck; but, hit or miss, it isn't in the sultan's skin to shift australia's cheerful grin. "my oath, old man, though we were prone we didn't take it lying down. i got a dozen on my own-- all dread of killing now is flown; it is the game, and, hard and brown, we're wading in for freedom's crown. "big guns are booming as i write, a lad is singing 'dolly grey,' the shells are skipping in the night, and, square and all, i feeling right for, whisper, ned, the fellows say i did a ripping thing to-day. "soon homeward tramping with the band, all notched a bit, and with the prize of glory for our native land, i'll see my little sweetheart stand and smile, her smile, so sweet and wise-- with proud tears shining in her eyes. "geewhiz! what price your humble when triumphant from the last attack, we face a melbourne crowd again, tough, happy, battle-proven men, and while the cheer-stormed heavens crack i bring the tattered colors back!" . . . a mist is o'er the written line whence martial ardor seems to flow; a dull ache holds this heart of mine-- poor boy, he had a vision fine; but grave dust clouds the royal glow; he died in action weeks ago! he was my friend--i may not weep. my soul goes out to him who bled; i pray for christ's compassion deep on mothers, lovers--all who keep the woeful vigil, having read the joyous letters of the dead. bullets as bullets come to us they're thin, they're angular, or smooth and fat, some spiral are, and gimlet in, and some are sharp, and others flat. the slim one pink you clean and neat, the flat ones bat a solid blow much as a camel throws his feet, and leave you beastly incomplete. if lucky you don't know it through. the flitting bullets flow and flock; they twitter as they pass; they're picking at the solid rock, they're rooting in the grass. a tiny ballet swiftly throws its gossamer of rust, brown fairies on their little toes a-dancing in the dust. you cower down when first they come with snaky whispers at your ear; and when like swarming bees they hum you know the tinkling chill of fear. a whining thing will pluck your heel, a whirring insect sting your shin; you shrink to half your size, and feel the ripples o'er your body seal- 'tis terror walking in your skin! the bullets pelt like winter hail, the whistle and they sigh, they shrill like cordage in a gale, like mewing kittens cry; they hiss and spit, they purring come; or, silent all a span, they rap, as on a slackened drum, the dab that kills a man. rage takes you next. all hot your face the bitter void, and curses leap from pincered teeth. the wide, still space whence all these leaden devil's sweep is tophet. fiends by day and night are groping for your heart to sate in blood their diabolic spite. you shoot in idiot delight, each winging slug a hymn of hate. the futile bullets scratch and go, they chortle and the coo. i laugh my scorn, for now i know the thing they cannot do. they flit like midges in the sun, but howso thick they be what matter, since there is not one that god has marked for me! an eastern old philosophy come home at length and passion stills- the thing will be that is to be, and all must come as heaven wills. where in the swelter and the flame the new, hot, shining bullets drip; one in the many has an aim, inwove a visage and a name- no man may give his fate the slip! the bullets thrill along the breeze, they drum upon the bags, they tweak your ear, your hair they tease, and peck your sleeve to rags. their voices may no more annoy- i chortle at the call: the bullet that is mine, my boy, i shall not hear at all! the war's a flutter very like the tickets that we took from tatt. quite possibly i'll make a strike; the odds are all opposed to that. behind the dawn the furies sway the mighty globe from which to get those bullets which throughout the day will winners be to break or slay. i have not struck a starter yet the busy bullets rise and flock; they whistle as they pass; they're chipping at the solid rock, they're skipping in the grass. out there the tiny dancers throw their sober skirts of rust, brown flitting figures tipping toe along the golden dust. unredeemed. i saw the christ down from his cross, a tragic man lean-limbed and tall, but weighed with suffering and loss. his back was to a broken wall, and out upon the tameless world was fixed his gaze his piercing eye beheld the towns to ruin hurled, and saw the storm of death pass by. two thousand years it was since first he offered to the race of men his sovran boon, as one accurst they nailed him to the jibbet then, and while they mocked him for their mirth he smiled, and from the hill of pain to all the hating tribes of earth held forth his wondrous gift again. to-day the thorns were on his brow, his grief was deeper than before. from ravaged field and city now arose the screams and reek of war. the black smoke parted. through the rift god's sun fell on the b oody lands. christ wept, for still his priceless gift he held within his wounded hands. the living picture he rode along one splendid noon, when all the hills were lit with spring, and through the bushland throbbed a croon of every living, hopeful thing. between his teeth a rose he bore as white as milk, and passing there he tossed it with a laugh. i wore it as it fell among my hair. no day a-drip with golden rain, no heat with drench of wattle scent can touch the heart of me again but with that young, sweet wonder blent. we wed upon a gusty day, when baffled fury whipped the sea; and now i love the swift, wet play of wind and rain besetting me. i took white roses in my hand, a white rose on my forehead shone, for we had come to understand white roses bloomed for us alone. when scarce a year had gone he sped to fight the wars. with eyes grown grim he kissed my lips, and whispering said: "the world we must keep sweet for him!" he wrote of war, the soldier's life. "'tis hard, my dearest, but be brave. i did not make my love my wife to be the mother of a slave!" my babe was born a boy. he had his father's eyes, his smile, his hair, and, oh, my soul was brimming glad-- it seemed his father's self was there! but now came one who bade me still in holy heaven put my trust. they'd laid my love beneath the hill, and sealed his eyes with timeless dust. against my breast the babe i drew, with strength from him to stay my fears. i fought my fight the long days through; he laughed and dabbled in my tears. from my poor heart, at which it fed with tiger teeth, i thrust despair, and faced a world with shadow spread and only echoes in the air. the winter waned. one eve i went, led by a kindly hand to see in moving scenes the churches rent, the tumbled hill, the blasted lee. of soldiers resting by the road, who smoked and drowsed, a muddy rout, one sprang alert, and forward strode, with eager eyes to seek us out. his fingers held a rose. he threw the flower, and waved his cap. in me a frenzy of assurance grew, for, o dear god, 'twas he! 'twas he! i called aloud. aloft my child i held, and nearer yet he came; and when he understood and smiled, my baby lisped his father's name. they say i fell like something dead, but when i woke to morning's glow my boy sat by me on the bed, and in his hand a rose of snow! the immortal strain. "late midshipman john travers (chester), aged years. he was mortally wounded early in the action, yet he remained alone in a most exposed post awaiting orders, with his gun's crew dead all round him." we told old stories one by one, brave tales of men who toyed with death, of wondrous deeds of valor done in days of bold elizabeth. "alas! our british stock," said we, "is not now what it used to be." we read of drake's great sailors, or of fighting men that nelson led, who steered the walls of oak to war. "these were our finest souls," we said. "their fame is on the ocean writ, nor time, nor storm may cancel it. "the mariners of england then were lords of battle and of breeze. the were, indeed the wondrous men who won for us the shoreless seas, who took old neptune's ruling brand and set it in britannia's hand. "but now," we sighed, "the blood is pale, we're little people of the street, and dare not front the shrilling gale. the sons of england are effete, of shorter limb and smaller mould, mere pigmies by the men of old." then came the vibrant bugle note. none cowered at the high alarm, the steady fleets were still afloat, and england saw her soldiers arm, and readily, with sober grace. the close-set ranks swung into place. on sea and shore they fought again, and storied heroes came to life, once more were added to the slain. once more found glory in the strife; again her yeoman sons arose; a wall 'tween britain and her foes. the eager lads, with laughing lips and souls elate, where oceans roar, or planes the eagle's flight eclipse, give all for her, and come no more; or where death thunders down the sky beside their silent guns they lie; this boy who, while the iron rains with seething riot whip the flood, fights on, till in his heart remains no single drop of english blood, avers the british strain sublime, outliving death, outlasting time! the unborn i see grim war, a bestial thing, with swinish tusks to tear; upon his back the vampires cling, thin vipers twine among his hair, the tiger's greed is in his jowl, his eye is red with bloody tears, and every obscene beast and fowl from out his leprous visage leers. in glowing pride fell fiends arise, and, trampled, god the father lies. not god alone the demon slays; the hills that swell to heaven drip with ooze of murdered men; for days the dead drift with the drifting ship, and far as eye may see the plain is cumbered deep with slaughtered ones, contorted to the shape of pain, dissolving 'neath the callous suns, and driven in his foetid breath still ply the harvesters of death. he sits astride an engine dread, and at his touch the awful ball across the quaking world is sped, i see a million creatures fall. beyond the soldiers on the hill, the mother by her basinet. the bolt its mission must fulfil, and in the years that are not yet creation by the blow is shorn of dimpled hosts of babes unborn! the common men. the great men framed the fierce decrees embroiling state with state; they bit their thumbs across the seas in diplomatic hate; they lit the pyre whose glare and heat make hell itself seem cold; the flames bloomed red above the wheat, their wild profusion wreathed the street- then in the smoke and fiery sleet the common men took hold. where babel was with bedlam freed, and wide the gates were flung; to chaos, while the anarch breed in all the world gave tongue, the common men in close array, by mountain, plain and sea, went outward girded for the fray, on one dear quest, whate'er they pay in blood and pain--the open way to keep for liberty. the common men who never tire, unsightly in the mirk of caking blood and smoke and mire, push forward with their work; a while in foulest pits entombed, resistless, still and slow, burnt, broken, stifled, seeming doomed, past where the flowers of satan bloomed, up gutted hills with shell-breath plumed, the stubborn armies go. contending in the shattered sky in empyrean wars, the sons of simple men out-vie god's splendid meteors; where'er the mills of vulcan roared and blinked against the night, swart shapes with sweat-washed eyes have stored the clean, lean lightnings of the lord to be a league-long, leaping sword in this our holy fight. the small men know the burden well, the dreadful paths they know, with fear and death and torture dwell. and sup and sleep with, woe. they're riven in the shrapnel gust, but; blind and reeling, plan another blow, a final thrust to subjugate the tyrant's lust. so, bleeding, blundering in the dust, men fight and die for man. the church bells. the viennese authorities have melted down the great bell in st. stephen's to supply metal for guns or muntions. every poor village has made a similar gift.--lokal anzeiger. the great bell booms across the town, reverberant and slow, and drifting from their houses down the calm-eyed people go. their feet fall on the portal stones their fathers' fathers trod; and still the bell, with reverent tones, from cottage nooks and purple thrones is calling souls to god. the chapel bells with ardor spake above the poplars tall, and perfumed sabbath seemed to wake. responsive to their call from dappled vale and green hillside and nestling village hives the peasants came in simple pride to hear how their lord jesus died to sweeten all their lives. . . . they boom beyond the battered town; the hills are belching smoke; and valleys charred and ranges brown are quaking 'neath the stroke. the iron roar to heaven swells, and domes and steeples nod; through cities vast and ferny dells and village streets the clamant bells are calling souls to god! the young lieutenant. the young lieutenant's face was grey. as came the day. the watchers saw it lifting white and ghostlike from the pool of night. his eyes were wide and strangely lit. each thought in that unhallowed pit: "i, too, may seem like one who dies with wide, set eyes." he stood so still we thought it death, for through the breath of reeking shell we came, and fire, to hell, unlit, of blood and mire. tianced in a chill delirium we wondered, though our lips were dumb what precious thing his fingers pressed against his breast. his left hand clutched so lovingly what none might see. all bloodless were his lips beneath the straight, white, rigid clip of teeth. his eyes turned to the distance dim; our sleepless eyes were all on him. he stirred; we aped a phantom cheer. the hour was here! the young lieutenant blew his call. "god keep us all!" he whispered softly. out he led; and over the vale of twisted dead, close holding that dear thing, he went. on through the storm we followed, bent to pelt of iron and the rain of flame and pain. his wan face like a lodestar glowed down that black road, and deep among the torn and slain we drove, and twenty times again he squared us to the charging hordes. his word was like a hundred swords. and still a hand the treasure pressed against his breast. our gain we held. up flamed the sun. "the ridge is won," he calmly said, and, with a sigh, "thank god, a man is free to die!" he smiled at this, and so he passed. his secret prize we knew at last, for through his hand the jewel's red, fierce lustre bled. the one at home. don told me that he loved me dear where down the range whioola pours; and when i laughed and would not hear he flung away to fight the wars. he flung away--how should he know my foolish heart was dancin' so? how should he know that at his word my soul was trillin' like a bird? he went out in the cannon smoke. he did not seek to ask me why. again each day my poor heart broke to see the careless post go by. i cared not for their emperors-- for me there was this in the wars; my brown boy in the shell-clouds dim, and savage devils killin' him! they told me on the field he fell, and far they bore him from the fight, but he is whole--he will be well now in a ward by day and night a fair, tall nurse with slim, neat hands by his white bedside smilin' stands; his brow with trailin fingertips she soothes, and damps his fevered lips! i know her not, but i can see how blue her great eyes are, and hear the cooin' of her voice as she speaks gentle comfort to my dear; with love as sweet as mother's care she heals his wounds, she strokes his hair... o god, could i but let him see the hate of her consumin' me! the hapless army "a soldier braving disease and death on the battlefield has a seven times better chance of life than a new-born baby."--secretary of war, u.s.a. the hapless army from the dark that lies beyond creation, all blinded by the solar spark, and leaderless in lands forlorn, come stumbling through the mists of morn; and foes in close formation, with taloned fingers dripping red, bestrew the sodden world with dead. the hapless army bears no sword; fell destiny fulfilling, it marches where the murder horde, amid the fair new urge of life, with poison stream, and shot, and knife, make carnival of killing. no war above black hell's abyss knows evil grim and foul as this. in pallid hillocks lie the slain the callous heaven under; like twisted hieroglyphs of pain they fleck earth to oblivion's brink, as far as human mind may think, accusing god with thunder of dreadful silence. nought it serves-- fate ever calls the doomed reserves! still with death's own monotony the innocents are falling, like dead leaves in a forest dree; and still the conscript armies come. no banners theirs, no beat of drum, no merry bugles calling! mad ally in the slayers' train, man slaps and sorrows for the slain! the end "all's well!" by john oxenham author of "bees in amber," etc. new york george h. doran company copyright, , by george h. doran company to my son hugo nd lieut. argyll and sutherland highlanders to all his comrades in arms on land and on sea and to all sorely-tried hearts at home and elsewhere _this volume is dedicated_ in profoundest admiration, in most loving sympathy, and in perfect assurance that since god is, right must win and the future will be better than the past foreword for those who were chiefly in my heart when these verses came to me from time to time--our men and boys at the front, and those they leave behind them in grievous sorrow and anxiety at home--my little message is that, so far as they are concerned--"all's well!" those who have so nobly responded to the call, and those who, with quiet faces and breaking hearts, have so bravely bidden them "god speed!"--with these, all is truly well, for they are equally giving their best to what, in this case, we most of us devoutly believe to be the service of god and humanity. war is red horror. but, better war than the utter crushing-out of liberty and civilisation under the heel of prussian or _any other_ militarism. germany has avowedly outmarched christianity and left it in the rear, along with its outclassed guns and higher ideals of, say, , its honour, its humanity, and all the other lumber, useless to an absolutely materialistic people whose only object is to win the world even at the price of its soul. the world is witnessing with abhorrence the results, and, we may surely hope, learning therefrom the final lesson for its own future guidance. the war-cloud still hangs over us--as i write, but, grim as it is, there are not lacking gleams of its silver linings. if war brings out the very worst in human nature it offers opportunity also for the display of the very best. and, thank god, proofs of this are not wanting among us, and it is better to let one's thought range the light rather than the darkness. what the future holds for us no man may safely say. mighty changes without a doubt. may they all be for the better! but if that is to be it must be the work of every one amongst us. in this, as in everything else, each one of us helps or hinders, makes or mars. if, in some of these verses, i have endeavoured to strike a note of warning, it is because the times, and the times that are coming, call for it. may it be heeded! that the end of the present world-strife must and will mark also the end of the most monstrous tyranny and the most hideous conception of "kultur" the world has ever seen, no man for one moment doubts. but that is not an end but a beginning. unless on the ashes of the past we build to nobler purpose, all our gallant dead will have been thrown away, all this gigantic effort, with all its inevitable horror and loss, will have been in vain. it rests with each one among us to say that that shall not be,--that the future shall repair the past,--that out of this holocaust of death shall come new life. it behoves every one of us, each in his and her own sphere, and each in his and her own way, to strive with heart and soul for that mighty end. john oxenham. contents part one: "all's well!" god is watchman! what of the night? for the men at the front in time of need christs all! the cross still stands! where are you sleeping to-night, my lad? be quiet! to you who have lost lord, save their souls alive! the alabaster box white brother a little te deum for these times thy will be done! dies irae--dies pacis judgment day the high things the empty chair road-mates alpha--omega hail!--and farewell! a silent te deum the nameless graves blinded! said the wounded one:---- our share policeman x.--epilogue, the meeting-place victory day when he tries the hearts of men poison-seeds the war-makers is life worth living? god's handwriting part two: the king's high way the king's high way the ways ad finem evening brings us home the reaper no man goeth alone. rosemary easter sunday, the child of the maid wasted? shortened lives laggard spring lonely brother comfort ye! s. elizabeth's leper vox clamantis flora's bit red breast our hearts for you the burdened ass winners or losers? christ at the bar my brother's keeper? a telephone message the stars' accusal no peace but a right peace in church. . te deum through me only prince of peace the winnowing to this end all's well! part one: "all's well!" god is god is; god sees; god loves; god knows. and right is right; and right is might. in the full ripeness of his time, all these his vast prepotencies shall round their grace-work to the prime of full accomplishment, and we shall see the plan sublime of his beneficent intent. live on in hope! press on in faith! love conquers all things, even death. watchman! what of the night? watchman! what of the night? no light we see,-- our souls are bruised and sickened with the sight of this foul crime against humanity. the ways are dark---- "i see the morning light!" --the ways are dark; faith folds her wings; and hope, in piteous plight, has dimmed her radiant lamp to feeblest spark. love bleeding lies---- "i see the morning light!" --love bleeding lies, struck down by this grim fury of despight, which once again her master crucifies. he dies again---- "i see the morning light!" --he dies again, by evil slain! who died for man's respite by man's insensate rage again is slain. o woful sight!---- "i see the morning light! --beyond the war-clouds and the reddened ways, i see the promise of the coming days! i see his sun arise, new-charged with grace earth's tears to dry and all her woes efface! christ lives! christ loves! christ rules! no more shall might, though leagued with all the forces of the night, ride over right. no more shall wrong the world's gross agonies prolong. who waits his time shall surely see the triumph of his constancy;-- when, without let, or bar, or stay, the coming of his perfect day shall sweep the powers of night away;-- and faith, replumed for nobler flight, and hope, aglow with radiance bright, and love, in loveliness bedight, shall greet the morning light!" for the men at the front lord god of hosts, whose mighty hand dominion holds on sea and land, in peace and war thy will we see shaping the larger liberty. nations may rise and nations fall, thy changeless purpose rules them all. when death flies swift on wave or field, be thou a sure defence and shield! console and succour those who fall, and help and hearten each and all! o, hear a people's prayers for those who fearless face their country's foes! for those who weak and broken lie, in weariness and agony-- great healer, to their beds of pain come, touch, and make them whole again! o, hear a people's prayers, and bless thy servants in their hour of stress! [five million copies of this hymn have been sold and the profits given to the various funds for the wounded. it is now being sung all round the world.] for those to whom the call shall come we pray thy tender welcome home. the toil, the bitterness, all past, we trust them to thy love at last. o, hear a people's prayers for all who, nobly striving, nobly fall! to every stricken heart and home, o, come! in tenderest pity, come! to anxious souls who wait in fear, be thou most wonderfully near! and hear a people's prayers, for faith to quicken life and conquer death! for those who minister and heal, and spend themselves, their skill, their zeal-- renew their hearts with christ-like faith, and guard them from disease and death. and in thine own good time, lord, send thy peace on earth till time shall end! in time of need better than i, thou knowest, lord, all my necessity, and with a word thou canst it all supply. help other is there none save thee alone; without thee i'm undone. and so, to thee i cry,-- o, be thou nigh! for, better far than i, thou knowest, lord, all my necessity. christ's all! _our boys who have gone to the front_ (_"be christs!"--was one of w. t. stead's favourite sayings. not "be like christ!"--but--"be christs!" and he used the word no doubt in its original meaning,--anointed, ordained, chosen. as such we, whose boys have gone to the front, think of them. for they have gone, most of them, from a simple, high sense of duty, and in many cases under direst feeling of personal repulsion against the whole ghastly business. they have sacrificed everything, knowing full well that many of them will never return to us._) ye are all christs in this your self-surrender,-- true sons of god in seeking not your own. yours now the hardships,--yours shall be the splendour of the great triumph and the king's "well done!" yours these rough calvaries of high endeavour,-- flame of the trench, and foam of wintry seas. nor pain, nor death, nor aught that is can sever you from the love that bears you on his knees. yes, you are christs, if less at times your seeming.-- christ walks the earth in many a simple guise. we know you christs, when, in your souls' redeeming, the christ-light blazes in your steadfast eyes. here--or hereafter, you shall see it ended,-- this mighty work to which your souls are set. if from beyond--then, with the vision splendid, you shall smile back and never know regret. or soon, or late, for each--the life immortal! and not for us to choose the how or when. or late, or soon,--what matter?--since the portal leads but to glories passing mortal ken. o lads! dear lads! our christs of god's anointing! press on in hope! your faith and courage prove! pass--by these high ways of the lord's appointing! you cannot pass beyond our boundless love. the cross still stands! ()"in the evening i went for a walk to a village lately shelled by german heavy guns. their effect was awful--ghastly. it was impossible to imagine the amount of damage done until one really saw it. the church was terrible too. the spire was sticking upside down in the ground a short distance from the door. the church itself was a mass of debris. scarcely anything was left unhit. in the churchyard again the destruction was terrific--tombstones thrown all over the place. but the most noticeable thing of all was that the three crucifixes--one inside and two outside--were untouched! how they can have avoided the shelling is quite beyond me. it was a wonderful sight though an awful one. there were holes in the churchyard about fifteen feet across."--from a letter from my boy at the front._) the churchyard stones all blasted into shreds, the dead re-slain within their lowly beds,-- the cross still stands! his holy ground all cratered and crevassed, all flailed to fragments by the fiery blast,-- the cross still stands! his church a blackened ruin, scarce one stone left on another,--yet, untouched alone,-- the cross still stands! his shrines o'erthrown, his altars desecrate, his priests the victims of a pagan hate,-- the cross still stands! 'mid all the horrors of the reddened ways, the thund'rous nights, the dark and dreadful days,-- the cross still stands! * * * * * and, 'mid the chaos of the deadlier strife,-- a church at odds with its own self and life,-- his cross still stands! faith folds her wings, and hope at times grows dim; the world goes wandering away from him;-- his cross still stands! love, with the lifted hands and thorn-crowned head, still conquers death, though life itself be fled;-- his cross still stands! yes,--love triumphant stands, and stands for more, in our great need, than e'er it stood before! his cross still stands! where are you sleeping to-night, my lad? where are you sleeping to-night, my lad, above-ground--or below? the last we heard you were up at the front, holding a trench and bearing the brunt;-- but--that was a week ago. ay!--that was a week ago, dear lad, and a week is a long, long time, when a second's enough, in the thick of the strife, to sever the thread of the bravest life, and end it in its prime. oh, a week is long when so little's enough to send a man below. it may be that while we named your name the bullet sped and the quick end came,-- and the rest we shall never know. but this we know, dear lad,--all's well with the man who has done his best. and whether he live, or whether he die, he is sacred high in our memory;-- and to god we can leave the rest. so--wherever you're sleeping to-night, dear lad, this one thing we do know,-- when "last post" sounds, and he makes his rounds, not one of you all will be out of bounds, above ground or below. be quiet! soul, dost thou fear for to-day or to-morrow? 'tis the part of a fool to go seeking sorrow. of thine own doing thou canst not contrive them. 'tis he that shall give them; thou may'st not outlive them. so why cloud to-day with fear of the sorrow, that may or may not come to-morrow? to you who have lost i know! i know!-- the ceaseless ache, the emptiness, the woe,-- the pang of loss,-- the strength that sinks beneath so sore a cross. "_--heedless and careless, still the world wags on, and leaves me broken ... oh, my son! my son!_" yet--think of this!-- yea, rather think on this!-- he died as few men get the chance to die,-- fighting to save a world's morality. he died the noblest death a man may die, fighting for god, and right, and liberty;-- and such a death is immortality. "_he died unnoticed in the muddy trench._" nay,--god was with him, and he did not blench; filled him with holy fires that nought could quench, and when he saw his work below was done, he gently called to him,--"_my son! my son! i need thee for a greater work than this. thy faith, thy zeal, thy fine activities are worthy of my larger liberties;_"-- --then drew him with the hand of welcoming grace, and, side by side, they climbed the heavenly ways. lord, save their souls alive! lord, save their souls alive! and--for the rest,-- we leave it all to thee; thou knowest best. whether they live or die, safely they'll rest, every true soul of them, thy chosen guest. whether they live or die, they chose the best, they sprang to duty's call, they stood the test. if they come back to us-- how grateful we! if not,--we may not grieve; they are with thee. no soul of them shall fail, whate'er the past. who dies for thee and thine wins thee at last. who, through the fiery gates, enter thy rest, greet them as conquerors,-- bravest and best! every white soul of them, ransomed and blest,-- wear them as living gems, bear them as living flames, high on thy breast! the alabaster box the spikenard was not wasted;-- all down the tale of years, the fragrance of that broken alabaster still clings to mary's memory, as clung its perfume sweet unto her master. not less than martha, mary served her lord, although she but sat worshipping, while martha spread the board. they also minister to christ, and render noblest duty, whose sweet hands touch life's common rounds to fragrance and to beauty. white brother midway between the flaming lines he lay, a tumbled heap of blood, and sweat, and clay; --god's son! and none could succour him. first this one tried, then that ... and then another ... and they died; --god's sons! those others saw his plight, and laughed and jeered, and, at each helper's fall, laughed more, and cheered; --god's sons? so, through the torture of an endless day, in agonies that none could ease, he lay; --god's son! then, as he wrestled for each hard-won breath, bleeding his life out, craving only death;-- --god's son! --came one in white, athwart the fiery hail, and in his hand, a shining cup--the grail; --god's son! he knelt beside him on the reeking ground, and with a touch soothed each hot-throbbing wound; --god's son! gave him to drink, and in his failing ear whispered sweet words of comfort and good cheer; --god's son! the suffering one looked up into the face of him whose death to sinners brought god's grace; --god's son! the tender brow with unhealed wounds was scarred, the hand that held the cup, the nails had marred; --god's son! "brother, for thee i suffered greater woes; as i forgave,--do thou forgive thy foes, --god's son!" "yea, lord, as thou forgavest, i forgive; and now, my soul unto thyself receive, --god's son!" thick-clustered in the battered trench, amazed, they gazed at that strange sight ... and gazed ... and gazed; --god's sons! --the christ of god, come down to succour one of their own number,--their own mate-- --god's son! and none who saw that sight will e'er forget how once, upon the field of death, they met --god's son. a little te deum for these times we thank thee, lord, for mercies manifold in these dark days;-- for heart of grace that would not suffer wrong; for all the stirrings in the dead dry bones; for bold self-steeling to the times' dread needs; for every sacrifice of self to thee; for ease and wealth and life so freely given; for thy deep sounding of the hearts of men; for thy great opening of the hearts of men; for thy close-knitting of the hearts of men; for all who sprang to answer the great call; for their high courage and self-sacrifice; for their endurance under deadly stress; for all the unknown heroes who have died to keep the land inviolate and free; for all who come back from the gates of death; for all who pass to larger life with thee, and find in thee the wider liberty; for hope of righteous and enduring peace; for hope of cleaner earth and closer heaven; with burdened hearts, but faith unquenchable,-- we thank thee, lord! thy will be done! "_thy will be done!_" let all the worlds resound with that divinest prayer! the joyous souls redeemed from ill know all the wonders of thy will; heaven's highest bliss is surely this,-- "_thy will be done! thy will be done!_" "_thy will be done!_" tis not thy will that sin or sorrow rule the world. thy will is joy, and hope, and light; thy will is all-triumphant right. and so, exultantly, we cry,-- "_thy will be done! thy will be done!_" "_thy will be done!_" it is thy will that all life's wrongs should be redressed; that burdened souls their bonds should break; that earth of heavenly joys partake. and so, right wistfully, we cry,-- "_thy will be done! thy will be done!_" "_thy will be done!_" 'tis not thy will that man should kiss a chastening rod; but, heart abrim, and head to heaven, should praise his god for mercies given, and ever cry right joyously,-- "_thy will be done! thy will be done!_" "_thy will be done!_" it is thy will that life should seek its golden prime,-- that strife 'twixt man and man should cease,-- that all thy sons should build thy peace. and so, full longingly, we cry,-- "_thy will be done! thy will be done!_" "_thy will be done!_" then earth were heaven, if but thy gracious will prevailed; if every will that worketh ill would bend to thine, and thine fulfil, and with us pray,--"_bring in thy day! thy will be done! thy will be done!_" dies irae--dies pacis (_as earnestly as any i crave the victory of right over this madness of insensate might against which we are contending. as certainly as any i would, if that were conceivably possible, have adequate punishment meted out to those who have brought this horror upon the world. but i see, as all save the utterly earth-blinded must see--that when the day of settlement comes, and we and our allies are in a position to impose terms, unless we go into the council-chamber with hearts set inflexibly on the common weal of the world--in a word, unless we invite christ to a seat at the board--the end may be even worse than the beginning;--this which we have hoped and prayed night be the final war may prove but the beginning of strifes incredible._) "only through me!" ... the clear, high call comes pealing, above the thunders of the battle-plain;-- "only through me can life's red wounds find healing; only through me shall earth have peace again. only through me! ... love's might, all might transcending, alone can draw the poison-fangs of hate. yours the beginning!--mine a nobler ending,-- peace upon earth, and man regenerate! only through me can come the great awaking; wrong cannot right the wrongs that wrong hath done; only through me, all other gods forsaking, can ye attain the heights that must be won. only through me shall victory be sounded; only through me can right wield righteous sword; only through me shall peace be surely founded; only through me! ... _then bid me to the board!_" * * * * * _can we not rise to such great height of glory? shall this vast sorrow spend itself in vain? shall future ages tell the woful story,-- "christ by his own was crucified again"?_ judgment day the nations are in the proving; each day is judgment day; and the peoples he finds wanting shall pass--by the shadowy way. the high things the greatest day that ever dawned,-- it was a winter's morn. the finest temple ever built was a shed where a babe was born. the sweetest robes by woman wrought were the swaths by the baby worn. and the fairest hair the world has seen, --those locks that were never shorn. the noblest crown man ever wore,-- it was the plaited thorn. the grandest death man ever died,-- it was the death of scorn. the sorest grief by woman known was the mother-maid's forlorn. the deepest sorrows e'er endured were by the outcast borne. the truest heart the world e'er broke was the heart by man's sins torn. the empty chair wherever is an empty chair-- lord, be thou there! and fill it--like an answered prayer-- with grace of fragrant thought, and rare sweet memories of him whose place thou takest for a little space!-- --with thought of that heroical great heart that sprang to duty's call; --with thought of all the best in him, that time shall have no power to dim; --with thought of duty nobly done, and high eternal welfare won. think! would you wish that he had stayed, when all the rest the call obeyed? --that thought of self had held in thrall his soul, and shrunk it mean and small? nay, rather thank the lord that he rose to such height of chivalry; --that, with the need, his loyal soul swung like a needle to its pole; --that, setting duty first, he went at once, as to a sacrament. so, lord, we thank thee for thy grace, and pray thee fill his vacant place! road-mates from deepest depth, o lord, i cry to thee. "_my love runs quick to your necessity._" i am bereft; my soul is sick with loss. "_dear one, i know. my heart broke on the cross._" what most i loved is gone. i walk alone. "_my love shall more than fill his place, my own._" the burden is too great for me to bear. "_not when i'm here to take an equal share._" the road is long, and very wearisome. "_just on in front i see the light of home._" the night is black; i fear to go astray. "_hold my hand fast. i'll lead you all the way._" my eyes are dim, with weeping all the night. "_with one soft kiss i will restore your sight._" and thou wilt do all this for me?--for me? "_for this i came--to bear you company._" alpha--omega curly head, and laughing eyes,-- mischief that all blame defies. cricket,--footer,--eton-jacket,-- everlasting din and racket. tennis,--boating,--socks and ties,-- tragedies,--and comedies. business,--sobered,--getting on,-- one girl now,--the only one. london scottish,--sporran,--kilt,-- bonnet cocked at proper tilt. dies irae!--off to france,-- lord,--a safe deliverance! deadly work,--foul gases,--trenches; naught that radiant spirit quenches. letters dated "somewhere--france,"-- mud,--and grub,--and no romance. hearts at home all on the quiver, telegrams make backbones shiver. silence!--feverish enquiry;-- dies irae!--dies irae! his the joy,--and ours the pain, but, ere long, we'll meet again. not too much we'll sorrow--for it's both "à dieu!" and "au revoir!" hail!--and farewell! they died that we might live,-- _hail!--and farewell!_ --all honour give to those who, nobly striving, nobly fell, that we might live! that we might live they died,-- _hail!--and farewell!_ --their courage tried, by every mean device of treacherous hate, like kings they died. eternal honour give,-- _hail!--and farewell!--_ --to those who died, in that full splendour of heroic pride, that we might live! a silent te deum we thank thee, lord, for all thy golden silences,-- for every sabbath from the world's turmoil; for every respite from the stress of life;-- silence of moorlands rolling to the skies, heath-purpled, bracken-clad, aflame with gorse; silence of grey tors crouching in the mist; silence of deep woods' mystic cloistered calm; silence of wide seas basking in the sun; silence of white peaks soaring to the blue; silence of dawnings, when, their matins sung, the little birds do fall asleep again; for the deep silence of high golden noons; silence of gloamings and the setting sun; silence of moonlit nights and patterned glades; silence of stars, magnificently still, yet ever chanting their creator's skill; for that high silence of thine open house, dim-branching roof and lofty-pillared aisle, where burdened hearts find rest in thee awhile; silence of friendship, telling more than words; silence of hearts, close-knitting heart to heart silence of joys too wonderful for words; silence of sorrows, when thou drawest near; silence of soul, wherein we come to thee, and find ourselves in thine immensity; for that great silence where thou dwell'st alone-- --father, spirit, son, in one, keeping watch above thine own,-- deep unto deep, within us sound sweet chords of praise beyond the reach of human words; in our souls' silence, feeling only thee,-- we thank thee, thank thee, thank thee, lord! the nameless graves unnamed at times, at times unknown, our graves lie thick beyond the seas; unnamed, but not of him unknown;-- he knows!--he sees! and not one soul has fallen in vain. here was no useless sacrifice. from this red sowing of white seed new life shall rise. all that for which they fought lives on, and flourishes triumphantly; watered with blood and hopeful tears, it could not die. the world was sinking in a slough of sloth, and ease, and selfish greed; god surely sent this scourge to mould a nobler creed. birth comes with travail; all these woes are birth-pangs of the days to be. life's noblest things are ever born in agony. so--comfort to the stricken heart! take solace in the thought that he you mourn was called by god to such high dignity. blinded! you that still have your sight, remember me!-- i risked my life, i lost my eyes, that you might see. now in the dark i go, that you have light. yours, all the joy of day, i have but night. yours still, the faces dear, the fields, the sky. for me--ah me!--there's nought but this black misery! in this unending night, i can but see what once i saw, and fain would see again. o, midnight of black pain! come, comrade death, come quick, and set me free, and give me back my eyes again! * * * * * nay then, christ's vicar, you who bear our pain, ours be it now to see your dark days lighted, and your way made plain. said the wounded one:-- just see that we get full value of that for which we have paid. the price has been a heavy one, but the goods are there--and _we've paid-. we've paid in our toil and our woundings; we've paid in the blood we've shed; we've paid in our bitter hardships; we've paid with our many dead. it's not payment in kind we ask for, two wrongs don't make much of a right. all we ask is--that, what we have paid for, you secure for us, all right and tight. the peace of the world's what we're after; we've all had enough of king cain, and the kaiser and all his bully-men, with their world-power big on the brain. no!--we fought with a definite object, and it's this--and we want it made plain,-- that it's god, and not any devil, that's to rule in the world again, our share and we ourselves? are our hands clean? are our souls free from blame for this world-tragedy? nay then! like all the rest, we had relaxed our hold on higher things, and satisfied ourselves with smaller. ease, pleasure, greed of gold,-- laxed morals even in these,-- we suffered them, as unaware of their soul-cankerings. we had slipped back along the sloping way, no longer holding first things first, but throning gods emasculate,-- idols of our own fashioning, heads of sham gold and feet of crumbling clay. if we would build anew, and build to stay, we must find god again, and go his way. policeman x "shall it be peace? a voice within me cried and would not cease,-- 'one man could do it if he would but dare.'" (_from "policeman x" in "bees in amber."_) epilogue, he did not dare! his swelling pride laid wait on opportunity, then dropped the mask and tempted fate, cast loaded dice,--and lost; nor recked the cost of losing. "_their souls are mine. their lives were in thy hand;-- of thee i do require them!_" the voice, so stern and sad, thrilled my heart's core and shook me where i stood. sharper than sharpest sword, it fell on him who stood defiant, muffle-cloaked and helmed, with eyes that burned, impatient to be gone. "_the fetor of thy grim burnt offerings comes up to me in clouds of bitterness. thy fell undoings crucify afresh thy lord--who died alike for these and thee. thy works are death;--thy spear is in my side,-- o man! o man!--was it for this i died?_ _was it for this?-- a valiant people harried, to the void,-- their fruitful fields a burnt-out wilderness,-- their prosperous country ravelled into waste,-- their smiling land a vast red sepulchre.-- --thy work!_ _for this?-- --black clouds of smoke that vail the sight of heaven; black piles of stones which yesterday were homes; and raw black heaps which once were villages; fair towns in ashes, spoiled to suage thy spleen; my temples desecrate, my priests out-cast;-- black ruin everywhere, and red,--a land all swamped with blood, and savaged raw and bare; all sickened with the reek and stench of war, and flung a prey to pestilence and want; --thy work!_ _for this?-- --life's fair white flower of manhood in the dust; ten thousand thousand hearts made desolate; my troubled world a seething pit of hate; my helpless ones the victims of thy lust;-- the broken maids lift hopeless eyes to me, the little ones lift handless arms to me, the tortured women lift white lips to me, the eyes of murdered white-haired sires and dames stare up at me.--and the sad anguished eyes of my dumb beasts in agony. --thy work!_ _outrage on outrage thunders to the sky the tale of thy stupendous infamy,-- thy slaughterings,--thy treacheries,--thy thefts,-- thy broken pacts,--thy honour in the mire,-- thy poor humanity cast off to sate thy pride;-- 'twere better thou hadst never lived,--or died ere come to this. thou art the man! the scales were in thy hand. for this vast wrong i hold thy soul in fee. seek not a scapegoat for thy righteous due, nor hope to void thy countability. until thou purge thy pride and turn to me,-- as thou hast done, so be it unto thee!_" the shining eyes, so stern, and sweet, and sad, searched the hard face for sign of hopeful grace. but grace was none. enarmoured in his pride, with brusque salute the other turned, and strode adown the night of death and fitful fires. then, as the master bowed him, sorrowing, i heard a great voice pealing through the heavens, a voice that dwarfed earth's thunders to a moan:-- _woe! woe! woe!--to him by whom this came. his house shall unto him be desolate. and, to the end of time, his name shall be a byword and reproach in all the lands he rapined ... and his own shall curse him for the ruin that he brought. who without reason draws the sword-- by sword shall perish! the lord hath said ... so be it, lord!_" and after! ....... ....................... what? god grant the sacrifice be not in vain! those valiant souls who set themselves with pride to hold the ways ... and fought ... and fought ... and died,-- they rest with thee. but, to the end of time, the virtue of their valiance shall remain, to pulse a nobler life through every vein of our humanity. no drop of hero-blood e'er runs to waste, but springs eternal, fountain pure and chaste, for cleansing of men's souls from earthly grime. life knows no waste. the reaper tolls in vain, in vain piles high his grim red harvesting,-- his dread, red harvest of the slain! god's wondrous husbandry is oft obscure, but, without halt or haste, its course is sure, and his good grain must die to live again. from this dread sowing, grant us harvest, lord, of nobler doing, and of loftier hope,-- an all-embracing and enduring peace,-- a bond of states, a pact of peoples, based on no caprice of royal whim, but on foundation mightier than the mightiest throne-- the well-considered will of all the lands. therewith,--a simpler, purer, larger life, unhampered by the dread of war's alarms, a life attuned to closer touch with thee, and golden-threaded with thy charity;-- a sweeter earth,--a nearer heaven,--a world as emulous in peace as once in war, and striving ever upward towards the goal. _so, once again, through death shall come new life, and out of darkness, light._ "policeman x," which appeared first in _bees in amber_, was written in . the epilogue was written in . "policeman x" is the kaiser. "policeman"--because if he had so chosen he could have assisted in policing europe and preserving the peace of the world. "x"--because he was then the unknown quantity. now we know him only too well. the meeting-place (a warning) i saw my fellows in poverty street,-- bitter and black with life's defeat, ill-fed, ill-housed, of ills complete. and i said to myself,-- "_surely death were sweet to the people who live in poverty street._" i saw my fellows in market place,-- avid and anxious, and hard of face, sweating their souls in the godless race. and i said to myself,-- "_how shall these find grace who tread him to death in the market place?_" i saw my fellows in vanity fair,-- revelling, rollicking, debonair, life all a gaudy-show, never a care. and i said to myself,-- "_is there place for these in my lord's well-appointed policies?_" i saw my fellows in old church row,-- hot in discussion of things high and low, cold to the seething volcano below. and i said to myself,-- "_the leaven is dead. the salt has no savour. the spirit is fled._" i saw my fellows as men and men,-- the men of pain, and the men of gain, and the men who lived in gallanty-lane. and i said to myself,-- "what if those should dare to claim from these others their rightful share?" i saw them all where the cross-roads meet;-- vanity fair, and poverty street, and the mart, and the church,--when the red drums beat, and summoned them all to the great court-leet. and i cried unto god,-- "now grant us thy grace!" * * * * * for that was a terrible meeting-place. victory day _an anticipation_ as sure as god's in his heaven, as sure as he stands for right, as sure as the hun this wrong hath done, so surely we win this fight! then!-- then, the visioned eye shall see the great and noble company, that gathers there from land and sea, from over-land and over-sea, from under-land and under-sea, to celebrate right royally the day of victory. not alone on that great day, will the war-worn victors come, to meet our great glad "welcome home!" and a whole world's deep "well done!" not alone! not alone will they come, to the sound of the pipe and the drum; they will come to their own with the pipe and the drum, with the merry merry tune of the pipe and the drum;-- but--they--will--not--come--alone! in their unseen myriads there, unperceived, but no less there, in the vast of god's own air, they will come!-- with never a pipe or a drum, all the flower of christendom, in a silence more majestic,-- they will come! they will come! the unknown and the known, to meet our deep "well done!" and the world-resounding thunders of our great glad "welcome home!" with their faces all alight, and their brave eyes shining bright, from their glorious martyrdom, they will come! they will once more all unite with their comrades of the fight, to share the world's delight in the victory of right, and the doom--the final doom-- the final, full, and everlasting doom of brutal might, they will come! at the world-convulsing boom of the treacherous austrian gun,-- at the all-compelling "come!" of that deadly signal-gun,-- they gauged the peril, and they came. --of many a race, and many a name, but all ablaze with one white flame, they tarried not to count the cost, but came. they came from many a clime and coast,-- the slim of limb, the dark of face, they shouldered eager in the race the sturdy giants of the frost, and the stalwarts of the sun,-- britons, britons, britons are they! britons, every one! it shall be their life-long boast, that they counted not the cost, but, at the mother-country's call, they came. they came a wrong to right, they came to end the blight of a vast ungodly might; and by their gallant coming overcame. britons, britons, britons are they! britons, every one! it shall be their nobler boast,-- it shall spell their endless fame,-- that, regardless of the cost, they won the world for righteousness, and cleansed it of its shame. britons, britons, britons are they! britons, every one! and now,--again they come, with merry pipe and drum, amid the storming cheers, and the grateful-streaming tears, of this our great, glad, sorrowing welcome-home. they shall every one be there, on the earth or in the air, from the land and from the sea, and from under-land and sea, not a man shall missing be from the past and present fighting-strength of that great company. those who lived, and those who died, they were one in noble pride of desperate endeavour and of duty nobly done; for their lives they risked and gave very soul of life to save, and by their own great valour, and the grace of god, they won. britons, britons, britons are they!-- britons, every one! when he tries the hearts of men as gold is tried in the furnace, _so he tries the hearts of men;_ and the dwale and the dross shall suffer loss, _when he tries the hearts of men._ and the wood, and the hay, and the stubble shall pass in the flame away, for gain is loss, and loss is gain, and treasure of earth is poor and vain, _when he tries the hearts of men._ as gold is refined in the furnace, _so he fines the hearts of men._ the purge of the flame doth rid them of shame, _when he tries the hearts of men._ o, better than gold, yea, than much fine gold, _when he tries the hearts of men,_ are faith, and hope, and truth, and love, and the wisdom that cometh from above, _when he tries the hearts of men._ poison-seeds is there, in you or me, seed of that poison-tree which, in its bitter fruiting, bore such vintage sore of red calamity-- black wine of horror and of death, and soul-catastrophe? search well and see! yea--search and see! and, if there be-- tear up its roots with zealous care, with deep soul-probing and with prayer, lest, in the coming years, again it bear this same dread fruit of blood and tears, and ruth beyond compare. each soul that strips it of one evil thing lifts all the world towards god's good purposing. the war-makers _who are the makers of wars?_ the kings of the earth. _and who are these kings of the earth?_ only men--not always even men of worth, but claiming rule by right of birth. _and wisdom?--does that come by birth?_ nay then--too often the reverse. wise father oft has son perverse; solomon's son was israel's curse. _why suffer things to reason so averse?_ it always has been so, and only now does knowledge grow to that high point where all men know-- who would be free must strike the blow. _and how long will man suffer so?_ until his soul of freedom sings, and, strengthened by his sufferings, he breaks the worn-out leading-strings, and calls to stricter reckonings those costliest things--unworthy kings. not all are worthless. some, with sense of duty, strive to invest their lives with grace and beauty. to such--high honour! but the rest--self-seekers, pride-puffed--out with them!--useless mischief-makers! the time is past when any man or nation will meekly bear unrighteous domination. the time is come when every burden-bearer must, in the fixing of his load, be sharer. is life worth living? is life worth living? it depends on your believing;-- if it ends with this short span, then is man no better than the beasts that perish. but a loftier hope we cherish. "life out of death" is written wide across life's page on every side. we cannot think as ended, our dear dead who died. what room is left us then for doubt or fear? love laughs at thought of ending--there, or here. god would lack meaning if this world were all, and this short life but one long funeral. god is! christ loves! christ lives! and by his own returning gives sure pledge of immortality. the first-fruits--he; and we-- the harvest of his victory. the life beyond shall this life far transcend, and death is the beginning--not the end! god's handwriting he writes in characters too grand for our short sight to understand; we catch but broken strokes, and try to fathom all the mystery of withered hopes, of death, of life, the endless war, the useless strife,-- but there, with larger, clearer sight, we shall see this-- his way was right (from _bees in amber_.) part two: the king's high way the king's high way a wonderful way is the king's high way; it runs through the nightlands up to the day; from the wonderful was, by the wonderful is, to the still more wonderful is to be,-- runs the king's high way. through the crooked by-ways of history, through the times that were dark with mystery, from the cities of man's captivity, by the shed of the child's nativity, and over the hill by the crosses three, by the sign-post of god's paternity, from yesterday into eternity,-- runs the king's high way. and wayfaring men, who have strayed, still say it is good to travel the king's high way. through the dim, dark valley of death, at times, to the peak of the shining mount it climbs, while wonders, and glories, and joys untold to the eyes of the visioned each step unfold,-- on the king's high way. and everywhere there are sheltering bowers, plenished with fruits and radiant with flowers, where the weary of body and soul may rest, as the steeps they breast to the beckoning crest,-- on the king's high way. and inns there are too, of comforting mien, where every guest is a king or a queen, and room never lacks in the inns on that road, for the hosts are all gentle men, like unto god,-- on the king's high way. the comrades one finds are all bound the same way, their faces aglow in the light of the day; and never a quarrel is heard, nor a brawl, they're the best of good company, each one and all,-- on the king's high way. so, gallantly travel the king's high way, with hearts unperturbed and with souls high and gay, there is many a road that is much more the mode, but none that so surely leads straight up to god, as the king's high way. the ways to every man there openeth a way, and ways, and a way, and the high soul climbs the high way, and the low soul gropes the low, and in between, on the misty flats, the rest drift to and fro. but to every man there openeth a high way, and a low. and every man decideth the way his soul shall go. ad finem britain! our britain! uprisen in the splendour of your white wrath at treacheries so vile; roused from your sleep, become once more defender of those high things which make life worth life's while! now, god be thanked for even such a wakening from the soft dreams of peace in selfish ease, if it but bring about the great heart-quickening, of which are born the larger liberties. ay, better such a rousing up from slumber; better this fight for his high empery; better--e'en though our fair sons without number pave with their lives the road to victory. but--britain! britain! what if it be written, on the great scrolls of him who holds the ways, that to the dust the foe shall not be smitten till unto him we pledge redeemèd days?-- till unto him we turn--in deep soul-sorrow, for all the past that was so stained and dim, for all the present ills--and for a morrow founded and built and consecrated to him. take it to heart! this ordeal has its meaning; by no fell chance has such a horror come. take it to heart!--nor count indeed on winning, until the lesson has come surely home. take it to heart!--nor hope to find assuagement of this vast woe, until, with souls subdued, stripped of all less things, in most high engagement, we seek in him the one and only good. not of our own might shall this tribulation pass, and once more to earth be peace restored; not till we turn, in solemn consecration, wholly to him, our one and sovereign lord. evening brings us home _evening brings us home,-- from our wanderings afar, from our multifarious labours, from the things that fret and jar; from the highways and the byways, from the hill-tops and the vales; from the dust and heat of city street, and the joys of lonesome trails,-- evening brings us home at last, to thee._ from plough and hoe and harrow, from the burden of the day, from the long and lonely furrow in the stiff reluctant clay, from the meads where streams are purling, from the moors where mists are curling,-- _evening brings us home at last, to rest, and warmth, and thee._ from the pastures where the white lambs to their dams are ever crying, from the byways where the night lambs thy love are crucifying, from the labours of the lowlands, from the glamour of the glowlands,-- _evening brings us home at last, to the fold, and rest, and thee._ from the forests of thy wonder, where the mighty giants grow, where we cleave thy works asunder, and lay the mighty low, from the jungle and the prairie, from the realms of fact and faerie,-- _evening brings us home at last, to rest, and cheer, and thee._ from our wrestlings with the spectres of the dim and dreary way, from the vast heroic chances of the never-ending fray, from the mount of high endeavour, in the hope of thy for ever,-- _evening brings us home at last, to trust and peace, and thee._ from our toilings and our moilings, from the quest of daily bread, from the worship of our idols, and the burying of our dead, like children, worn and weary with the way so long and dreary,-- _evening brings us home at last, to rest, and love, and thee._ from our journeyings oft and many over strange and stormy seas, from our search the wide world over for the larger liberties, from our labours vast and various, with our harvestings precarious,-- _evening brings us home at last, to safety, rest, and thee._ from the yet-untrodden no-lands, where we sought thy secrets out, from the blizzards of the nightlands, and the blazing white-lands' drought, from the undiscovered country where our is is yet to be,-- _evening brings us home at last, to welcome cheer, and thee._ from the temples of our living, all empurpled with thy giving, from the warp of life thick-threaded with the gold of thine inweaving, from the days so full of splendour, from the visions rare and tender,-- _evening brings us home at last, to quiet rest in thee._ from the dim-lands, from the grim-lands, from the lands of high emprise, from the lands of disillusion to the truth that never dies; with rejoicing and with singing, each his rightful sheaves home-bringing,-- _evening brings us all at last, to harvest-home with thee._ from the fields of fiery trying, where our bravest and our best, by their living and their dying their souls' high faith attest, from these dread, red fields of sorrow, from the fight for thy to-morrow,-- _evening brings each one at last, to god's own peace in thee._ the reaper all through the blood-red autumn, when the harvest came to the full; when the days were sweet with sunshine, and the nights were wonderful,-- _the reaper reaped without ceasing._ all through the roaring winter, when the skies were black with wrath, when earth alone slept soundly, and the seas were white with froth,-- _the reaper reaped without ceasing._ all through the quick of the spring-time, when the birds sang cheerily, when the trees and the flowers were burgeoning, and men went wearily,-- _the reaper reaped without ceasing._ all through the blazing summer, when the year was at its best, when earth, subserving god alone, in her fairest robes was dressed,-- _the reaper reaped without ceasing._ so, through the seasons' roundings, while nature waxed and waned, and only man by thrall of man was scarred and marred and stained,-- _the reaper reaped without ceasing._ how long, o lord, shall the reaper harry the growing field? stretch out thy hand and stay him, lest the future no fruit yield!-- _and the gleaner find nought for his gleaning._ thy might alone can end it,-- this fratricidal strife. our souls are sick with the tale of death, redeem us back to life!-- _that the gleaner be glad in his gleaning._ no man goeth alone where one is, there am i,-- no man goeth alone! though he fly to earth's remotest bound, though his soul in the depths of sin be drowned,-- no man goeth alone! though he take him the wings of fear, and flee past the outermost realms of light; though he weave him a garment of mystery, and hide in the womb of night,-- no man goeth alone! though apart in the city's heart he dwell, though he wander beyond the stars, though he bury himself in his nethermost hell, and vanish behind the bars,-- no man goeth alone! for i, god, am the soul of man, and none can me dethrone. where one is, there am i,-- no man goeth alone! rosemary singing, she washed her baby's clothes, and, one by one, as they were done, she hung them in the sun to dry, she hung them on a bush hard by, upon a waiting bush hard by, a glad expectant bush hard by, to dry in the sweet of the morning. the while, her son, her little son, lay kicking, gleeful, in the sun,-- her little, naked, virgin son. o wondrous sight! amazing sight!-- the lord, who did the sun create, lay kicking with a babe's delight, regardless of his low estate, in joy of nakedness elate, in his own sun's fair light! and all the sweet, sweet, sweet of him clave to the bush, and still doth cleave, and doth forever-more outgive the fragrant holy sweet of him. where'er it thrives that bush forthgives the faint, rare, sacred sweet of him. so--ever sweet, and ever green, shall rosemary be queen. easter sunday, the sun shone white and fair, this eastertide, yet all its sweetness seemed but to deride our souls' despair; for stricken hearts, and loss and pain, were everywhere. we sang our alleluias,-- we said, "_the christ is risen! from this his earthly prison, the christ indeed is risen. he is gone up on high, to the perfect peace of heaven._" then, with a sigh, we wondered... our minds evolved grim hordes of huns, our bruised hearts sank beneath the guns, on our very souls they thundered. can you wonder?--can you wonder, that _we_ wondered, as we heard the huns' guns thunder? that we looked in one another's eyes and wondered,-- "_is christ indeed then risen from the dead? hath he not rather fled for ever from a world where he meets such contumely?_" our hearts were sick with pain, as they beat the sad refrain,-- "_how shall the lord christ come again? how can the lord christ come again? nay,--will he come again? is he not surely fled for ever from a world where he is still so buffeted?_" but the day's glory all forbade such depth of woe. came to our aid the sun, the birds, the springing things, the winging things, the singing things; and taught us this,-- _after each winter cometh spring,-- god's hand is still in everything,-- his mighty purposes are sure,-- his endless love doth still endure, and will not cease, nor know remiss, despite man's forfeiture_. _the lord is risen indeed! in very truth and deed the lord is risen, is risen, is risen; he will supply our need_. so we took heart again, and built us refuges from pain within his coverture,-- strong towers of love, and hope, and faith, that shall maintain our souls' estate too high and great for even death to violate. the child of the maid on christmas day the child was born, on christmas day in the morning;-- _--to tread the long way, lone and lorn, --to wear the bitter crown of thorn, --to break the heart by man's sins torn, --to die at last the death of scorn_. for this the child of the maid was born, on christmas day in the morning. but that first day when he was born, among the cattle and the corn, the sweet maid-mother wondering, and sweetly, deeply, pondering the words that in her heart did ring, unto her new-born king did sing,-- "my baby, my baby, my own little son, whence come you, where go you, my own little one? whence come you? ah now, unto me all alone that wonder of wonders is properly known. where go you? ah, that now, 'tis only he knows, who sweetly on us, dear, such favour bestows. in us, dear, this day is some great work begun,-- ah me, little son dear, i would it were done! i wonder ... i wonder ... and--wish--it--were--done! "o little, little feet, dears. so curly, curly sweet!-- how will it be with you, dears, when all your work's complete? o little, little hands, dears, that creep about my breast!-- what great things you will do, dears, before you lie at rest! o softest little head, dear, it shall have crown of gold, for it shall have great honour before the world grows old! o sweet, white, soft round body, it shall sit upon a throne! my little one, my little one, thou art the highest's son! all this the angel told me, and so i'm sure it's true, for he told me who was coming,-- and that sweet thing is _you_." on christmas day the child was born, on christmas day in the morning;-- _--he trod the long way, lone and lorn, --he wore the bitter crown of thorn, --his hands and feet and heart were torn, --he died at last the death of scorn_. but through his coming death was slain, that you and i might live again. for this the child of the maid was born, on christmas day in the morning. wasted? think not of any one of them as wasted, or to the void like broken tools outcasted,-- unnoticed, unregretted, and unknown. not so is his care shown. know this!-- in god's economy there is no waste, as in his work no slackening, no haste; but noiselessly, without a sign, the measure of his vast design is all fulfilled, exact as he hath willed. and his good instruments he tends with care, lest aught their future usefulness impair,-- as master-craftsman his choice tools doth tend, respecting each one as a trusty friend, cleans them, and polishes, and puts away, for his good usage at some future day;-- so he unto himself has taken these, not to their loss but to their vast increase. to us,--the loss, the emptiness, the pain; but unto them--all high eternal gain. shortened lives to us it seemed his life was too soon done, ended, indeed, while scarcely yet begun; god, with his clearer vision, saw that he was ready for a larger ministry. just so we thought of him, whose life below was so full-charged with bitterness and woe, our clouded vision would have crowned him king, he chose the lowly way of suffering. remember, too, how short his life on earth,-- but three-and-thirty years 'twixt death and birth. and of those years but three whereof we know, yet those three years immortal seed did sow. it is not tale of years that tells the whole of man's success or failure, but the soul he brings to them, the songs he sings to them, the steadfast gaze he fixes on the goal. laggard spring winter hung about the ways, very loth to go. little spring could not get past him, try she never so. this side,--that side, everywhere, winter held the track. little spring sat down and whimpered, winter humped his back. summer called her,--"come, dear, come! why do you delay?" "come and help me, sister summer, winter blocks my way." little spring tried everything, sighs and moans and tears, winter howled with mocking laughter, covered her with jeers. winter, rough old surly beggar, practised every vice, pelted her with hail and snow storms, clogged her feet with ice. but, by chance at last they caught him unawares one day, tied his hands and feet, and dancing, sped upon their way. lonely brother art thou lonely, o my brother? share thy little with another! stretch a hand to one unfriended, and thy loneliness is ended. so both thou and he shall less lonely be. and of thy one loneliness shall come two's great happiness. comfort ye! "_comfort ye, my people!_" saith your god,-- "_and be ye comforted! and--be--ye--comforted!_" roughly my plough did plough you, sharp were my strokes, and sore, but nothing less could bow you, nothing less could your souls restore to the depths and the heights of my longing, to the strength you had known before. for--you were falling, falling, even the best of you, falling from your high calling; and this, my test of you, has been for your souls' redemption from the little things of earth, what seemed to you death's agony was but a greater birth. and now you shall have gladness for the years you have seen ill; give up to me your sadness, and i your cup will fill. s. elizabeth's leper "my lord, there came unto the gate one, in such pitiful estate, so all forlorn and desolate, ill-fed, ill-clad, of ills compact; a leper too,--his poor flesh wracked and dead, his very bones infect; of all god's sons none so abject. i could not, on the lord's own day, turn such a stricken one away. in pity him i took, and fed, and happed him in our royal bed." "a leper!--in our bed!--nay then, my queen, thy charities do pass the bounds of sense at times! a bane on such unwholesome tenderness! dost nothing owe to him who shares thy couch, and suffers by thy cares? he could have slept upon the floor, and left you still his creditor. a leper!--in my bed!--god's truth! out upon such outrageous ruth!" he strode in anger towards the bed, and lo!-- the christ, with thorn-crowned head, lay there in sweet sleep pillowed. vox clamantis (the plea of the munition-worker) "_rattle and clatter and clank and whirr,"-- and it's long and long the day is_. from earliest morn to late at night, and all night long, the selfsame song,--- "_rattle and clank and whirr._" day in, day out, all day, all night,-- "_rattle and clank and whirr;_" with faces tight, with all our might,-- "rattle and clank and whirr;" we may not stop and we dare not err; our men are risking their lives out there, and we at home must do our share;-- _but it's long and long the day is_. we'll break if we must, but we cannot spare a thought for ourselves, or the kids, or care, for it's "_rattle and clatter and clank and whirr;_" our men are giving their lives out there and we'll give ours, we will do our share,-- "_rattle and clank and whirr_." are our faces grave, and our eyes intent? is every ounce that is in us bent on the uttermost pitch of accomplishment? _though it's long and long the day is_! ah--we know what it means if we fool or slack; --a rifle jammed,--and one comes not back; and we never forget,--it's for us they gave; and so we will slave, and slave, and slave, lest the men at the front should rue it. their all they gave, and their lives we'll save, if the hardest of work can do it;-- _but it's long and long the day is_. eight hours', ten hours', twelve hours' shift;-- _oh, it's long and long the day is_! up before light, and home in the night, that is our share in the desperate fight;-- _and it's long and long the day is_! backs and arms and heads that ache, eyes over-tired and legs that shake, and hearts full nigh to burst and break;-- _oh, it's long and long the day is_! week in, week out, not a second to spare, but though it should kill us we'll do our share, for the sake of the lads, who have gone out there for the sake of us others, to do and dare;-- _but it's long and long the day is_! "_rattle and clatter and clank and whirr,_" and thousands of wheels a-spinning,-- spinning death for the men of wrath, spinning death for the broken troth, --and life, and a new beginning. was there ever, since ever the world was made, such a horrible trade for a peace-loving maid, and such wonderful, terrible spinning? oh, it's dreary work and it's weary work, but none of us all will fall or shirk. flora's bit flora, with wondrous feathers in her hat, rain-soaked, and limp, and feeling very flat, with flowers of sorts in her full basket, sat, back to the railings, there by charing cross, and cursed the weather and a blank day's loss. "wevver!" she cried, to p. c. e. ,-- "wevver, you calls it?--your sort then, not mine! i calls it blanky 'no.' so there you are,-- bit of old nick's worstest particular. wevver indeed! not much, my little son, it's just old london's nastiest kind of fun. "_vi'lets, narcissus, primroses and daffs,-- see how they sits up in their beds an' laughs! buy, pretty ladies--for your next at 'ome! gents!--for the gells now--buy a pretty bloom!_ "gosh!--but them 'buses is a fair disgrace, squirting their dirty mud into one's face, robert, my son, you a'n't half worth your salt, or you'd arrest 'em for a blank assault! "_primroses, narcissus, daffs and violets,-- first come is first served, and pick o' basket gets._ "garn then and git! ain't none o' you no good! cawn't spare a copper to'rds a pore gell's food. gives one the 'ump it does, to see you all go by, an' me a-sittin' 'ere all day, an' none o' you won't buy. _vi'lets, narcissus_,-- ... blimy! strike me dumb! garn! what's the good o' you?--lot o' dirty scum! silly blokes!--stony brokes!--i'm a-goin' 'ome!" and then, from out the "corner-house," came two, and two, and two, three pretty maids, three little subs, doing as young subs do, when four days' leave gives them the chance of a little bill and coo. "what ho!" they cried, as they espied flora's bright flower-pot. "hi!--you there with the last year's hat!-- let's see what you have got! and if they're half as nice as you, we'll buy the blooming lot." but, as they stood there chaffering, out from the station came a string of cautious motor-cars, packed full of lean, brown men,-- the halt, the maimed, the blind, the lame,-- the wreckage of the wars,-- their faces pinched and full of pain, their eyes still dazed with stress and strain,-- the nation's creditors. the subs, the girls, and flora stood, there in the pouring rain, and shouted hearty welcomes to the broken, lean-faced men. and when they'd passed, the little subs turned to their fun again. but the biggest heart among them all beat under the feathered hat;-- "not me!" she cried, and up, and sped after the boys who had fought and bled,-- "here's a game worth two o' that!" she caught the cars, and in she flung her wares with lavish hand. "_narcissus!--vi'lets!_--here, you chaps! _primroses! dafs!_--for your rumply caps! my! ain't you black-an'-tanned! _narcissus! vi'lets!_--all abloom,-- we're glad to see you back. _primroses!--dafs!_ thenk gawd you laughs, if it's on'y crooked smiles. we're glad, my lads, to see you home, if your faces are like files." they thanked her with their crooked smiles, their bandaged hands they waved, narcissus, vi'lets, prims, and daffs, they welcomed them with twisted laughs, quite proper they behaved. and one said, "you're a daisy, dear, and if you'd stop the 'bus we'd every one give you a kiss, and so say all of us. a daisy, dear, that's what you are." and the rest,--"you are! you are!" then flora swung her basket high, and tossed her feathered head; to the boys she gave one final wave, and to herself she said,-- "what kind of a silly old fool am i, playin' the goat like that?-- chuckin' of all my stock awye, and damaging me 'at? but them poor lads did look so thin, i couldn't ha' slept if i 'adn't a-bin an' gone an' done this foolish thing. an' it done them good, an' it done me good, so what's the odds if i does go lean, for a day or two, till the nibs comes in? a gell like me can always live, an' the bit i had i had to give. an' he called me a daisy!--aw--'_daisy dear!_' an' i--tell--you, it made me queer,-- with a lump in me throat and a swell right here. fust time ever any one called me that, an', i swear, it's better'n a bran new hat." red breast i saw one hanging on a tree, and o his face was sad to see,-- _misery, misery me_! there were berries red upon his head, and in his hands, and on his feet, but when i tried to pick and eat, they were his blood, and he was dead;-- _misery, misery me_! it broke my heart to see him there, so lone and sad in his despair; the nails of woe were through his hands, and through his feet,--_ah, misery me_! with beak and claws i did my best to loose the nails and set him free, but they were all too strong for me;-- _misery, misery me_! i picked and pulled, and did my best, and his red blood stained all my breast; i bit the nails, i pecked the thorn, o, never saw i thorn so worn; but yet i could not get him free;-- _misery, misery me_! and never since have i feared man, but ever i seek him when i can, and let him see the wish in me to ease him of his misery. our hearts for you by the grace of god and the courage of the peoples far and wide, by the toil and sweat of those who lived, and the blood of those who died, we have won the fight, we have saved the right, for the lord was on our side. we have come through the valley of shadows, we have won to the light again, we have smitten to earth the evil thing, and our sons have proved them men. but not alone by our might have we won, for the lord fought in our van. when the night was at its darkest, and never a light could we see,-- when earth seemed like to be enslaved in a monstrous tyranny;-- then the flaming sword of our over-lord struck home for liberty. all the words in the world cannot tell you what brims in our hearts for you; for the lives you gave our lives to save we offer our hearts to you; we can never repay, we can only pray,-- god fulfil our hearts for you! the burdened ass (an allegory) one day, as i travelled the highway alone, i heard, on in front, a most dolorous groan; and there, round the corner, a weary old ass was nuzzling the hedge for a mouthful of grass. the load that he carried was piled up so high that it blocked half the road and threatened the sky. indeed, of himself i could see but a scrap, and expected each minute to see that go snap; for beneath all his load i could see but his legs, and they were as thin as the thinnest clothes-pegs. i said, "o most gentle and innocent beast, say,--why is your burden so greatly increased? who loads you like this, beyond reason and right? is it done for a purpose, or just out of spite? is it all your own treasures you have in your pack, that crumples your backbone and makes your ribs crack? it is really too much for an old ass's back." "treasures!"--he groaned, through a lump of chewed grass, "_are_ they treasures? i don't know. i'm only the ass that carries whatever they all like to pack on my load, without thought of my ribs or my back. i know there are heaps of things there that i hate, but it's always been so. i guess it's my fate." and he flicked his long ears, and switched his thin tail, and rasped his rough neck with a hinder-foot nail. "there are fighting-men somewhere up there, and some fools, and talking-men--heaps--who have quitted their stools to manage the state and direct its affairs, and see, i suppose, that we all get our shares,-- and ladies and lords, and their offspring and heirs, and their flunkeys and toadies, and merchants and wares.-- and parsons and lawyers,--o heaps,--in that box, and big folk and small folk, and all kinds of crocks. "_that mighty big bale_?--poison, that,--for the people; whatever else lacks they must still have their tipple. that's the trade, don't you know, that no one can shackle,-- 'vested int'rests,' they call it, and that kind of cackle. why the bishops themselves dare not tackle the tipple, for it props up the church and at times builds a steeple." (a strangely ingenuous old ass, you perceive, whom any shrewd rascal could easily deceive.) "_that other big bale_?--what i said,--fighting things,-- ammunition and guns and these new things with wings, o yes, they bulk big, but we need them,--for why?-- if we hadn't as much as the others have--why, they say we might just as well lie down and die. "_yon big bale on top_?--ah! that is a big weight. and that's just the one of the lot i most hate. that's capital, that is,--and landlords and such; and there seems to me sometimes a bit over-much in that bale. but there,--i'm perhaps wrong again, such matters are outside an old ass's ken. "_my fodder_? oh well, you see,--no room for that. i pick as i go, and no chance to get fat. that poison bulks large,--and the landlords, you see;-- and that capital's heavy as heavy can be. some one's bound to go short, and of course that one's me." he kicked up one heel with a snort of disgust, and--sudden as though by a giant hand thrust, the top-heavy pack on his lean back revolved, came crashing to earth, and in fragments dissolved. much surprised,--the old ass, thus set free from his load, picked out a soft spot in the nice dusty road, and laid him down on it and rolled in high glee, and, as he kicked this way and that, said to me,-- "say, man, i have never enjoyed such a roll since the day i was born, a silly young foal. seems to me, if i'd had half the sense of an ass, i'd have long since got rid of that troublesome mass. but now that it's down, why--down it shall stop. all my life's been down under, but now i'm on top." then he came right-side up, pranced about on his load, and kicked it to pieces all over the road. and what all this means, i really can't say. it may not mean much. but--again,--why, it may. winners or losers? unless our souls win back to thee, we shall have lost this fight. yes, though we win on field and sea, though mightier still our might may be, we still shall lose if we win not thee. _help us to climb, as in thy sight, the great high way of thy delight_. it is the world-old strife again,-- the fight 'twixt good and ill. since first the curse broke out in cain, each age has worn the grim red chain, and ill fought good for sake of gain. _help us, through all life's conflict, still to battle upwards to thy will_. are we to be like all the rest, or climb we loftier height? can we our wayward steps arrest?-- all life with nobler life invest?-- and so fulfil our lord's behest? _help us, through all the world's dark night, to struggle upwards to the light_. if not,--we too shall pass, as passed the older peoples in their time. god's pact is sure, his word stands fast,-- those who his sovereignty outcast outcast themselves shall be at last. _so,--lest we pass in this our prime, lord, set us to the upward climb_! christ at the bar christ stands at the bar of the world to-day, as he stood in the days of old. and still, as then, we do betray our lord for greed of gold. when our every deed and word and thought should our fealty proclaim, full oft we bring his name to nought and cover him with shame. not alone did judas his master sell, nor peter his lord deny, each one who doth his love repel, or at his guidance doth rebel, doth the lord christ crucify. like the men of old, we vote his death, lest his life should interfere with the things we have, or the things we crave, or the things we hold more dear. christ stands at the bar of the world to-day, as he stood in the days of old. let each man tax his soul and say,-- "shall i again my lord betray for my greed, or my goods, or my gold?" my brother's keeper? (a warning) "_am i my brother's keeper_?" yes, of a truth! thine asking is thine answer. that self-condemning cry of cain has been the plea of every selfish soul since then, which hath its brother slain. god's word is plain, and doth thy shrinking soul arraign. _thy brother's keeper_? yea, of a truth thou art! for if not--who? are ye not both,--both thou and he of god's great family? how rid thee of thy soul's responsibility? for every ill in all the world each soul is sponsor and account must bear. and he, and he thy brother of despair, claim, of thy overmuch, their share. thou hast had good, and he the strangled days; but now,--the old things pass. no longer of thy grace is he content to live in evil case for the anointing of thy shining face. the old things pass.--beware lest ye pass with them, and your place become an emptiness! beware! lest, when the "have-nots" claim, from those who have, their rightful share, thy borders be swept bare as by the final flame. better to share before than after. "_after?_" ... for thee may be no after! only the howl of mocking laughter at thy belated care. make no mistake!-- "after" will be too late. when once the "have-nots" claim ... they take. "after!" ... when that full claim is made, you and your golden gods may all lie dead. set _now_ your house in order, ere it be too late! for, once the storm of hate be loosed, no man shall stay it till its thirst has slaked its fill, and you, poor victims of this last "too late," shall in the shadows mourn your lost estate. a telephone message (to whom it may concern) hello! hello! are you there? are you there? ah! that you? well,-- this is just to tell you that there's trouble in the air... trouble,-- t-r-o-u-b-l-e--trouble! _where?_ in the air. trouble in the air! got that? ... right! then--take a word of warning, and ... beware! _what trouble?_ every trouble,--everywhere, every wildest kind of nightmare that has ridden you is there, in the air. and it's coming like a whirlwind, like a wild beast mad with hunger, to rend and wrench and tear,-- to tear the world in pieces maybe, unless it gets its share. can't you see the signs and portents? can't you feel them in the air? can't you see,--you unbeliever? can't you see?--or don't you care,-- that the past is gone for ever, past your uttermost endeavour,-- that to-day is on the scrap-heap, and the future--anywhere? _where?_ ah--that's beyond me!-- but it lies with those who dare to think of big to-morrows, and intend to have their share. all the things you've held and trusted are played-out, decayed, and rusted; now, in fiery circumstance, they will all be readjusted. if you cling to those old things, hoping still to hold the strings, and, for your ungodly gains, life to bind with golden chains;-- man! you're mightily mistaken! from such dreams you'd best awaken to the sense of what is coming, when you hear the low, dull booming of the far-off tocsin drums. --such a day of vast upsettings, dire outcastings and downsettings!-- you have held the reins too long,-- have you time to heal the wrong? _what's wrong? what's amiss?_ man alive! if you don't know that-- there's nothing more to be said! --you ask what's amiss when your destinies hang by a thread in the great abyss? _what's amiss? what's amiss?_-- well, my friend, just this,-- there's a bill to pay and it's due to-day, and before it's paid you may all be dead. wake up! wake up!--or, all too late, you will find yourselves exterminate. _what's wrong?_ listen here!-- do you catch a sound like drumming?-- far-away and distant drumming? you hear it? what? _the wires humming?_ no, my friend, it is _not_! it's the tune the prentice-hands are thrumming,-- the tune of the dire red time that's coming,-- the far-away, pregnant, ghostly booming of the great red drums' dread drumming. for they're coming, coming, coming,-- with their dread and doomful drumming, unless you... br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r--click--clack! the stars' accusal _how can the makers of unrighteous wars stand the accusal of the watchful stars?_ to stand-- a dust-speck, facing the infinitudes of thine unfathomable dome, a night like this,-- to stand full-face to thy high majesties, thy myriad worlds in solemn watchfulness,-- _watching, watching, watching all below, and man in all his wilfulness for woe!_ --dear lord, one wonders that thou bearest still with man on whom thou didst such grace bestow, and with his wilful faculty for woe! those sleepless sentinels! they may be worlds all peopled like our own. but, as i stand, they are to me the myriad eyes of god,-- _watching, watching, watching all below, and man in all his wilfulness for woe._ and then--to think what those same piercing eyes look down upon elsewhere on this fair earth that thou hast made!-- _watching, watching, watching all below, and man in all his wilfulness for woe._ --on all the desolations he hath wrought, --on all the passioned hatreds he hath taught, --on all thy great hopes he hath brought to nought;-- --man rending man with ruthless bitterness, --blasting thine image into nothingness, --hounding thy innocents to awful deaths, and worse than deaths! happy the dead, who sped before the torturers their lust had fed! --on thy christ crucified afresh each day, --on all the horrors of war's grim red way. and ever, in thy solemn midnight skies, those myriad, sleepless, vast accusing eyes,-- _watching, watching, watching all below, and man in all his wilfulness for woe._ dear lord!-- when in our troubled hearts we ponder this, we can but wonder at thy wrath delayed,-- we can but wonder that thy hand is stayed,-- we can but wonder at thy sufferance of man, whom thou in thine own image made, when he that image doth so sore degrade! if thou shouldst blot us out without a word, our stricken souls must say we had incurred just punishment. warnings we lacked not, warnings oft and clear, but in our arrogance we gave no ear to thine admonishment. and yet,--and yet! o lord, we humbly pray,-- put back again thy righteous judgment day! have patience with us yet a while, until through these our sufferings we learn thy will. no peace but a right peace an inconclusive peace!-- a peace that would be no peace-- naught but a treacherous truce for breeding of a later, greater, baser-still betrayal!-- "no!" ... the spirits of our myriad valiant dead, who died to make peace sure and life secure, thunder one mighty cry of righteous indignation,-- one vast imperative, unanswerable "no!" ... "not for that, not for that, did we die!"-- they cry;-- "--to give fresh life to godless knavery! --to forge again the chains of slavery such as humanity has never known! we gave our lives to set life free, loyally, willingly gave we, lest on our children, and on theirs, should come like misery. and now, from our souls' heights and depths, we cry to you,--"beware, lest you defraud us of one smallest atom of the price of this our sacrifice! one fraction less than that full liberty, which comes of righteous and enduring peace, will be betrayal of your trust,-- betrayal of your race, the world, and god." in church. where are all the _young_ men? there are only grey-heads here. what has become of the _young_ men? * * * * * this is the young men's year! they are gone, one and all, at duty's call, to the camp, to the trench, to the sea. they have left their homes, they have left their all, and now, in ways heroical,-- _they are making history._ from bank and shop, from bench and mill, from the schools, from the tail of the plough, they hurried away at the call of the fray, they could not linger a day, and now,-- _they are making history,_ and we miss them sorely, as we look at the seats where they used to be, and try to picture them as they are,-- then hastily drop the vail:--for, you see,-- _they are making history._ * * * * * and history, in these dread days, is sore sore sad in the making; we are building the future with our dead, we are binding it sure with the brave blood shed, though our hearts are well-nigh breaking. we can but pray that the coming day will reap, of our red sowing, the harvest meet of a world complete with the peace of god's bestowing. so, with quiet heart, we do our part in the travail of this mystery, we give of our best, and we leave the rest to him who maketh history. some hymns of thanksgiving, praise, and petition for use at the coming peace which, please god, cannot now be long delayed. te deum we thank thee, o our god, for this long fought-for, hoped-for, prayed-for peace; thou dost cast down, and thou upraise, thy hand doth order all our ways. lift all our hearts to nobler life, for ever freed from fear of strife; let all men everywhere in thee possess their souls in liberty. safe in thy love we leave our dead; heal all the wounds that war has made. and help us to uproot each wrong, which still among us waxeth strong. break all the bars that hold apart all men of nobler mind and heart; let all men find alone in thee their one and only sovereignty! tune--_old hundredth_. through me only out of all the reek and turmoil of the dreadful battle-plain, came a voice insistent, calling, calling, calling, but in vain;-- "_through me only shall the world have peace again._" but our hearts were too sore-burdened, fighting foes and fighting pain, and we heeded not the clear voice, calling, calling all in vain;-- "_through me only shall the world have peace again._" now, at last, the warfare ended, dead the passion, loosed the strain, louder still that voice is calling; shall it call and call in vain? "_through me only shall the world have peace again._" now we hear it; now we hearken, in the silence of our slain, broken hearts new homes would build them of the fragments that remain. "_through me only shall the world have peace again._" lord, we know it by our sorrows, might of man can ne'er attain that thou givest. now we offer thee the kingship. come and reign! through thee only shall our loss be turned to gain. show us, lord, all thou would'st have us do to garner all thy grain. thy deep ploughing, thy sure sowing richest harvest shall obtain. only come thou, come and dwell with us again! tune--_abbeycombe_. prince of peace o thou who standest both for god and man, o king of kings, who wore no earthly crown, o prince of peace, unto thy feet we come, and lay our burden down. the weight had grown beyond our strength to bear, thy love alone the woful thrall can break, thy love, reborn into this world of care, alone can life remake. how shall we turn to good this weight of ill? how of our sorrows build anew to thee? "of your own selves ye cannot stand or build,-- only through _me_,--through _me_!" o, turn once more to thee the hearts of men, work through the leaven of our grief and pain, let not these agonies be all in vain, come, dwell with us again! the world has nailed itself unto its cross; o, tender to thy hands its heart will prove, for thou alone canst heal its dreadful loss,-- come thou and reign in love! peace and the sword, lord, thou didst come to bring; too long the sword has drunk to thy decrease. come now, by this high way of suffering, and reign, o prince of peace! tune--_artavia_. "_and didst thou love the race that loved not thee?_" the winnowing lord, thou hast stricken us, smitten us sore, winnowed us fine on the dread threshing-floor. "had i not reason?--far you had strayed, vain was my calling, you would not be stayed." low in the dust, lord, our hearts now are bowed, roughly thy share through our boasting has ploughed. "so as my ploughing prepares for the seed, so shall the harvest our best hopes exceed." lord, we have lost of our dearest and best, flung to the void and cast out to the waste. "nay then, not one of them fell from my hand, here at my side in their glory they stand." how shall we start, lord, to build life again, fairer and sweeter, and freed from its pain? "build ye in me and your building shall be builded for time and eternity." tune--_theodora_. "_rest of the weary, joy of the sad._" to this end and hast thou help for such as me, sin-weary, stained, forlorn? "_yea then,--if not for such as thee to what end was i born?_" but i have strayed so far away, so oft forgotten thee. "_no smallest thing that thou hast done but was all known to me._" and i have followed other gods, and brought thy name to scorn. "_it was to win thee back from them i wore the crown of thorn._" and, spite of all, thou canst forgive, and still attend my cry? "_dear heart, for this end i did live, to this end did i die._" and if i fall away again, and bring thy love to shame? "_i'll find thee out where'er thou art, and still thy love will claim._" all this for me, whose constant lack doth cause thee constant pain? "_for this i lived, for this i died, for this i live again._" [transcriber's note: the first two verses of this poem were inside the book's front cover, and its last two verses were inside its back cover.] all's well! is the pathway dark and dreary? god's in his heaven! are you broken, heart-sick, weary? god's in his heaven! dreariest roads shall have an ending, broken hearts are for god's mending. all's well! all's well! all's ... well! is the burden past your bearing? god's in his heaven! hopeless?--friendless?--no one caring? god's in his heaven! burdens shared are light to carry, love shall come though long he tarry. all's well! all's well! all's ... well! is the light fur ever failing? god's in his heaven! is the faint heart ever quailing? god's in his heaven! god's strong arms are all around you, in the dark he sought and found you. all's well! all's well! all's ... well! is the future black with sorrow? god's in his heaven! do you dread each dark to-morrow? god's in his heaven! nought can come without his knowing, come what may 'tis his bestowing. all's well! all's well! all's ... well! rhymes of the rookies sunny side of soldier service by w. e. christian to the colors here's to the red of the firing line; here's to a world white-free; here's to the blue of the yankee sign; here's to liberty! --w. e. c to theodore roosevelt colonel of the rough riders who, more than any other one man gives out the spirit and the meaning of the american soldier contents my bunkie our officers pay day the army grouch weaning time "hands across the sea" the hike a-b-c of army life a soldier's primer the tale and wail of a rookie a marine's hymn here's to the sixteenth hiking in the philippines the mountain battery song the cavalry song the red guidon the conscript the slacker preparedness "beans" advice the scent of the cocoa men of the hospital corps garrison life the philippinitis the east is a-calling tell your troubles to the corporal of the guard general orders of the kitchen police is he a sorehead? funston year in chihuahua with pershing in mexico old baldy "kaiser bill" the raw recruit serving in texas o'reilly's gone to hell on the "border" routine the uniform in the cold gray dawn of the morning after the other side of the poster army fever one to the army bean little things sing-a-song-a-sixpence queen of may a young rookie's lament danny deever ballad puzzy lappins a cynic's view of army life the song of the shovel and the pick army slang english army slang words to the army trumpet calls first aid in case of accidents french money english money my bunkie he's mostly gnarls and freckles and tan, he'd surely come under society's ban, he's a swearin', fightin' cavalryman, but--he's my bunkie. he's weathered the winds of the western waste. (you, gentle christian, would call him debased) and he's loved at his ease and married in haste, has my bunkie. in a philippine paddy he's slept in the rain, when he's drunk rotten booze that drives you insane, and he's often court-martialed--yes, over again, is my bunkie. he's been on the booze the whole blooming night, to mount guard next morning most awfully tight, though he's "dressed" like a soldier when given "guide right," he's my bunkie. he doesn't know browning or ibsen or keats, but he knows mighty well when the other man cheats and he licks him and makes him the laugh of the streets, does my bunkie. he stands by and cheers when i'm having fun, and when it is over says, "pretty well done," but he takes a large hand if they rush two to one, for--he's my bunkie. when taps has blown and all the troop is asleep, we nudge each other and gingerly creep, to where the shadows hang heavy and deep, i and my bunkie. and then when the fire-flies flittering roam, we sit close together out there in the gloam, and talk about things appertaining to home, i and my bunkie. if the slow tropic fever is a-shaking my spine, and they blow "boots and saddles" to chase the brown swine, he'll give me a leg-up and ride me in line, will my bunkie. and if i get hit--his arm goes around, and raises me tenderly off of the ground, and the words on his lips are a comforting sound, the words of my bunkie. our officers i'm goin' to be discharged, sir; my time is near its close, i want to tell you, cap'en, you're the best the country grows. they ain't no man in all the world can beat the army man, that wears the shiny leggins and that does the best he can. i've seen them, sir, in battle with the bullets flyin' round, i've seen them lying wounded with the blood-stains on the ground. i've watched them when the fever was a-ragin' in the camp, i've seen them nurse the cholera-- a-wrestling with the cramp. i've seen them pin to that ol' flag another glory more, that made the stripes look brighter than they ever did before. they weren't winning v.c.'s, either, but because the country said for them to go, they went. they done it or they're dead. we've lots of men of this kind an' of course, we've some that ain't, we'll cover up their faces in the picture that we paint. i'll follow men like you, sir; you can't go too fast an' far, you're officers and gentlemen like congress says you are. i wish i could re-up, sir, till you get your silver stars, i'm sure you'll do them credit, sir, as you have done the bars. i know i shouldn't talk so much, but somehow i'm inclined, on leavin' the old outfit just to speak the company's mind. pay day oh, it's early in the morning, the mules begin to squeal, you hear the cooks a'bangin' pans to get the mornin' meal; the bugler, sort o' toodlin, outside the colonel's tent, and you kind o' feel downhearted, 'cause your last two bits is spent. with a leggin-string you're fussin' when the band begins to play, and you listen, and stop cussin',-- what is that the bugles say? oh, it's pay-day, pay-day, pay-day, and the drums begin to roll, and they sure do carry music to the busted johnnie's soul. some think about the girls they'll get, and some, about the beer; some say they'll send their money home, and all begin to cheer. the games will soon be goin' snap your fingers at the dice; with the canteen spigots flowin' 'til the barkeep's out of ice. for it's pay-day, pay-day, pay-day; can't you hear the bugles call? the privates and the non-coms, the officers and all have been waitin', waitin', waiting 'til they're broke or badly bent for the coins stacked up on blankets and table in a tent. fifteen dollars in the mornin' by the evenin' in the hole; and "private jones is absent, sir." when the sergeant calls the roll. the officers are lookin' up the "articles of war"; there's sixteen in the guard-house, and the provost has some more. the army grouch when the grouch gets up at reveille, he puts his elbow on his knee; his head upon his hand; and tho' he's slept ten hours or more, his back is weak, his feet are sore, and he can hardly stand. and, as he goes to get his chow, he says, "by gosh!--i don't see how a soldier lives so long. the spuds is rotten and the slum is always worse than on the bum. the coffee is too strong. that cow was killed ten years before they organized this bloomin' war; these flapjacks taste like wood." and so he growls through all the day, and fills his comrades with dismay; they'd kill him if they could. when "first call" wakes up billy lott, he sits upon his army cot, and whistles "casey jones," and as he jumps into his shoes, he says, "by jinks i've had a snooze that's good for skin and bones." and billy always has a smile that you can see for half a mile, and when he stops to say, 'how do!' he chases dimples to your cheeks that stay there for a couple of weeks, and he makes you happy too. weaning time (to a. w. d.) mothers, o, ye mothers of the land! with broods of sisters, brothers--hand in hand-- 'tis weaning time. clip ye the thread that apron-strings the lad! give him his head! pluck from your teat the clinging lip that should be tight with valor's grip! "you were my child-in-arms," she said; "suckled i you, and gave you bed; but now you are my man, my son. for battle lost or battle won, go, find your captain; take your gun, to stand with france against the hun! reck not that tears might wet your crib; nor fear my fondling of the bib you wore--when you are gone. your mother will not be alone; her love-mate will be duty done: her nights will kiss that midnight sun. if tears? they will be tears of joy, for having milked a man, my boy. farewell and live, heart of my heart. god steel my soul! i bid you start! he goes! god knows i idol him. and may no backward glance unheart me now. to france! to france! fair france of la fayette's romance. my man-in-arms advance, advance! take down your grand-sire's crimsoned lance! for man-wide freedom and for france!" "hands across the sea" we're off for france to make "fritz" dance to the tune of shot and shell. we'll march right in to old berlin, and give the kaiser hell. the french are right--they'll hold the fight, and british "drives" are fine; but pershing's boys will find but toys in the "hindenberger" line. we leave hearts dear--the coast we clear for the ocean's wide expanse. a submarine on the ocean seen will have but little chance. the cause is just--yet more we trust-- for the honor debt we owe can ne'er be paid. 'twas the timely aid of the frenchman long ago. for lafayette is with us yet, still held in memory dear. our hearts now burn to give return, while his name we all revere. oh! we're off to france--we want a chance at the ecstatic thrill of being there to have a share in the funeral of "kaiser bill." the hike the orders are, "prepare to hike!" so pack your war bag. hit the pike. throw back your shoulders--keep the step, for this is where we get the pep. "prepare to hike," the orders are. and don't you dare to ask how far. we'll get what's coming, don't you see? so what's the odds to you and me? prepare to hike! roll up your kit. strap on equipment. hit the grit your corns will ripen on the road,-- just pare them down when taps are "blowed." we're billed to hike--the bugles blow. "'tis column right" and off you go. civilians watch as we pass by-- we watch the girlies wink the eye. prepardness is the slogan now, and rumor says there'll be a row-- a real one on the western front. we're drilling for this special stunt. prepare to hike! get in the game. your feet get sore, but don't go lame, just set your jaws, with stiffened lip, and hold the lines with sand and "zip." war may be "hell." so let it be. yet, must be fought, if liberty is still to reign upon her throne,-- else all is lost. the best is gone. prepare to hike! once more i say. round out your muscles for the fray. life's not worth living any more, should teuton force invade our shore. a-b-c-of army life a is the army, with its shot, and its shell, b is the battle that makes the war, hell. c is the cavalry, dashing and bold, d is the "doughboy," whom the trenches must hold; e, engineer, who lays out the plot, f the "first aid," with stretcher and cot; g is the "guard," our "border-patrol"-- h is headquarters, the high-ranking role. i is the infantry, that's hot on the hike, j is jaw-bone, oh, "pay-as-you-like"; k is the kitchen, where they turn out the "stew," l is lance-corporal. who ranks just a few; m is the mess, where the rations are served, n is "non-com," whose "stripes" are deserved; o is the officer, "spick and so span," p is the prisoner, who's "under the ban," q is the quarters, with "lights out at taps," r is the rookie, whom everyone raps, s is the sergeant, who keeps 'em in line, t is tattoo, three-quarters past nine, u is the uniform, buttons so bright, v is the volley, that settles the fight; w the wagon, with "four army mules," x the ex-soldier, whose ardor now cools, y is the youngster, just out of the "point," z--can't you tell this line's out-of-joint? a soldiers primer a man, a hat, a blouse, a gun, call this a soldier just for fun. a dog tent, blanket, candle, match, his home is built with rare dispatch; with hard tack, bacon, army beans, army life is not what it seems. a damp cold night, aching head, the next day fever-soldier dead. the story is brief (we know it well), and plain is moral--"war is hell." the tale and wail of a rookie when i was young i said to myself, choose a career and start after the pelf, early to bed and early to rise, you're sure to get wealthy and awfully wise, so i started out to look around, but nice fat jobs weren't easily found. however, while taking a walk down the street, a bright colored poster my eyes did greet, "young men wanted." i said, "that's me," and stepped up closer so i could see. "join the army and see the world," my fingers around my last dollar were curled. so i went around where they hung out the flag. but that -year hitch made my interest lag. they explained it, however, and made it quite plain that to join the army would be my gain. so here i am in the damn philippines, they feed me nothing but bacon and beans. the land of the goo-goo is no place for me, the reason porque is easy to see. i never was strong for bugs and lizards, or the amoebic bug that tickles your gizzards. i have a reverse on fleas and snakes, and i hate the noise the gekko makes. i have three square feet of prickly heat, and some dhobie itch that can't be beat, i've had the dengue and also the fever, of all diseases i've been the receiver. i'm bitten by all that's invented to bite us, at the end of the year i'll have philippinitis. a long centipede just crawled in my bunk, this tropical service is certainly punk, not a chance in the world to go over the hill, and half my time is spent in the mill. but why should i worry, i'll soon be free. a "g. c. m." does the trick for me. a marine's hymn from the halls of montezuma, to the shores of tripoli, we fight our country's battles on the land as on the sea. first to fight for right and freedom and to keep our honor clean, we are proud to claim the title of united states marine. from the pest hole of cavite to the ditch at panama, you will find them very needy of marines--that's what we are; we're watch dogs of a pile of coal or we dig a magazine, tho' he lends a hand at every job, who would not be a marine? our flag's unfurled to every breeze from dawn to setting sun, we have fought in every clime or place where we could take a gun; in the snow of far off northern lands and in sunny tropic scenes, you will find us always on the job-- the united states marines. here's health to you and to our corps which we are proud to serve, in many a strife we have fought for life and never lost our nerve; if the army and the navy ever look on heaven's scenes, they will find the streets are guarded by the united states marines. here's to the sixteenth! (_a toast by an officer at san antonio banquet_.) here's to the "sixteenth cavalry," a "colt" that has just been foaled; bred with no "past,"--but a future, which training and time will unfold. this "colt," with his milk-teeth gives promise of growing to be some fine horse, and if we give him "right raising," be sure that he'll "come across." our "colt" is as "sound" and as "quiet" as any old horse you will see, and, as for his "fit conformation,"-- that's just as fine as can be. here's hoping that he gets good "grooming," good "grazing'"--good "stable"--good "stall;" so when they sound "boots and saddles," the "colt" can answer their call. here's hoping that he gets good "forage," well "watered"--with "all-fours" well cleaned; and not have to patrol the hot border,-- at least,--until he is "weaned." we'll swear by this "colt," who is "hoof-marked" with the " th cavalry" brand; and we'll warrant when he "cuts his molars," he'll be as good as the best in the land. we'll see that he gets fearless riders, who are "kindly" and know every "aid;" so if ever a battle is brewing, he'll go to the "charge" unafraid. he'll compare with all cavalry horses, no "i. c." marks for his neck; instead, upon his new brow-band resetted blue ribbons bedeck. no matter the "sire," no matter the "dam," his "strain" is "pure-blood"--tho "unregistered" yet; he'll "run in the money,"--when put to the test, to "win in the stretch,"--on that you can bet. so here's to the "sixteenth cavalry," the youngest of cavalry "mounts;" he hasn't a "past" and a "pedigree," but 's "all-horse,"--and that is what counts! hiking in the philippines (_from a marine's diary_) (a one-day hike) rise and shine, the bugle's calling! spring up lively from your beds! into line we'll soon be falling-- shake a leg, you sleepy heads! better make a hasty toilet, like the other fellows do, for i'll guarantee you'll spoil it, long before the day is thru! better see the shoes you're wearing have a heavy pair of soles; or you'll do some awful swearing when the rocks come thru the holes! have your canteen filled and ready haversack swung on your belt, where it will swing good and steady and its weight is scarcely felt! at your breakfast don't you hurry-- eat another dish of beans; for you'll need it--don't you worry-- hiking in the philippines! up the dusty road we've started-- rout step--walking at our ease; soon the even lines are parted-- all are walking as they please. long before the sun has ambled o'er the green hills on our right, far along the road we've rambled in the early morning light. thru the narrow trail we're walking, sticking to the narrow path. just behind us some are talking, 'way ahead we hear a laugh. now a slender bridge we're crossing, over to a "goo-goo" farm-- where a carabao is tossing up his head, in great alarm. here we stop to rest a trifle-- sip a drop from our canteens. gee! it's tough to "pack" a rifle-- hiking in the philippines. 'round the narrow path we're turning; tho it's early morning, yet. down the sun is fiercely burning-- bringing out the drops of sweat! where the tropic trees are shading out the sunlight overhead leggings, shoes and all, we're wading thru a shallow river-bed. you can hear the bamboo cracking underneath our heavy tread, while the forest trails we're tackling-- following, where we are lead. you have got to be a hiker to keep up with these marines, not a big four-flush or piker-- hiking in the philippines! where the big mangoes are growing, we have halted--stacking arms, far away, a rooster's crowing on one of the native farms. under branches of big palm trees, we are resting easy now-- welcoming the cooling sea breeze while we're waiting for our chow. plainest fare is a fiesta when you've hiked for half a day; and a little noon siesta helps to pass the time away! like a ribbon all unraveled starts the line at half past two, there are new trails to be traveled back to old olongapo! the mountain battery song . fall in. fall in. attention, you red-legged mountaineers, with your gun and pack and box of tack, "non-coms." and cannoneers, baptized in mindanao, beside the sulu sea. here's how, and how, how, how, to a mountain battery. here's how, and how, how, how, to a mountain battery. . i'd rather be a soldier with a mule and mountain gun than a knight of old with spurs of gold, a roman, greek or hun, for when there is trouble brewing they always send for me to start the row with a row, row, row, from a mountain battery. to start the row with a row, row, row, from a mountain battery. here's to pack and aparejo, the cradle, gun trail, and that darned old fool, the battery mule, that was never known to fail. so raise your glasses high and drink this toast with me: here's how, and how, how, how, to a mountain battery. here's how, and how, how, how, to a mountain battery. the cavalry song come, listen unto this song, i'm as happy as can be, i'm masher and dasher in the u. s. cavalrie; i stand up straight with legs apart; bowed slightly at the knee, with folded arms across my chest, 'tis the pose of the cavalrie. chorus: so fill your glasses to the brim and brace your courage with slow gin, i will tell you all it is a sin to serve in the infantrie. i'm a cavalryman so fierce and bold, a soldier thru and thru, i ride a horse because of course 'tis the proper thing to do. i wear my spurs both night and day that every one may see. whatever else i might have been, i'm not in the infantrie. we went to fight the china horde with sabre, horse and gun. we'd meet them and we'd beat them just the way it should be done; but we left our horses, corn and hay out on the ships in taku bay and consequently had to stay while the dough boys hiked away. i'm a man of experience, i've been to fort monroe, i've garrisoned fort hamilton and the presidio. i went out to the philippines and in the walled citie. i fought the filipino war in the coast artillerie. chorus: so make way for the red stripe man, the pride of our armee and let him tell the glories of the coast artillerie. about another soldier man i'd like to say a word: he's neither fish nor flesh nor fowl, but he is a bird, he finds his way o'er foreign seas by sun and moon and star, but he could not find his way across the island of samar. chorus: so make way for the web-foot man the good u. s. marines. they need four guides for every man, out in the philippines. the red guidon come, fill up your glasses. i'll give you a toast. we'll drink to the red and the blue, the first in the battle, the last from its post, old comrades so faithful and true. here's to friends who have passed o'er the last long divide, their spirit is still marching on, as it did in the days when we marched side by side as we followed the red guidon. chorus: then here's to the crossed cannons, they never will run, the limber and rolling caisson, the clank of the collar and rumble of gun as we follow the red guidon. we've soldiered together, brave hearts ever true, we've marched, we have fought and we've bled for the dear old flag with its red, white and blue that floats in the breeze overhead. we've joked and we've laughed around the camp fire's red glare from cuba to distant luzon, as we told the old stories that drive away care 'neath the folds of the red guidon. come, toss off your tankards, we'll drink long and deep, brave hearts ever gallant and true, to friends who now rest in their long peaceful sleep, who once wore the red and blue. we'll prove true in the future as they in the past, old comrades of gun and caisson; we'll fight like true soldiers from first to the last as we follow the red guidon. chorus: then here's to the crossed cannons, they never will run, here's the limber and rolling caisson, the clank of the collar and rumble of gun and hurrah for the red guidon! the conscript "life is real; life is earnest"--but a gamble after all, "ten million conscripts" are answering the call; ten million men of which i am one-- what were the "odds" when "the wheel was spun"? what were the "odds" that fate would select me for a conscript--another reject? fate was the gambler; i was a "chip," death was the "stake" held in life's grip; i am a conscript played in fate's hand, when the game's over--how will i stand? death, will it lose, or life, will it win, who'll be the "winner" at the great "cash-in"? ten million conscripts to answer the call, and at the gusts, the leaves must fall: with submarines launching torpedoes below, which troop ship to atoms are they to blow? ghosts of disease lurking in camp, spectral sickness in trenches so damp; ten million bullets ripping the air, which conscript to be stricken, and when and where? ten million shrapnel shrieking o'er head, which conscript to reckon among their dead? thousands of wounds, a-gaping and wide, who will recover, and who will have died? millions of mothers so anxious at home, who will wear crepe for loved ones, alone? millions of sweethearts who'll weep o'er the "lists," which lovers the lips ne'er more to be kissed? all is a gamble--this war-game of chance-- the life of a conscript over in france. the "roulette of life" is spinning so fast, the "red ball of death" must drop in at last; which numbers will win, which numbers will lose, the "odds" or the "evens," the "reds" or the "blues"? yet hope is the "banker" and he will repay the chances that conscripts must take in the fray; and fate's a good sport, when "dealing the cards," he'll give "fifty-fifty" to conscript for odds. the slacker why don't he volunteer to serve in uncle sammy's grand reserve? he knows quite well his country's call; has no regard for this, at all. he never thinks to do his part, because he has a slacker's heart. he walks along the street quite spry-- to feign indifference he must try, when suddenly he takes affright, it's just a picture (what a sight) of uncle sam with pointing finger. take it from me! he doesn't linger. "why don't you do it? do it quick!" the slacker's skull is very thick. it never penetrates the gray, what uncle sammy, has to say. "i want you now!" oh, what a mutt. the words fall on a brainless nut. he lied on registration day-- conscription's law he'll not obey. he seeks the nuptial vows to take, or any other useless fake. whatever else, he'll never fight. he has the slacker's ear-marks right. oh, what a useless, shameless pest, a blot on human kind at best. his feelings are for self alone. he would not give a dog the bone. behold his attitude--his pose. the slacker's ring is in his nose. for country's call--for country's sake-- for liberty he will not stake his bit, nor will he ever be but half a man. not he--not he. his formula contains no sand-- it's plain, he is the slacker "brand." a sneak--a snake--a cur--a blasted dirty rotten scourge, dodgasted coward, thief, and all the rest-- can't spell the name that suits the best. there's just one place for such as he-- not on the earth--eternity. preparedness i never had no warlike mind, i b'long to the plowin' peaceful kind thet stays at home and works along, sun to sun--i'm good and strong--- but, neighbor, let me speak my mind: when my country sez to back her, sez i back: "here ain't no slacker," so walks up thar and signs the roll, come june the first, thirty-one year ole, now uncle sammy can call bill jones jest any ole time they say, 'cause yisterday i gits insured, and jined the church today. i hates to leave the old home-folks, they hates to see me go, but i'd rather tote a rifle, than be shoulderin' a hoe. when uncle sammy's needin' men-- and needin' 'em so much, i 'lows how he can call on bill, to help 'im lick them dutch. for preacher sez: "god will protect me out thar," so, then, by heck! i am all o.k. 'cause yisterday i gits insured, and jined the church today. the paper 'lows the fightin's bad, as awful as can be-- guns a-roarin'--blood a-flowin'-- and boats belo' thet sea. but i'm ready--and i ain't a-feered to die--if they do git me. 'cause i ain't no skunking slacker, if i am a "georgia cracker," and if i don't come home no more, the wolf won't come to my house door, i am goin' when they say, 'cause yisterday i gits insured, and jined the church today. "beans" a dog there lived in many towns, and he has wondrous wiles; he travels in the philippines, and visits many isles. "ubiquitous" should be his name, he's seen so many scenes, but all his soldier friends prefer to call him simply: "beans"! as a proper, first class passenger, is "beans" name on ship's log; you'd think his name was pedigreed-- the way he "puts on dog"! yet he is not a full blood pup, but just a "yellow cur": a "nervy-natty gentleman"-- with all his fuzzy fur. he chows awhile at grande isle; and there he'll make a stay, until he tires of their mess; then promptly sails away. he'll take a boat down subic bay, to far olongapo, and when things get monotonous, then "beans" is prompt-to-go! he goes o'er to corregidor, and visits "c. a. c." and if he don't like visiting-- he merely sails the sea! he visits fort mckinley, and cavite, too; now, where beans has not been, forsooth, i wish i only knew. i know that all the sailors, and all the soldier men do call him "beans," and love him for he is their dandy friend. he wags his tail in greeting, and barks at friends with joy; but when his ship's a-sailing, for beans, it's ship-a-hoy! so here's to "beans" old "sea-dog," who loves so well to roam; i wish he'd try to settle down and make our place his home. advice better start in soldiering and mind your p's and q's, cut out going absent and ease up on the booze, don't kick because, you're on fatigue, but mind what you are about, for the summary court will get you if you don't watch out. don't go a-missing reveille; and be in bed by check, don't buck against the captain, or you'll get it in the neck. be sure to turn out promptly when you hear the sergeant shout, for the summary court will get you if you don't watch out. because you've got some service don't think you know it all, you'll get your extras just the same if you should miss a call. take what they hand you weekly. don't grumble, frown or pout. for the summary court will get you if you don't watch out. the scent of the cocoa you have heard of the ancient incense; of the dew of hermann you've read; you have been told of the precious ointment that poured down on aaron's head; but tell me--with all your knowledge, your theory, study and toil, have you heard of an equal or sequel to the scent of the cocoanut oil? at first it is always repulsive, makes you gag and back off in despair; but when you've got the scent of the cocoa, just a scent, a mere whiff in the air, then you're gone, boy, yes, and forever, where'er in this world you may roam; when you once get the scent of the cocoa you forget all the precepts of home. you forget those most noble teachings of fortitude, temperance and truth when you once get the scent of the cocoa. you're gone, boy, gone and forsooth though you try hard and strive to recover, pray to god and his angels as well, if you've once got the scent of the cocoa you're destined--your future is hell. but why should you be predestined by the scent of an innocent oil? when you once get the scent of the cocoa no more can you break from its toil than a gambler can break from his ventures, the drunkard turn away from his rye. when you once get the scent of the cocoa the longing is there till you die. the great world at large doesn't know all, the guilty ones seldom confess when you once get the scent of the cocoa wafted up from the bright passing dress that their thoughts are not those of angels sweet and pure as the dew of the rose, that it's not just the scent of the cocoa but the perquisite that with it goes. there are times when the righteous are doubtful, there are times when no man doubts. when you once get the scent of the cocoa there's a man and his conscience at outs; reckless of moral destruction, fearless of anguish and pain, when you once get the scent of the cocoa 'tis that scent that you long for again. one may part from the orient gladly, from its garlic and dhobie and goats; but if he's once got the scent of the cocoa as he sits and in reverie dotes,-- his thoughts will revert to the eastward, to the land of yellow and brown and he sighs for the scent of the cocoa, and the sight of a pina gown. men of the hospital corps they, too, have heard the drum-beat, they follow the bugle's call, those who are swift with pity on the field where brave men fall. when the battle boom is silent and the echoing thunder dies, they haste to the plain, red sodden with the blood of sacrifice. the flag that floats above them is marked with a crimson sign, pledge of a great compassion and the rifted heart divine. and so they follow the bugle and heed the drumbeat's call, but their errand is one of pity:-- they succor the men who fall. garrison life i want to go home, wailed the private, the sergeant and corporal the same, for i'm tired of the camp and the hikin', the grub and the rest of the game. i'm willing to do all the fightin', for that is a game two can play; but i want to go home, for me goil's all alone, an' i want to go home to-day. for i've marched 'til me throat was a-crackin', 'til crazed for the want of a drink, i've drilled 'til me back was a-breakin', an' i haven't had time to think. and i've had me share of policin', and guard and i'm tired of me lay; for me goil's all alone, an' i want to go home, an' i want to go home to-day. do they heed us a-dying in garrison life? they say it's the water and such, we think that more apt it's the hikin', for the life of a private ain't much; but we know we can fight if we have to, and they won't have to show us the way, but me goil's all alone, an' i want to go home, an' i want to go home to-day. the philippinitis my friend, have you heard of the town of manila, on the banks of the pasig river, where blooms the wait-awhile flower fair, and the "some time other" scents the air, and the soft-go-easy grow? it lies in the valley of what's-the-use, in the province of let-her-slide. that old tired feeling is native there, it's the home of the listless i don't care. where the put-it-off abide. the east is a'calling they say that the east is alluring; the balmy green isles of the sea. but with all their wild splendor assuring, they have no fascination for me. i camped with the boys at siassi, way down in that sequestered isle, where the garb of a primitive lassie, was naught save a gee string and smile. i hiked o'er the hog trails of jolo, in the blistering rays of the suns, as the wild savage wielding his bolo, fell beneath the onslaught of our guns. with a cartridge belt, rifle and knapsack, i tramped through the wooded ravine, on a ration of hard tack and bacon, and a swig from a rusty canteen. in mindanao island so dreary, from malabang to hawaiian hill, ever faithful though footsore and weary, i shouldered my krag for the drill. on the outpost when night darkened o'er us a lone vigil i kept through the rain, and watched for the bloodthirsty moros, that prowled through the desolate cayan. i have seen the half clad filipino, in his nipa thatched shack in luzon, dispensing the tuba and bino, amidst our gay laughter and song. at eve the brown-hued senoritas, strolled leisurely over the green, in hobbles and gaudy camisas, their more loving than handsome queens, they may say the east is a'calling, the picturesque isles of the sea, but with all their wild splendor enthralling, they have no fascination for me. tell your troubles to the corporal of the guard if number one you are walking, and to a comrade talking, while around the country gawking, keeping neither watch nor ward, and an officer unsaluted, swears at you with voice polluted, tell your troubles to the corporal of the guard. if you are at the bridge of spain, and a foreign lady vain-- while a native with a rein jerks the skinny pony hard, when to her aid you'll turn, tell your troubles to the corporal of the guard. if on the escolta posted, and the sun your back has roasted, and rebel chieftain boasted as he handed you his card-- that he soon would clean you out and put your dewey's fleet to rout, tell your troubles to the corporal of the guard. if to the canteen you are sent, and your frame with thirst is rent, and your spirits drooped and bent, and the soldiers and the sailors bottle-crazed-- all are drinking fizzes cool, do not rave and act the fool, tell your troubles to the corporal of the guard. if you should a bottle get, no matter on which beat, or a morsel sweet to eat, in the dreary times so hard; you will find a friend to share it-- call promptly for the corporal of the guard. general orders of the kitchen police my general orders are: . to take charge of these spuds and all gravy in view. . dish slum in a military manner; keeping on the alert and observing all meat balls that go within sight or hearing. . to report any private or non-com who asks for thirds. . to receive, transmit and obey all orders from and allow myself to be relieved by the mess sergeant, first and second cooks only. . to quit the coffee only when properly relieved. . to repeat all calls for "seconds" from the dining room. . to hold conversation with no one who asks for onions. . to allow no one to pass the cooks tobacco or booze. . to salute all slum not incased in an overcoat. . in any case not covered by instructions call the first cook. . in case of fire take out the ashes and get a bucket of coal. . between reveille and retreat turn out the cook and the cook's police for all objects found in the slum, such as bedbugs, lizards, cockroaches, snakes and other insects not on the bill of fare. by order of general r. u. hungry: peelem spud, commanding kitchen police brigade. official: o. u. meatball, major, rd cook corps, brigade adjutant. is he a sorehead? you've heard of the famous six hundred, who at balaklava fell; who charged like death's avengers straight into the mouth of hell. but there's deeds unsung, unheard of; brave deeds gone by unseen, just listen to the tale of a soldier, told in ought thirteen. part of the colonial army for duty in the philippine group. if i had the gink that sent me i sure would make him loop the loop. our valor is tested daily. we fight the mosquitos and heat. the country is fine for a gu-gu, but i long for old market street. the hiking is fine for a soldier, you fill up on dust on the road, and to eat on a dusty stomach makes you feel like any toad. you may talk of a seven-year enlistment, god help me get this one in, when you do one on the archipelago, you will never be free from sin. they work you from morning till evening. they've got you, there's no pulling out. can you blame us for drinking, old timer, no chance, here's to you, old scout. our troubles may be all imaginary and caused by too much sun, but how much imagining is called for in the war games they play for fun. i try to do all they require me, but, god, who can do all that? the man is not made who can obey all orders of a man with a gold cord on his hat. some are better than others, they don't feel the polish and such, but i've learned my lesson--they'll get you in dutch. don't think for a minute i'm a sorehead because i am in for bob, my muscles shure got hard in the army; i can d----! easy get a job. and if some time, in the future, i would hate someone to think me a friend, i'll advise him to enlist in the army, good night, i know that sure is his end. funston never any style about him, not imposing on parade, couldn't make him look heroic, with no end of golden braid. figure sort o' stout and dumpy, hair and whiskers kind of red, but he's always moving forward, when there's trouble on ahead. five foot five, of nerve and daring, eyes pale blue, and steely bright, not afraid of man or devil, that is funston in a fight. fighting since he learned to toddle, soldier since he got his growth, knows the spaniard and the savage, for he's fought and licked 'em both, not much figure in the ball room, not much hand at breaking hearts, rotten ringer for apollo, but right thing when something starts; just a bunch of brains and muscles, but you always feel somehow that he'll get what he goes after, when he mixes in a row. weyler found out all about him, set a price upon his head; aguinaldo's crafty warriors nearly filled him full of lead. yellow men and yellow fever, tried to cut off his career; but since he first hit the war trail, he has never slipped a year. and the heart of all the nation gives a patriotic throb, at the news that kansas funston has again gone on the job. year in chihuahua through the mesquite in old chihuahua, aimlessly one day i strode, till i chanced upon a figure standing silent in the road. such an odd, ungainly figure! i stopped, then staggered back, thinking it an ancient spirit that had wandered from its track. a campaign hat was on his head, with strap beneath his chin, on his legs some battered leggins, and his shoes were old and thin. on his shoulder was a musket, red with the rust of years, like himself, the whole equipment, seemed to justify my fears. "what masquerade is this"? said i, though my breath came quick and short, then he, from force of habit, brought his rifle to a port. "long years ago," he answered, in a mild and patient tone, "there was trouble in chihuahua, where villa used to roam. "when i left the states for mexico, with the regular cavalry, we numbered several thousand, young, healthy, strong and free. all the others,--they are sleeping on the hillside over there, far from home and loving kindred and the native country dear. "perhaps twenty died from sickness, victims of the fever's rage, or amoebic dysentery, all the rest,--from ripe old age! i'm the last of all those thousands, through this place i still must roam, waiting for expected orders-- welcome orders to go home." with pershing in mexico when i've served out this enlistment, and my time in the reserves, why, i am going to treat yours truly to the treat that he deserves. for i am tired chasing villa, in this god-forsaken land, when there's nothing much but cactus and the useless miles of sand. where the rio grande is flowing, by el paso near fort bliss, there's a little girl worth knowin', and she's a'savin' me a kiss. oh, i met her once a'walking, with red corals in her hair; where the greasers sit a'talking, in the little public square. there's real food there; white women; most things a man could want; and a pool to go in swimmin' and a chinese restaurant; where, across the hot chop suey; if you give the chink a wink, he'll produce a little teapot, full of something good to drink. oh, i'm tired of cactus whiskey, that they stop the trucks to sell; for one bottle's mighty risky, and two starts a man for hell. and the first time that i'm able, when they hand me my discharge, watch me lean across the table, and say: "bo, give me a drink of 'large.'" so good-bye, adobe ladies; my regards to uncle sam; let old pancho go to hades; adios to col. dublan! they can't bind me with a lasso, once this little doughboy's free; there's a girl right in el paso, that i'm bound he's going to see. for she's waitin', my anita; in the plaza, in the square; where the little fenced-in fountain throws its water in the air; where the old pet alligator stays, and winks his knowin' eye, and says, "patience, senorita," he'll be with you by an' by. old baldy the "black eagle" said, "i think it but fair, that i should be ruler of both land and air, and have all the other birds under my reign. how great i shall be over such a domain." the others protested, saying, "this you can't do; we'll never submit to a swell-head like you. before we'll come under your despotic rod, we'll fight to the very last drop of our blood." but the "black eagle" answered: "i'll have what i wish; i'll pay you for suckers, and catch a big fish; i'll clip your wings off with a big pair of shears that i have been grinding, the last forty years. "i'll hook my big talons right into your breast, and get a wild 'turkey' to help do the rest. we'll pluck that fine plumage all off from your back; and you'll find desolation the brand of my track." and so the fight started. it waxed fierce and long; and proved the "black eagle" unusually strong. with three years of fighting, he still was intact, and seemed to be victor--in fight and in fact. but at this very moment of luck for the "black," a venerable eagle flew into his track. he was gray, he was bald, he was ancient as well; and just where he came from, there's no use to tell. this "bald-headed eagle" was hailed with delight, when the other birds saw he was going to fight; but when they beheld the tactics employed, by "baldy the great one," they were overjoyed. for he hooked his curved bill in the top of the head of "old blackey the terror," then quietly said: "just watch my talons clip up to his throat. with one still free, i will pick this old bloat." the struggle was fierce, and the feathers flew high; the "black one's" fine plumage came off rapidly; "old baldy's" quick work, and to make good his word, left nary a feather stick on the black bird. the fight at last ended; the "black" gave it up, with "baldy" victorious, awarded the cup; but the "black one" was stripped of all honor and fame. has a place in this world with a dishonored name. it may be a fable, but history records this defeat of the "fowl of great boasting words." how the "prussian black eagle" that thought he could scratch, found in "old baldy" far more than his match. "kaiser bill" there's a guy across the sea, and the "devil's own" is he. death! destruction! misery! that's the kaiser. don't you fancy he's a fool. satan ne'er had such a tool-- whether demon, fiend or ghoul as the kaiser. at the bottom of the ocean lie the victims of his notion. bathes in human blood for lotion does the kaiser. while his teuton choir sings, in the military rings, of the "divine right of kings." kaiser bill. kinder erst, und den de vimmen-- shood dem ub vile dey is schwimmen, den you gif der men a trimmen, kaiser bill. for der voorit must pe mine own, so i'll pe der king alone, mit a unifersal throne kaiser bill. but we'll toss you out the tip, (though the censor seal the lip) that he'll soon be "on the hip"-- will the kaiser. for his submarines are sinking, and his men in trenches, stinking, while the western world is linking 'gainst the kaiser. he'll be picked up in a basket, with a u-boat for a casket, and a name plate, if he ask it. "kaiser bill." then "submerge" in kerosene, kept in memory ever green as the profligate, obscene kaiser bill. the raw recruit ses corporal madden to private mcfadden: be gob, ye're a bad 'un; now turn out your toes; yer belt is unhookit yer cap is on crookit ye may not be dhrunk, but be jabers, ye look it; wan-two! wan-two! ye monkey faced devil, i'll jolly ye through! wan-two! time! mark! ye march like the aigle in cintheral park. ses corporal madden to private mcfadden: a saint it ud sadden to dhrill such a mug; eyes front! ye baboon ye! chin up! ye gossoon, ye! ye've jaws like a goat-- halt! ye leather lipped loon, ye! wan-two! wan-two! ye whiskered orang-outang, i'll fix you! wan-two! time! mark! ye've eyes like a bat, can ye see in the dark? ses corporal madden to private mcfadden: yer figger wants padd'n-- sure man, ye've no shape; behind ye yer shoulders stick out like two boulders; yer shins are as thin as a pair of penholders; wan-two! wan-two! yer belly belongs on yer back, ye jew! wan-two! time! mark! i'm as dry as a dog--i can't spake but i bark! serving in texas to old satan texas was given by the lord who lives in heaven, and the devil quoth "i've got what's needed to make a good hell," and he succeeded. he put sharp thorns all over the trees, and mixed up sand with millions of fleas; he scattered tarantulas along the roads, puts thorns on cactus, and horns on toads. he lengthened the horns of the texas steers, and put an addition to the rabbit's ears; he put a little devil in the bronco steed, and poisoned the feet of the centipede. the rattlesnake bites, the scorpion stings, the mosquitos delight with their, buzzing wings; the sand burs prevail, and so do the ants, and those who sit down, need half-soles in their pants. the heat in the summer is one hundred and ten, too hot for the devil and too hot for the men; the wild boar roams thru the back chaparral, 'tis a hell of a place that he picked for a hell. o'reilly's gone to hell o'reilly was a soldier man, the pride of battery "b." in all the blooming regiment no better man than he; the ranking duty non com., he knew his business well, but since he's tumbled down the pole, o'reilly's gone to hell. chorus: o'reilly's gone to hell, since down the pole he fell. they drank up all the bug juice the whiskey man would sell. they ran him in the mill. they've got him in there still. his bob tail's coming back by mail, o'reilly's gone to hell. . o'reilly hit the bottle after six years up the pole, he blew himself at casey's place and then went in the hole, he drank with all the rookies and saved his face as well. the whole outfit is on the bum, o'reilly's gone to hell. chorus: . o'reilly swiped a blanket and shoved it up i hear; he shoved it for a dollar and invested that in beer, he licked a coffee cooler because he said he'd tell, he's ten days absent without leave, o'reilly's gone to hell. chorus: . they'll try him by court martial, he'll never get a chance to tell them how his mother died or some such song and dance. he'll soon be in company "q" a-sleeping in a cell a big red "p" stamped on his back, o'reilly's gone to hell. on the "border" this is the land that god forgot. arizona. this is the land that the devil be-got. arizona. in respects, it's possibly better than hell, in naco. hot air, mixed with sulphur smell, in naco. there every acre is desert sand, to take the place of the "brim-stone" land. in hell. also, we have the prickley-pear, in naco. sage-brush and cacti that might compare to pitch-forks. but should you ask me where i'd dwell-- naco, or in that place below-- just three words from my mouth would flow: "me for hell." conditions are settled down in hell; while on the border, you never can tell. arizona! hell, yes! no watchful waiting, no peace at a price, like naco. the devil's policy is firm and concise, in hell. no friendly raids, nor mexican strife; like naco. one's die is cast: to boil for life, in hell. in case of trouble, of any kind,-- the devil acts without change of mind. naco--hell. think of the wonderful peace sublime, in hell. i only wish that peace were mine. routine (from a marine's diary.) : a. m.--first call i heard the first call sound, and then-- just yawned and went to sleep again. : a. m.--reveille at reveille i shook the dope, broke out a towel and a hunk of soap. : a. m.--roll call my name rang out upon the air; i hollered, "here," for i was "there." : a. m.--setting-up exercise took exercise, without a rest; i like the breathing movement best. : a. m.--chow oh, what a difference breakfast makes! 'twas punk and java, dog and cakes. : a. m.--first call for drill first call for drill reminded me-- i'll try the rear rank--"number three." : a. m.--drill street riot drill and company square; i nearly went up in the air. : a. m.--recall from drill recall was music to my ears; i hadn't felt so tired for years. : a. m.--colors the guard turned out for uncle sam and handed him the "grand salaam." : a. m.--sick call one fellow went to show his corn for there's a hike to-morrow morn. : a. m.--first call for troop i shaved and washed, then cleaned the gat, and had ten minutes left at that. : a. m.--troop the captain sized us up for fair, but no kick comin' anywhere. : a. m.--guard mount guard mount, my name wasn't booked; how is it i was overlooked? respite no more calls to answer now til i hear them holler, "chow" for this is my easy day: guess i rate it anyway. : n--chow--liberty chow was the regular menu, spuds et cetera--carabao. i heard "liberty" when it went but i didn't have a cent. : p. m.--police glad i have no work today; i'll turn in and hit the hay. afternoon--no calls woke up promptly, half past two; walked around olongapo. came in--played a checker game; wrote a letter to my dame. : p. m.--chow supper surely was some class! steak and onions--apple "sass." : p. m.----colors six o'clock when colors went; guard turned out and gave "present." : p. m.--tattoo came in early, took a shower, read a book for half an hour. : p. m.--call to quarters let down my mosquito net-- puffed a durham cigarette. taps--p. m. safely in my bunk i curled and was soon--dead to the world. that uniform tis strange, but yet 'tis true, we see sane men who seem to think that we, who wear the blue, are not the same as other men. we have a name scarce thought of with respect; 'tis used to frighten children, and abused by those who only wish to show a few of the many things they don't know. we read "the soldiers came to town and raised particular ----," and so on down a column or more of such vile stuff; 'twould make us all cry "hold! enough!" you see, there's scarcely anything to write about. while these things sting, what's that to us? we may lose by it; but the public's fed, ye gods, the diet. an old saw, which, perhaps, e'en you have heard, and some thought true, seems to have been forgotten, quite, or else we do not think it right. our fathers used to think that way, but we are wiser (?) in our day. try to remember it, if you can, tis this: "the clothes don't make the man." don't turn the soldier down. you may, for aught you know, or others say, be entertaining, unawares, an angel; and, if not, who cares? for, be he good, bad, weak or strong, 'mid summer's sun or winter's storm, you call on him to right your wrong, altho he wears a uniform. in the cold grey dawn of the morning after bring me a dry martini, waiter, chase in something that's wet, i was out to a clam bake yesterday, and i haven't got over it yet. throw me a pleasant look, waiter, smile at me pretty, don't frown, and pour some glue on my breakfast so i can keep it down. i hear they have discovered the pole, waiter, i wish i had it here now, they can't come any too cold for me to put on my aching brow. many a schooner was wrecked last night, and the waves ran mountain high. personally, i was soused to the gills, but today i'm awfully dry. it was a terrible night at sea, waiter, and many are missing, i think, but as near as i can remember i never missed a drink. the one in blue got my purse, waiter, her side-kick got my clock, i don't want to know what time it is, please lead me down to the dock. lead me down to the dock, waiter, for a watery grave i pine, the place for a man that is pickled is over my head in brine. tell them in olongapo, i died as a hero should, up to the neck, in cold, cold suds guaranteed drawn from the wood. i'd like to leave you a gift, waiter, just to remember me by and to show you that i'm not tight, you can have my piece of pie. and after i sink in the water, waiter, you'll do me a favor, i hope. tell them, if i blow up bubbles it wasn't from eating soap. the other side of the poster they told me that the army was a joy for evermore; they told me of the pleasures i'd have in it by the score; they told me of its comforts and the jolly life i'd lead, but by thunder they have fooled me and i'm sorrowful indeed-- i ever joined the army. they told me of the polished boots and the buttons bright i'd wear, and of the splendid things i'd find upon the bill-of-fare; but never a word they told me in the fine recruiting shop, of hoeing weeds upon the roads, or hauling out the slops-- when i joined the army. they told me of the pleasant hours, away from every care, i could spend when not on duty, in town or anywhere; but a thing they never told me is the punishment they'd mete out to a luckless rookie who went absent from retreat-- in uncle samuel's army. they told me of the canteen, where good lager beer is sold, and of the fine post hospital, that cures all kinds of colds; but a hint about the guard-house they never to me gave, that skeleton they kept hidden as though buried in a grave-- until i joined the army. they showed me good looking chromos of good looking soldier men, with little v's upon their sleeves and hats they shone like tin; but there is one uncanny picture they never to me showed of a soldier with a knapsack, and he hitting up the road-- in the u. s. army. they told me of the nice soft bunk, made out of woven wire, where i could lay my carcass, whenever my bones would tire; but a whisper of the pick and shovel was never to me told, so i'm pondering o'er my contract, and i think i was sold-- when i came into uncle's army. they told me of the non-coms, who knew a soldier's worth, who made the army jolly, a place of endless mirth; but not a word they told me of the amount of beer i'd buy, just to keep a "stand in" with those that rank up high-- in sammy's splendid army. they told me of the bill-of-fare that changed with every day, and when landed in the army for thirty years i'd stay; but not a word they told me (no wonder they were mum), about the stuff they feed us, commonly known as "slum"-- in our conquering army. it is hinted that experience of all others is the school, where common sense alone is learned, by him that plays the fool; and though i hate the medicine, i must take it with a will, and keep convincing myself, it does me good-- it's time to leave the army. army fever when your first hitch is over, and you have cashed your finals few, and a breakfast and a boat ride are all that's left for you, and you toy with your collar as you don your suit of "citz," while your bunkie, sitting near you, has the bluest kind of fits; you a-bubbling over with pleasure at the thoughts of going out; the friends at home will welcome you, of that there's not a doubt; and it never seems to strike you that you have made a beaten track, in these years you've been a soldier--that you might come back. so you hasten out as boat call goes--last call you have to stand-- and you wave farewell to comrades as you push away from land. first call for drill is sounding from the bugler's throat of gold, but you are free--"don't have to stand no drill in heat or cold." altho' you get to wondering as things fade from sight, if drilling really was so bad as walking post at night. you think, of course, when first discharged, one feels just sort of sad; but it's army fever symptoms--and you've got 'em bad. you're in business on the outside, and you're making good, it seems; but the bugle keeps a-calling, and a-calling through your dreams. then some day you meet a soldier on a furlough for a week; and you think it only friendly to go up to him and speak; and you find you knew his brother, or his cousin, or his friend, and your job upon the outside has found a sudden end; for a longing fierce comes over you, and you cannot resist-- it's the crisis of the fever--and you reenlist. one to the army bean i've eaten funny dishes on luzon's tropical shore, i've eaten japan's bamboo shoots and oysters by the score. of caviar i've had my share, i love anchovies, too, and way down in old mindanao i've eaten carabao; of johnny bull's old rare roast i nearly got the gout, and with chums at heidelberg i dined on sauerkraut; in china i have eaten native rice and sipped their famous teas; in naples i, 'long with the rest, ate macaroni and cheese; in cuba where all things go slow, manana's their one wish; i dined on things that had no names, but tasted strong with fish. in mexico the chili burnt the coating off my tongue; and with irish landlord i dined on pigs quite young, yet you may have your dishes that is served to kings and queens, but i am happy and contented with a dish of army beans. little things little drops of water, little grains of sand make the mighty ocean and the desert land. little hours of drilling, little "rifle shoots" make efficient soldiers out of raw recruits. little hours some spend in breaking liberty, oft' amount to something more than e. p. d. little words of kindness, when you spare a few, sound all right to some one; do they not to you? sing-a-song-a-sixpence sing-a-song-a-sixpence every-body dry-- half-a-dozen privates opening some rye. when the rye was opened the bucks began to sing: every blessed one of them feeling like a king. the sergeant at the guard-house saw them walking straight-- marked them "clean and sober," when they passed the gate. but, when taps was over, they sang and danced a jig, along came a corporal and slammed them in the brig. queen of may if you wake, why, call me early--call me early, won't you, bunk? the captain says i'll be a non-com., if i don't get on a drunk. then some day i'll be a sergeant with three stripes upon my arm, zig zag, like the old rail fences on dad posey's country farm. call me early, though i'm dreaming, wake me up that i may see how the sun that sinks in grandeur rises in obscurity. i've been a private, bunkie, such as privates seldom are, borne my share of public censure, let it heal without a scar. till upon the fair escutcheon of my name and humble rank captain says he'll add the title and a stripe on either flank. then i'll be a non-com., bunkie, wake me up that i may see my own glory bubble appearing, hear it burst at reveille. wake me early from my slumbers, henceforth i would early rise, health and wealth are common virtues--dawn will brand me both, and wise. bunkie, i'll be boss tomorrow, uniformed in blue and white, knew i'd get it, if the captain only did what's square and right. but i will not chastise the comrades who may doubt my word is law, i'll be easy with them, bunkie, patient, 'tho they feel no awe. bunkie, i'm growing sleepy; wake me when the morning breaks; for upon the track of merit, i will land the non-com. stakes. let me hear the joyful clamor when i wake from pleasant dreams that the fellows rise when greeting a noncom., who is what he seems. wake me early, bunkie, comrade, tell the fellows who i am, not forgetting all the favors i will do you when i can. tell them that i wouldn't have it, if it sacrificed their love, tell them that i'm the same as ever, though they think me far above. bunkie, i have dreamed so often of the buff that i shall wear, that i feel the honor greater than a man like me can bear. long i've waited; long i've cherished thoughts of how i'd look and feel when the captain said: howard, here's a stripe to aid your zeal. then i'd be a non-com., bunkies, then i'd write to dad and say, modest-like: "a corporal's greetings to his folks so far away!" a young rookie's lament as i sit in the gleam of the camp fire, 'neath the oriental skies, in fancy i picture the homeland shore and a town i highly prize; it's gardner, dear old gardner, a town so dear to me, but i'm many miles away across an endless sea. i at the age of was-- fickle as a clam i took a train for fitchburg and joined old uncle sam. they sent me on to slocum, and filled me up on beans. they made me take a rifle and a pair of khaki jeans. they sent me to the philippines, we call it no man's land. we never see a flake of snow, we bake our eggs in sand, we hike o'er burning mountains 'til it drives us near insane, we pitch our camp in a rice field in a storm of drizzling rain. at night we walk our outpost with a great big heavy gun and dum-dum bullets to make the moros run. they're accurate as a weasel and, boys, they never fan, you have to keep your ears pricked up, for they'll get you if they can. now, boys, you may think gardner slow, but that notion you'll destroy if you ever hold your hand up to be a soldier boy. you have no dear old mother. to mend your tattered pants, when you stick yourself with a needle, with rage you'll fairly prance. so, boys, i found my big mistake, i was altogether wrong, and that's the simple reason i sing this little song. so take a piece of fool's advice, and never run away, just stay in dear old gardner where life is bright and gay. danny deever ballad "where're all the soldiers goin' to?" asked files-on-parade, "what are they all a-goin' to do?" the color sergeant said; "i dunno where they're goin' to," said files-on-parade, "i dunno what they're goin' to do," the color sergeant said. for they're goin' back towards u. s. a. and leave the philippines, they're tirin' of the islands and the army "pork and beans," that "single time," and "two per mile"--they all know what that means-- so now they're all a'goin' to leave the army. "where is the 'doughboy' goin' to?" asked files-on-parade, "and what is he a-goin' to do?" the color sergeant said; "back to his farm! back to his farm!" said files-on-parade, "behind the plow! behind the plow," the color sergeant said. no hiking o'er rice paddies,--but furrowed fields of corn, to go to bed real early and get up in the morn', to be his own "k. o." once more, in the country where he's born, so soon he'll be a-quittin' of the army. "where is the trooper goin' to?" asked files-on-parade, "and what is he a-goin' to do?" the color sergeant said; "perhaps he'll pack an army mule," said files-on-parade, "or go out west to 'cow-boy,'" the color sergeant said. he's fond of his "caballo," and he loves his old "outfit," and if they'd change those army bills, he wouldn't ever quit, but chairman hay, and others, have forced him into it. so soon he'll be discharged from out the army. "where is the 'gunner' goin' to?" asked files-on-parade, "and what is he a-goin' to do?" the color sergeant said; "he's goin' to be a 'jackie,'" said files-on-parade, "a sailor lad a'fore the mast," the color sergeant said. for he'd rather try the navy, and draw a sailor's pay, than "single-time" in jolo with three long years to stay, where there ain't no "two-cent mileage," while a'cruisin' across the bay, so now he'll soon be quittin' of the army. "where is the army goin' to?" said files-on-parade, "and what is it a'goin' to do?" the color sergeant said; "the boys will soon have done their time," said files-on-parade, "and few of 'em will 'hitch' again," the color sergeant said. for the transports bring one "rookie" to take the place of ten, "old timers," who are goin' home, and won't "hitch" up again, and they'll have a rookie army--instead of soldier men. for they're breakin' up the army in the islands. puzzy lappins when a crude and hopeful rookie to the philippines i came to hike the glorious pathway on to shoulder straps and fame, i thought of mother's counsel, and i scorned the drunkard's cup, but i landed on the sick report, and that's what did me up. "you've been drinking," said the surgeon, "you've been drinking on the sly. you've been disobeying orders; 'tis useless to deny. let me tell you on the q. t. that i am going to mark you 'duty' you've been drinking unboiled water i can read it in your eye." i've a bunkie who is a restless dog, and he doesn't care a fig, so they marched him to the guard-house and they made him do fatigue. he's a gamblin', ramblin' rascal, an all around jovial sport. they had him up the other day before a summary court. "charged with drinking," says the captain, and he seemed to "wink an eye." "for you could not stand temptation and you drank when you was dry. you are grinning, private brady, and you will draw five less next pay-day, and for drinking unboiled water don't forget i cinched you high." since old pharoah followed moses, and was followed by the sea, sergeant potter's been a soldier and 'til gabriel's reveille he'll be answering to the bugle call at sunset, noon, and morn, but he's got the dengue fever, and it makes him flush and worn. "you've been drinking unboiled water," says the captain, "that is why." "no, the captain is mistaken," says the sergeant with a sigh. "i never do drink water, though maybe at times i aught'er; i never do drink water when 'john stink' and tuba's nigh." the band it played a mournful tune; the soldiers crowd around as a comrade wrapped in glory's flag is lowered in the ground. there are three resounding volleys, taps die out in tender tones and we're marching to the quick step from the grave of corporal jones. "it was drinking," says the captain as a tear was in his eye. "it was all through drinking water that the corporal came to die. 'twas the unboiled water that killed him, with germs and things it filled him but now he is drinking from the jordan where we'll join him by and by." a cynic's view of army life once i was a farmer boy, a tiller of the soil, i liked the work--i never was a chap to shirk from toil. but i thought i'd choose a broader life (i must have been an ass). i took on in the army--and now i'm cutting grass. i thought my farm life narrow, for there my simple work was planting things and tending them, and this i did not shirk. i'd charge of all the horses, too, and handled them first class, but since i joined the army, i am simply cutting grass. i get up in the morning to the sound of martial strain. the sergeant says: "go get that scythe and sharpen it again. the grass has grown six inches, men, while we have been in bed, so hustle, soldiers, hustle--don't let it get ahead." the chief of staff sits up above and wonders "wot fell?" the money goes by millions, but the army is a sell. we privates, if we dared to, could easy hit the mark, it's grass that takes up all our time from early dawn to dark. we all would like to soldier and get prepared for war; it's what we left our happy homes and joined the army for. we'd like to learn our duties from "skirmish drill" to "mass." but all we learn with uncle sam is grass, grass, grass! i hate the sight of anything that has a color green; my disposition's ruined and i have a swoolen spleen. and when my time to cash in comes, i pray a gracious god, that i'll be buried out at sea--not placed beneath the sod. the song of the shovel and the pick the sergeant says: "my gun is rusty, and i guess it must be right. but you ought to see my pick and shovel; they are always shining bright." chorus: farewell, bunkie, i must leave you, and leave you mighty quick for i'll be d----d if i can soldier with a shovel and a pick. there is hash that's hot, and hash that's cold; there's hash that's new and hash that's old; and hash that's mixed into skilligbee; but with me they don't agree. chorus: so, farewell, bunkie, i must leave you, and i leave you with a dash; for i'll be d----d if i can soldier on uncle samuel's corn beef hash. army slang b-ache--to complain. beans--the commissary sergeant. bean-shooter--a commissary officer. belly-ache--to complain. black strap--liquid coffee. blind--sentenced by court-martial to forfeiture of pay without confinement. bob-tail--a dishonorable discharge, or a discharge without honor; to be "bobtailed"--to be discharged or to be given a discharge without honor. bone--to study; to try; to cultivate. bone bootlick on--to cultivate the favor of. boots and saddles--trumpet call. bootlick--to flatter. brig--guard-house. bow-legs--cavalrymen. buck-private--a term sometimes used in referring to a private. bucking for orderly--giving clothing and accoutrements extra cleaning so as to compete for orderly. bunkie--a soldier who shares the shelter of a comrade. bust--to reduce a non-commissioned officer to the grade of a private. butcher--the company barber. canned horse--canned beef. chief--name by which the chief musician of the band is usually called by the enlisted men. cit--a civilian. cits--civilian clothes. c. o.--commanding officer. coffee cooler--one who seeks easy details away from troops; one who is always looking for an easy job. cold-feet--fear, lack of courage (to have cold feet is to be afraid, to lack courage). commissaries--groceries. crawl--to admonish. dog-robber--name by which the enlisted men call a soldier who works for an officer. (an offensive term, the use of which generally results in trouble.) dough-boy--infantryman. dough-puncher--the baker. down the pole--to drink, after having stopped. duff--any sweet edible. fatigue--extra work. file--a number on the lineal list. fogy--ten percent increase in pay for each five years' service. found--to be found deficient or wanting in anything, especially an examination. french leave--unauthorized absence. absent on french leave--absent without authority. goat--junior officer in post, regiment, etc. goaty--awkward, ignorant. guard house lawyer--a soldier with a smattering knowledge of regulations and military law; quite loquacious and liberal with advice and counsel to men in the guard house or other trouble. hand-shaker--a soldier who tries to win the favor of first sergeant or troop commander. hardtack--hardbread, biscuits. hash mark--enlistment or service stripe, worn on sleeve. hike--a march; to hike; to march. hitch--a term for enlistment period. hive--to discover, to catch. hobo--the provost guard. holy joe--the chaplain. hop--a dance. how--form of salutation in drinking, meaning "here's to your health," "my regards," etc. i. c.--condemned by an inspector. jaw-bone--credit (to get things on "jawbone," is to buy on credit). jump--to admonish. k. o.--the commanding officer. major--name by which the sergeant-major is usually called by the enlisted men. mill--guard-house. mule-skinner--a teamster. non-com--non-commissioned officer. o. d.--the officer of the day. officers line, or officers row--the row of houses where the officers and their families live. old issue--an old soldier. old file--an old officer. old man--the company commander. on official terms--not to be on speaking terms except officially. on the carpet--called before the commanding officer for admonition. openers--cathartic pills. orderly buckle--a soldier when going on guard who strives by extra neatness of appearance to be designated as orderly for the commanding officer. orderly room--company office. outfit--one's organization in the army. over-the-hill--to desert. p.--prisoner. pills--the hospital steward. punk--light bread. q. m.--the quartermaster. q. m. d.--quartermaster's department. ranked-out--to be compelled to vacate by a senior, as "to be ranked out of quarters." red-tape--official formality; that is, the close or excessive observance of forms and routine in the transaction of business. regimental monkey--the drum major. re-up--to re-enlist at once. rookie--a new recruit. sand-rat--an officer or soldier on duty in the rifle pit at target practice. saw-bone--the doctor. shave-tail--a new second lieutenant. so called, after the young, unbroken mules in the quartermaster's department. shoved up--to pawn. shutters--camphor or opium pills. sinkers--dumplings. sky-scout--the chaplain. sky-pilot--the chaplain, slap-jacks--pan cakes. slum--a stew of meat, potatoes and onions, mostly potatoes and onions. soap suds row--the laundresses' quarters. soldier, to--to soldier, to serve; also to shirk. soldiers' one per cent--one hundred per cent. sow-belly--bacon. stars and stripes--beans. striker--a soldier who works for an officer. take-on--to re-enlist before the expiration of three months after discharge. the old man--term sometimes used by officers and soldiers in referring to the commanding officer; sometimes used by soldiers in referring to their company commander. to take another blanket--same as "take-on." top sergeant--first sergeant. up the pole--to swear off drinking. yellow-leg--cavalryman. youngster--a young officer (a first or second lieutenant). wagon-soldier--light or field artilleryman. wind-jammer--a trumpeter or bandsman. wood-butcher--company artificer. english army slang gravel crushers--infantry soldiers. poultice wallahs--royal army medical corps men. doolally tap--when a soldier becomes mentally unbalanced he is said to have received the "doolally tap." "doolally" is a corruption of the name of an indian town, deolali. bun wallah--a soldier who drinks nothing stronger than tea, and is in consequence supposed to eat voraciously of buns. chips--the regimental pioneer sergeant, who is usually a sergeant. lance jack--a lance-corporal. quarter bloke--the quartermaster. rookey--a recruit. scrounger--a man with plenty of resource in getting what he wants. yob--one who is easily fooled. bobygee--a soldier cook. in india a native one. baggies--sailors in the navy. badgy--an enlisted boy. long-faced chum--a cavalryman's term for his horse. rooty--bread. slingers--a meal of bread and tea. muckin--butter. bully beef--the tinned meat ration. lamping--eating heartily. c. b.--confined to barracks. chucking a dummy--when a man faints on parade he is said to "have chucked a dummy." clink or mush--the guard room. brief, cheque or ticket--discharge documents. dock--a military hospital. swinging the lead--the equivalent of "telling the tale." weighed off--when a soldier has been awarded punishment for an offense he is said to have been "weighed off." high jump--an appearance before the c.o. to answer a charge of breaking regulations. lost his number--a man is said to have "lost his (regimental) number" when he is reported for any offense. it is "lost" because it is placed on the report sheet. stir--imprisonment in a detention barracks. chancing his arm--committing an offence in expectation that it will not be discovered. a n.c.o. is said to be "chancing his arm" because he may be deprived of his stripes. jankers--defaulter's drill. dog's leg--the first stripe received on promotion. bundook--a rifle. bobtack--powder mixed into a paste to clean buttons and brass work on equipment. muck-in--share in. square-pushing--courting. your best boots, cap, etc., are called square-pushing boots, etc. square-bit--your best girl. atcha--all right. blighty--home. words to the army trumpet calls reveille: i can't get 'em up, i can't get 'em up, i can't get 'em up in the morning; i can't get 'em up, i can't get 'em up, i can't get 'em up at all; corp'rals worse than the privates; sergeants worse than the corporals; lieutenants worse than the sergeants, and the capt'n's the worst of all. chorus-- i can't get 'em up, i can't get 'em up, etc. mess call: soup-y, soup-y soup, without a single bean. pork-y, pork-y, pork, without a streak of lean; coffee, coffee, coffee, without any cream! (or, the weakest ever seen!) sick call: come and get your quinine, come and get your pills, oh! come and get your quinine, come and get your pills. stable call: come all who are able and go to the stable, and water your horses and give 'em some corn; for if you don't do it, the col'nel will know it, and then you will rue it, sure as you're born. taps: fades the light; love, good night. and afar when the day goeth day, must thou go cometh night; and the night and a star day is done leadeth all, leave me so? speedeth all fare thee well; to their rest. night is on. another version. when your last day is past, from afar some bright star o'er your grave watch will keep, while you sleep with the brave. first aid in case of accidents the following hints are only intended as a reminder to assist you when in doubt. to stop bleeding.--place a pad of clean cloth on the wound and bandage firmly. raise the part affected. if raising the limbs or applying the pad does not control the bleeding, compress with your two thumbs over bone and as near the wound as possible. give no stimulants as long as bleeding remains uncontrolled. burns and scalds.--exclude the part from the air at once, by dusting flour on it and covering with cotton wool. if there is a blister do not pick it for hours. soothing applications are carron oil, salad oil, vaseline, lard, etc. if there is severe shock, give it immediate attention, even before attending to the burn or scald. fractures.--the two main classes of fractures are simple and compound and the first aid treatment you give is to prevent the simple fracture from becoming the more serious compound fracture, which has a wound caused by the jagged end of the broken bone. attend to the patient on the spot, and fix the injured limb, at once, by splints and bandages. use great gentleness. if there is a wound, cleanse it and apply antiseptic dressing before putting limb in splints. disturb the limb as little as possible and make the patient comfortable until arrival of doctor. snake bites.--tie something tightly around the limb, between the wound and the heart. give patient a good dose of brandy or some other spirit. encourage the bleeding by squeezing the bitten part and bathe with warm water. if breathing is bad, use artificial respiration. poisons.--in the first place endeavor to find out the poison. if you cannot, and there are no stains about mouth or lips and no burning sensation in mouth and throat, give an emetic or tickle throat to make patient vomit. emetics are: three-teaspoonfuls of mustard in pint of tepid water; salt and water, two tablespoonfuls to pint of warm water. (see first aid for poisoning.) when there are stains, etc., give cream, white of eggs, olive or linseed oil (no oil with phosphorus poisoning). antidotes to follow. grit in the eye.--do not rub the injured eye. by rubbing the other eye you will bring tears, which may wash the grit out. if not, roll back the upper eyelid over a match or pencil, and remove the grit with the corner of your handkerchief or small camel hair brush. if lime in eye, wash out at once with water, then drop olive or castor oil between the lids. do not attempt to remove anything deeply imbedded--drop in olive oil and bandage. fainting---the patient is very faint and partially or completely unconscious. pulse is weak and rapid and breathing quickened. no convulsions. place the patient in a lying position with the head lower than the rest of the body. loosen his clothing at neck and chest. give patient plenty of fresh air. sprinkle face and chest with cold water and apply smelling salts to nose. rub the limbs toward body. give stimulant when patient is able to swallow. sprains.--a sprain is the tearing of the ligaments or capsule of a joint and bursting of small blood vessels, and swelling. apply cold water dressings as long as they give comfort, and afterwards apply hot fomentations. rest the part in an easy position. if movement of limb be essential, bandage it tightly. if in doubt, treat as a fracture. [*]french money centimes (one sou) ......= cent " ......= cents " ......= " franc ......= " " ......= " " ......= dollar english money half penny ...............= cent one " ...............= cents three pence ...............= " six " ...............= " one shilling...............= " two " ...............= " half a crown or two shillings six pence .. = " five shillings ........... = $ . ten " ............. = . pound .................. = . [*]french currency has depreciated since the war about per cent., so that ten per cent. deduction should be made for accurate reckoning. rhymes of a red cross man by robert w. service [british-born canadian poet-- - .] author of "the spell of the yukon", "ballads of a cheechako", "rhymes of a rolling stone", etc. [this etext has been transcribed from a new york edition of . some very minor corrections have been made.] | | --+---------------------------+-- | to the memory of | | my brother, | | lieutenant albert service | | canadian infantry | | killed in action, france | | august, . | --+---------------------------+-- | | contents foreword the call the fool the volunteer the convalescent the man from athabaska the red retreat the haggis of private mcphee the lark the odyssey of 'erbert 'iggins a song of winter weather tipperary days fleurette funk our hero my mate milking time young fellow my lad a song of the sandbags on the wire bill's grave jean desprez going home cocotte my bay'nit carry on! over the parapet the ballad of soulful sam only a boche pilgrims my prisoner tri-colour a pot of tea the revelation grand-père son the black dudeen the little piou-piou bill the bomber the whistle of sandy mcgraw the stretcher-bearer wounded faith the coward missis moriarty's boy my foe my job the song of the pacifist the twins the song of the soldier-born afternoon tea the mourners l'envoi foreword i've tinkered at my bits of rhymes in weary, woeful, waiting times; in doleful hours of battle-din, ere yet they brought the wounded in; through vigils of the fateful night, in lousy barns by candle-light; in dug-outs, sagging and aflood, on stretchers stiff and bleared with blood; by ragged grove, by ruined road, by hearths accurst where love abode; by broken altars, blackened shrines i've tinkered at my bits of rhymes. i've solaced me with scraps of song the desolated ways along: through sickly fields all shrapnel-sown, and meadows reaped by death alone; by blazing cross and splintered spire, by headless virgin in the mire; by gardens gashed amid their bloom, by gutted grave, by shattered tomb; beside the dying and the dead, where rocket green and rocket red, in trembling pools of poising light, with flowers of flame festoon the night. ah me! by what dark ways of wrong i've cheered my heart with scraps of song. so here's my sheaf of war-won verse, and some is bad, and some is worse. and if at times i curse a bit, you needn't read that part of it; for through it all like horror runs the red resentment of the guns. and you yourself would mutter when you took the things that once were men, and sped them through that zone of hate to where the dripping surgeons wait; and wonder too if in god's sight war ever, ever can be right. yet may it not be, crime and war but effort misdirected are? and if there's good in war and crime, there may be in my bits of rhyme, my songs from out the slaughter mill: so take or leave them as you will. the call (france, august first, ) far and near, high and clear, hark to the call of war! over the gorse and the golden dells, ringing and swinging of clamorous bells, praying and saying of wild farewells: war! war! war! high and low, all must go: hark to the shout of war! leave to the women the harvest yield; gird ye, men, for the sinister field; a sabre instead of a scythe to wield: war! red war! rich and poor, lord and boor, hark to the blast of war! tinker and tailor and millionaire, actor in triumph and priest in prayer, comrades now in the hell out there, sweep to the fire of war! prince and page, sot and sage, hark to the roar of war! poet, professor and circus clown, chimney-sweeper and fop o' the town, into the pot and be melted down: into the pot of war! women all, hear the call, the pitiless call of war! look your last on your dearest ones, brothers and husbands, fathers, sons: swift they go to the ravenous guns, the gluttonous guns of war. everywhere thrill the air the maniac bells of war. there will be little of sleeping to-night; there will be wailing and weeping to-night; death's red sickle is reaping to-night: war! war! war! the fool "but it isn't playing the game," he said, and he slammed his books away; "the latin and greek i've got in my head will do for a duller day." "rubbish!" i cried; "the bugle's call isn't for lads from school." d'ye think he'd listen? oh, not at all: so i called him a fool, a fool. now there's his dog by his empty bed, and the flute he used to play, and his favourite bat . . . but dick he's dead, somewhere in france, they say: dick with his rapture of song and sun, dick of the yellow hair, dicky whose life had but begun, carrion-cold out there. look at his prizes all in a row: surely a hint of fame. now he's finished with,--nothing to show: doesn't it seem a shame? look from the window! all you see was to be his one day: forest and furrow, lawn and lea, and he goes and chucks it away. chucks it away to die in the dark: somebody saw him fall, part of him mud, part of him blood, the rest of him--not at all. and yet i'll bet he was never afraid, and he went as the best of 'em go, for his hand was clenched on his broken blade, and his face was turned to the foe. and i called him a fool . . . oh how blind was i! and the cup of my grief's abrim. will glory o' england ever die so long as we've lads like him? so long as we've fond and fearless fools, who, spurning fortune and fame, turn out with the rallying cry of their schools, just bent on playing the game. a fool! ah no! he was more than wise. his was the proudest part. he died with the glory of faith in his eyes, and the glory of love in his heart. and though there's never a grave to tell, nor a cross to mark his fall, thank god! we know that he "batted well" in the last great game of all. the volunteer sez i: my country calls? well, let it call. i grins perlitely and declines wiv thanks. go, let 'em plaster every blighted wall, 'ere's _one_ they don't stampede into the ranks. them politicians with their greasy ways; them empire-grabbers--fight for 'em? no fear! i've seen this mess a-comin' from the days of algyserious and aggydear: i've felt me passion rise and swell, but . . . wot the 'ell, bill? wot the 'ell? sez i: my country? mine? i likes their cheek. me mud-bespattered by the cars they drive, wot makes my measly thirty bob a week, and sweats red blood to keep meself alive! fight for the right to slave that they may spend, them in their mansions, me 'ere in my slum? no, let 'em fight wot's something to defend: but me, i've nothin'--let the kaiser come. and so i cusses 'ard and well, but . . . wot the 'ell, bill? wot the 'ell? sez i: if they would do the decent thing, and shield the missis and the little 'uns, why, even _i_ might shout "god save the king", and face the chances of them 'ungry guns. but we've got three, another on the way; it's that wot makes me snarl and set me jor: the wife and nippers, wot of 'em, i say, if i gets knocked out in this blasted war? gets proper busted by a shell, but . . . wot the 'ell, bill? wot the 'ell? ay, wot the 'ell's the use of all this talk? to-day some boys in blue was passin' me, and some of 'em they 'ad no legs to walk, and some of 'em they 'ad no eyes to see. and--well, i couldn't look 'em in the face, and so i'm goin', goin' to declare i'm under forty-one and take me place to face the music with the bunch out there. a fool, you say! maybe you're right. i'll 'ave no peace unless i fight. i've ceased to think; i only know i've gotta go, bill, gotta go. the convalescent . . . so i walked among the willows very quietly all night; there was no moon at all, at all; no timid star alight; there was no light at all, at all; i wint from tree to tree, and i called him as his mother called, but he nivver answered me. oh i called him all the night-time, as i walked the wood alone; and i listened and i listened, but i nivver heard a moan; then i found him at the dawnin', when the sorry sky was red: i was lookin' for the livin', but i only found the dead. sure i know that it was shamus by the silver cross he wore; but the bugles they were callin', and i heard the cannon roar. oh i had no time to tarry, so i said a little prayer, and i clasped his hands together, and i left him lyin' there. now the birds are singin', singin', and i'm home in donegal, and it's springtime, and i'm thinkin' that i only dreamed it all; i dreamed about that evil wood, all crowded with its dead, where i knelt beside me brother when the battle-dawn was red. where i prayed beside me brother ere i wint to fight anew: such dreams as these are evil dreams; i can't believe it's true. where all is love and laughter, sure it's hard to think of loss . . . but mother's sayin' nothin', and she clasps--_a silver cross_. the man from athabaska oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas nothing but the thrumming of a wood-pecker a-rapping on the hollow of a tree; and she thought that i was fooling when i said it was the drumming of the mustering of legions, and 'twas calling unto me; 'twas calling me to pull my freight and hop across the sea. and a-mending of my fish-nets sure i started up in wonder, for i heard a savage roaring and 'twas coming from afar; oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas only summer thunder, and she laughed a bit sarcastic when i told her it was war; 'twas the chariots of battle where the mighty armies are. then down the lake came half-breed tom with russet sail a-flying, and the word he said was "war" again, so what was i to do? oh the dogs they took to howling, and the missis took to crying, as i flung my silver foxes in the little birch canoe: yes, the old girl stood a-blubbing till an island hid the view. says the factor: "mike, you're crazy! they have soldier men a-plenty. you're as grizzled as a badger, and you're sixty year or so." "but i haven't missed a scrap," says i, "since i was one and twenty. and shall i miss the biggest? you can bet your whiskers--no!" so i sold my furs and started . . . and that's eighteen months ago. for i joined the foreign legion, and they put me for a starter in the trenches of the argonne with the boche a step away; and the partner on my right hand was an 'apache' from montmartre; on my left there was a millionaire from pittsburg, u. s. a. (poor fellow! they collected him in bits the other day.) but i'm sprier than a chipmunk, save a touch of the lumbago, and they calls me old methoosalah, and 'blagues' me all the day. i'm their exhibition sniper, and they work me like a dago, and laugh to see me plug a boche a half a mile away. oh i hold the highest record in the regiment, they say. and at night they gather round me, and i tell them of my roaming in the country of the crepuscule beside the frozen sea, where the musk-ox runs unchallenged, and the cariboo goes homing; and they sit like little children, just as quiet as can be: men of every crime and colour, how they harken unto me! and i tell them of the furland, of the tumpline and the paddle, of secret rivers loitering, that no one will explore; and i tell them of the ranges, of the pack-strap and the saddle, and they fill their pipes in silence, and their eyes beseech for more; while above the star-shells fizzle and the high explosives roar. and i tell of lakes fish-haunted, where the big bull moose are calling, and forests still as sepulchres with never trail or track; and valleys packed with purple gloom, and mountain peaks appalling, and i tell them of my cabin on the shore at fond du lac; and i find myself a-thinking: sure i wish that i was back. so i brag of bear and beaver while the batteries are roaring, and the fellows on the firing steps are blazing at the foe; and i yarn of fur and feather when the 'marmites' are a-soaring, and they listen to my stories, seven 'poilus' in a row, seven lean and lousy 'poilus' with their cigarettes aglow. and i tell them when it's over how i'll hike for athabaska; and those seven greasy 'poilus' they are crazy to go too. and i'll give the wife the "pickle-tub" i promised, and i'll ask her the price of mink and marten, and the run of cariboo, and i'll get my traps in order, and i'll start to work anew. for i've had my fill of fighting, and i've seen a nation scattered, and an army swung to slaughter, and a river red with gore, and a city all a-smoulder, and . . . as if it really mattered, for the lake is yonder dreaming, and my cabin's on the shore; and the dogs are leaping madly, and the wife is singing gladly, and i'll rest in athabaska, and i'll leave it nevermore. the red retreat _tramp, tramp, the grim road, the road from mons to wipers (i've 'ammered out this ditty with me bruised and bleedin' feet); tramp, tramp, the dim road--we didn't 'ave no pipers, and bellies that was 'oller was the drums we 'ad to beat. tramp, tramp, the bad road, the bits o' kiddies cryin' there, the fell birds a-flyin' there, the 'ouses all aflame; tramp, tramp, the sad road, the pals i left a-lyin' there, red there, and dead there. . . . oh blimy, it's a shame!_ a-singin' "'oo's yer lady friend?" we started out from 'arver, a-singin' till our froats was dry--we didn't care a 'ang; the frenchies 'ow they lined the way, and slung us their palaver, and all we knowed to arnser was the one word "vang"; they gave us booze and caporal, and cheered for us like crazy, and all the pretty gels was out to kiss us as we passed; and 'ow they all went dotty when we 'owled the marcelaisey! oh, gawd! them was the 'appy days, the days too good to last. we started out for god knows where, we started out a-roarin'; we 'ollered: "'ere we are again", and 'struth! but we was dry. the dust was gummin' up our ears, and 'ow the sweat was pourin'; the road was long, the sun was like a brazier in the sky. we wondered where the 'uns was--we wasn't long a-wonderin', for down a scruff of 'ill-side they rushes like a flood; then oh! 'twas music 'eavenly, our batteries a-thunderin', and arms and legs went soarin' in the fountain of their blood. for on they came like bee-swarms, a-hochin' and a-singin'; we pumped the bullets into 'em, we couldn't miss a shot. but though we mowed 'em down like grass, like grass was they a-springin', and all our 'ands was blistered, for our rifles was so 'ot. we roared with battle-fury, and we lammed the stuffin' out of 'em, and then we fixed our bay'nets and we spitted 'em like meat. you should 'ave 'eard the beggars squeal; you should 'ave seen the rout of 'em, and 'ow we cussed and wondered when the word came: retreat! retreat! that was the 'ell of it. it fair upset our 'abits, a-runnin' from them blighters over 'alf the roads of france; a-scurryin' before 'em like a lot of blurry rabbits, and knowin' we could smash 'em if we just 'ad 'alf a chance. retreat! that was the bitter bit, a-limpin' and a-blunderin'; all day and night a-hoofin' it and sleepin' on our feet; a-fightin' rear guard actions for a bit o' rest, and wonderin' if sugar beets or mangels was the 'olesomest to eat. ho yus, there isn't many left that started out so cheerily; there was no bands a-playin' and we 'ad no autmobeels. our tummies they was 'oller, and our 'eads was 'angin' wearily, and if we stopped to light a fag the 'uns was on our 'eels. that rotten road! i can't forget the kids and mothers flyin' there, the bits of barns a-blazin' and the 'orrid sights i sor; the stiffs that lined the wayside, me own pals a-lyin' there, their faces covered over wiv a little 'eap of stror. _tramp, tramp, the red road, the wicked bullets 'ummin' (i've panted out this ditty with me 'ot 'ard breath.) tramp, tramp, the dread road, the boches all a-comin', the lootin' and the shootin' and the shrieks o' death. tramp, tramp, the fell road, the mad 'orde pursuin' there, and 'ow we 'urled it back again, them grim, grey waves; tramp, tramp, the 'ell road, the 'orror and the ruin there, the graves of me mateys there, the grim, sour graves._ the haggis of private mcphee "hae ye heard whit ma auld mither's postit tae me? it fair maks me hamesick," says private mcphee. "and whit did she send ye?" says private mcphun, as he cockit his rifle and bleezed at a hun. "a haggis! a _haggis!_" says private mcphee; "the brawest big haggis i ever did see. and think! it's the morn when fond memory turns tae haggis and whuskey--the birthday o' burns. we maun find a dram; then we'll ca' in the rest o' the lads, and we'll hae a burns' nicht wi' the best." "be ready at sundoon," snapped sergeant mccole; "i want you two men for the list'nin' patrol." then private mcphee looked at private mcphun: "i'm thinkin', ma lad, we're confoundedly done." then private mcphun looked at private mcphee: "i'm thinkin' auld chap, it's a' aff wi' oor spree." but up spoke their crony, wee wullie mcnair: "jist lea' yer braw haggis for me tae prepare; and as for the dram, if i search the camp roun', we maun hae a drappie tae jist haud it doon. sae rin, lads, and think, though the nicht it be black, o' the haggis that's waitin' ye when ye get back." my! but it wis waesome on naebuddy's land, and the deid they were rottin' on every hand. and the rockets like corpse candles hauntit the sky, and the winds o' destruction went shudderin' by. there wis skelpin' o' bullets and skirlin' o' shells, and breengin' o' bombs and a thoosand death-knells; but cooryin' doon in a jack johnson hole little fashed the twa men o' the list'nin' patrol. for sweeter than honey and bricht as a gem wis the thocht o' the haggis that waitit for them. yet alas! in oor moments o' sunniest cheer calamity's aften maist cruelly near. and while the twa talked o' their puddin' divine the boches below them were howkin' a mine. and while the twa cracked o' the feast they would hae, the fuse it wis burnin' and burnin' away. then sudden a roar like the thunner o' doom, a hell-leap o' flame . . . then the wheesht o' the tomb. "haw, jock! are ye hurtit?" says private mcphun. "ay, geordie, they've got me; i'm fearin' i'm done. it's ma leg; i'm jist thinkin' it's aff at the knee; ye'd best gang and leave me," says private mcphee. "oh leave ye i wunna," says private mcphun; "and leave ye i canna, for though i micht run, it's no faur i wud gang, it's no muckle i'd see: i'm blindit, and that's whit's the maitter wi' me." then private mcphee sadly shakit his heid: "if we bide here for lang, we'll be bidin' for deid. and yet, geordie lad, i could gang weel content if i'd tasted that haggis ma auld mither sent." "that's droll," says mcphun; "ye've jist speakit ma mind. oh i ken it's a terrible thing tae be blind; and yet it's no that that embitters ma lot-- it's missin' that braw muckle haggis ye've got." for a while they were silent; then up once again spoke private mcphee, though he whussilt wi' pain: "and why should we miss it? between you and me we've legs for tae run, and we've eyes for tae see. you lend me your shanks and i'll lend you ma sicht, and we'll baith hae a kyte-fu' o' haggis the nicht." oh the sky it wis dourlike and dreepin' a wee, when private mcphun gruppit private mcphee. oh the glaur it wis fylin' and crieshin' the grun', when private mcphee guidit private mcphun. "keep clear o' them corpses--they're maybe no deid! haud on! there's a big muckle crater aheid. look oot! there's a sap; we'll be haein' a coup. a staur-shell! for godsake! doun, lad, on yer daup. bear aff tae yer richt. . . . aw yer jist daein' fine: before the nicht's feenished on haggis we'll dine." there wis death and destruction on every hand; there wis havoc and horror on naebuddy's land. and the shells bickered doun wi' a crump and a glare, and the hameless wee bullets were dingin' the air. yet on they went staggerin', cooryin' doun when the stutter and cluck o' a maxim crept roun'. and the legs o' mcphun they were sturdy and stoot, and mcphee on his back kept a bonnie look-oot. "on, on, ma brave lad! we're no faur frae the goal; i can hear the braw sweerin' o' sergeant mccole." but strength has its leemit, and private mcphun, wi' a sab and a curse fell his length on the grun'. then private mcphee shoutit doon in his ear: "jist think o' the haggis! i smell it from here. it's gushin' wi' juice, it's embaumin' the air; it's steamin' for us, and we're--jist--aboot--there." then private mcphun answers: "dommit, auld chap! for the sake o' that haggis i'll gang till i drap." and he gets on his feet wi' a heave and a strain, and onward he staggers in passion and pain. and the flare and the glare and the fury increase, till you'd think they'd jist taken a' hell on a lease. and on they go reelin' in peetifu' plight, and someone is shoutin' away on their right; and someone is runnin', and noo they can hear a sound like a prayer and a sound like a cheer; and swift through the crash and the flash and the din, the lads o' the hielands are bringin' them in. "they're baith sairly woundit, but is it no droll hoo they rave aboot haggis?" says sergeant mccole. when hirplin alang comes wee wullie mcnair, and they a' wonnert why he wis greetin' sae sair. and he says: "i'd jist liftit it oot o' the pot, and there it lay steamin' and savoury hot, when sudden i dooked at the fleech o' a shell, and it--_drapped on the haggis and dinged it tae hell._" and oh but the lads were fair taken aback; then sudden the order wis passed tae attack, and up from the trenches like lions they leapt, and on through the nicht like a torrent they swept. on, on, wi' their bayonets thirstin' before! on, on tae the foe wi' a rush and a roar! and wild to the welkin their battle-cry rang, and doon on the boches like tigers they sprang: and there wisna a man but had death in his ee, for he thocht o' the haggis o' private mcphee. the lark from wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn, the guns have brayed without abate; and now the sick sun looks upon the bleared, blood-boltered fields of hate as if it loathed to rise again. how strange the hush! yet sudden, hark! from yon down-trodden gold of grain, the leaping rapture of a lark. a fusillade of melody, that sprays us from yon trench of sky; a new amazing enemy we cannot silence though we try; a battery on radiant wings, that from yon gap of golden fleece hurls at us hopes of such strange things as joy and home and love and peace. pure heart of song! do you not know that we are making earth a hell? or is it that you try to show life still is joy and all is well? brave little wings! ah, not in vain you beat into that bit of blue: lo! we who pant in war's red rain lift shining eyes, see heaven too. the odyssey of 'erbert 'iggins me and ed and a stretcher out on the nootral ground. (if there's one dead corpse, i'll betcher there's a 'undred smellin' around.) me and eddie o'brian, both of the r. a. m. c. "it's a 'ell of a night for a soul to take flight," as eddie remarks to me. me and ed crawlin' 'omeward, thinkin' our job is done, when sudden and clear, wot do we 'ear: 'owl of a wounded 'un. "got to take 'im," snaps eddy; "got to take all we can. 'e may be a germ wiv the 'eart of a worm, but, blarst 'im! ain't 'e a man?" so 'e sloshes out fixin' a dressin' ('e'd always a medical knack), when that wounded 'un 'e rolls to 'is gun, and 'e plugs me pal in the back. now what would you do? i arst you. there was me slaughtered mate. there was that 'un (i'd collered 'is gun), a-snarlin' 'is 'ymn of 'ate. wot did i do? 'ere, whisper . . . 'e'd a shiny bald top to 'is 'ead, but when i got through, between me and you, it was 'orrid and jaggy and red. "'ang on like a limpet, eddy. thank gord! you ain't dead after all." it's slow and it's sure and it's steady (which is 'ard, for 'e's big and i'm small). the rockets are shootin' and shinin', it's rainin' a perishin' flood, the bullets are buzzin' and whinin', and i'm up to me stern in the mud. there's all kinds of 'owlin' and 'ootin'; it's black as a bucket of tar; oh, i'm doin' my bit, but i'm 'avin' a fit, and i wish i was 'ome wiv mar. "stick on like a plaster, eddy. old sport, you're a-slackin' your grip." gord! but i'm crocky already; my feet, 'ow they slither and slip! there goes the biff of a bullet. the boches have got us for fair. another one--_whut!_ the son of a slut! 'e managed to miss by a 'air. 'ow! wot was it jabbed at me shoulder? gave it a dooce of a wrench. is it eddy or me wot's a-bleedin' so free? crust! but it's long to the trench. i ain't just as strong as a sandow, and ed ain't a flapper by far; i'm blamed if i understand 'ow we've managed to get where we are. but 'ere's for a bit of a breather. "steady there, ed, 'arf a mo'. old pal, it's all right; it's a 'ell of a fight, but are we down-'earted? no-o-o." now war is a funny thing, ain't it? it's the rummiest sort of a go. for when it's most real, it's then that you feel you're a-watchin' a cinema show. 'ere's me wot's a barber's assistant. hey, presto! it's somewheres in france, and i'm 'ere in a pit where a coal-box 'as 'it, and it's all like a giddy romance. the ruddy quick-firers are spittin', the 'eavies are bellowin' 'ate, and 'ere i am cashooly sittin', and 'oldin' the 'ead of me mate. them gharstly green star-shells is beamin', 'ot shrapnel is poppin' like rain, and i'm sayin': "bert 'iggins, you're dreamin', and you'll wake up in 'ampstead again. you'll wake up and 'ear yourself sayin': 'would you like, sir, to 'ave a shampoo?' 'stead of sheddin' yer blood in the rain and the mud, which is some'ow the right thing to do; which is some'ow yer 'oary-eyed dooty, wot you're doin' the best wot you can, for 'ampstead and 'ome and beauty, and you've been and you've slaughtered a man. a feller wot punctured your partner; oh, you 'ammered 'im 'ard on the 'ead, and you still see 'is eyes starin' bang at the skies, and you ain't even sorry 'e's dead. but you wish you was back in your diggin's asleep on your mouldy old stror. oh, you're doin' yer bit, 'erbert 'iggins, but you ain't just enjoyin' the war." "'ang on like a hoctopus, eddy. it's us for the bomb-belt again. except for the shrap which 'as 'it me a tap, i'm feelin' as right as the rain. it's my silly old feet wot are slippin', it's as dark as a 'ogs'ead o' sin, but don't be oneasy, my pippin, i'm goin' to pilot you in. it's my silly old 'ead wot is reelin'. the bullets is buzzin' like bees. me shoulder's red-'ot, and i'm bleedin' a lot, and me legs is on'inged at the knees. but we're staggerin' nearer and nearer. just stick it, old sport, play the game. i make 'em out clearer and clearer, our trenches a-snappin' with flame. oh, we're stumblin' closer and closer. 'ang on there, lad! just one more try. did you say: put you down? damn it, no, sir! i'll carry you in if i die. by cracky! old feller, they've seen us. they're sendin' out stretchers for two. let's give 'em the hoorah between us ('anged lucky we aren't booked through). my flipper is mashed to a jelly. a bullet 'as tickled your spleen. we've shed lots of gore and we're leakin' some more, but--wot a hoccasion it's been! ho! 'ere comes the rescuin' party. they're crawlin' out cautious and slow. come! buck up and greet 'em, my 'earty, shoulder to shoulder--so. they mustn't think we was down-'earted. old pal, we was never down-'earted. if they arsts us if we was down-'earted we'll 'owl in their fyces: 'no-o-o!'" a song of winter weather it isn't the foe that we fear; it isn't the bullets that whine; it isn't the business career of a shell, or the bust of a mine; it isn't the snipers who seek to nip our young hopes in the bud: no, it isn't the guns, and it isn't the huns-- it's the mud, mud, mud. it isn't the melee we mind. that often is rather good fun. it isn't the shrapnel we find obtrusive when rained by the ton; it isn't the bounce of the bombs that gives us a positive pain: it's the strafing we get when the weather is wet-- it's the rain, rain, rain. it isn't because we lack grit we shrink from the horrors of war. we don't mind the battle a bit; in fact that is what we are for; it isn't the rum-jars and things make us wish we were back in the fold: it's the fingers that freeze in the boreal breeze-- it's the cold, cold, cold. oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold, the cold, the mud, and the rain; with weather at zero it's hard for a hero from language that's rude to refrain. with porridgy muck to the knees, with sky that's a-pouring a flood, sure the worst of our foes are the pains and the woes of the rain, the cold, and the mud. tipperary days oh, weren't they the fine boys! you never saw the beat of them, singing all together with their throats bronze-bare; fighting-fit and mirth-mad, music in the feet of them, swinging on to glory and the wrath out there. laughing by and chaffing by, frolic in the smiles of them, on the road, the white road, all the afternoon; strangers in a strange land, miles and miles and miles of them, battle-bound and heart-high, and singing this tune: _it's a long way to tipperary, it's a long way to go; it's a long way to tipperary, and the sweetest girl i know. good-bye, piccadilly, farewell, lester square: it's a long, long way to tipperary, but my heart's right there._ "come, yvonne and juliette! come, mimi, and cheer for them! throw them flowers and kisses as they pass you by. aren't they the lovely lads! haven't you a tear for them going out so gallantly to dare and die? what is it they're singing so? some high hymn of motherland? some immortal chanson of their faith and king? 'marseillaise' or 'brabanc,on', anthem of that other land, dears, let us remember it, that song they sing: _"c'est un chemin long 'to tepararee', c'est un chemin long, c'est vrai; c'est un chemin long 'to tepararee', et la belle fille qu'je connais. bonjour, peekadeely! au revoir, lestaire squaire! c'est un chemin long 'to tepararee', mais mon coeur 'ees zaire'."_ the gallant old "contemptibles"! there isn't much remains of them, so full of fun and fitness, and a-singing in their pride; for some are cold as clabber and the corby picks the brains of them, and some are back in blighty, and a-wishing they had died. and yet it seems but yesterday, that great, glad sight of them, swinging on to battle as the sky grew black and black; but oh their glee and glory, and the great, grim fight of them!-- just whistle tipperary and it all comes back: _it's a long way to tipperary (which means "'ome" anywhere); it's a long way to tipperary (and the things wot make you care). good-bye, piccadilly ('ow i 'opes my folks is well); it's a long, long way to tipperary-- ('r! ain't war just 'ell?)_ fleurette (the wounded canadian speaks) my leg? it's off at the knee. do i miss it? well, some. you see i've had it since i was born; and lately a devilish corn. (i rather chuckle with glee to think how i've fooled that corn.) but i'll hobble around all right. it isn't that, it's my face. oh i know i'm a hideous sight, hardly a thing in place; sort of gargoyle, you'd say. nurse won't give me a glass, but i see the folks as they pass shudder and turn away; turn away in distress . . . mirror enough, i guess. i'm gay! you bet i _am_ gay; but i wasn't a while ago. if you'd seen me even to-day, the darndest picture of woe, with this caliban mug of mine, so ravaged and raw and red, turned to the wall--in fine, wishing that i was dead. . . . what has happened since then, since i lay with my face to the wall, the most despairing of men? listen! i'll tell you all. that 'poilu' across the way, with the shrapnel wound in his head, has a sister: she came to-day to sit awhile by his bed. all morning i heard him fret: "oh, when will she come, fleurette?" then sudden, a joyous cry; the tripping of little feet; the softest, tenderest sigh; a voice so fresh and sweet; clear as a silver bell, fresh as the morning dews: "c'est toi, c'est toi, marcel! mon frêre, comme je suis heureuse!" so over the blanket's rim i raised my terrible face, and i saw--how i envied him! a girl of such delicate grace; sixteen, all laughter and love; as gay as a linnet, and yet as tenderly sweet as a dove; half woman, half child--fleurette. then i turned to the wall again. (i was awfully blue, you see), and i thought with a bitter pain: "such visions are not for me." so there like a log i lay, all hidden, i thought, from view, when sudden i heard her say: "ah! who is that 'malheureux'?" then briefly i heard him tell (however he came to know) how i'd smothered a bomb that fell into the trench, and so none of my men were hit, though it busted me up a bit. well, i didn't quiver an eye, and he chattered and there she sat; and i fancied i heard her sigh-- but i wouldn't just swear to that. and maybe she wasn't so bright, though she talked in a merry strain, and i closed my eyes ever so tight, yet i saw her ever so plain: her dear little tilted nose, her delicate, dimpled chin, her mouth like a budding rose, and the glistening pearls within; her eyes like the violet: such a rare little queen--fleurette. and at last when she rose to go, the light was a little dim, and i ventured to peep, and so i saw her, graceful and slim, and she kissed him and kissed him, and oh how i envied and envied him! so when she was gone i said in rather a dreary voice to him of the opposite bed: "ah, friend, how you must rejoice! but me, i'm a thing of dread. for me nevermore the bliss, the thrill of a woman's kiss." then i stopped, for lo! she was there, and a great light shone in her eyes. and me! i could only stare, i was taken so by surprise, when gently she bent her head: "may i kiss you, sergeant?" she said. then she kissed my burning lips with her mouth like a scented flower, and i thrilled to the finger-tips, and i hadn't even the power to say: "god bless you, dear!" and i felt such a precious tear fall on my withered cheek, and darn it! i couldn't speak. and so she went sadly away, and i knew that my eyes were wet. ah, not to my dying day will i forget, forget! can you wonder now i am gay? god bless her, that little fleurette! funk when your marrer bone seems 'oller, and you're glad you ain't no taller, and you're all a-shakin' like you 'ad the chills; when your skin creeps like a pullet's, and you're duckin' all the bullets, and you're green as gorgonzola round the gills; when your legs seem made of jelly, and you're squeamish in the belly, and you want to turn about and do a bunk: for gawd's sake, kid, don't show it! don't let your mateys know it-- you're just sufferin' from funk, funk, funk. of course there's no denyin' that it ain't so easy tryin' to grin and grip your rifle by the butt, when the 'ole world rips asunder, and you sees yer pal go under, as a bunch of shrapnel sprays 'im on the nut; i admit it's 'ard contrivin' when you 'ears the shells arrivin', to discover you're a bloomin' bit o' spunk; but, my lad, you've got to do it, and your god will see you through it, for wot 'e 'ates is funk, funk, funk. so stand up, son; look gritty, and just 'um a lively ditty, and only be afraid to be afraid; just 'old yer rifle steady, and 'ave yer bay'nit ready, for that's the way good soldier-men is made. and if you 'as to die, as it sometimes 'appens, why, far better die a 'ero than a skunk; a-doin' of yer bit, and so--to 'ell with it, there ain't no bloomin' funk, funk, funk. our hero "flowers, only flowers--bring me dainty posies, blossoms for forgetfulness," that was all he said; so we sacked our gardens, violets and roses, lilies white and bluebells laid we on his bed. soft his pale hands touched them, tenderly caressing; soft into his tired eyes came a little light; such a wistful love-look, gentle as a blessing; there amid the flowers waited he the night. "i would have you raise me; i can see the west then: i would see the sun set once before i go." so he lay a-gazing, seemed to be at rest then, quiet as a spirit in the golden glow. so he lay a-watching rosy castles crumbling, moats of blinding amber, bastions of flame, rugged rifts of opal, crimson turrets tumbling; so he lay a-dreaming till the shadows came. "open wide the window; there's a lark a-singing; there's a glad lark singing in the evening sky. how it's wild with rapture, radiantly winging: oh it's good to hear that when one has to die. i am horror-haunted from the hell they found me; i am battle-broken, all i want is rest. ah! it's good to die so, blossoms all around me, and a kind lark singing in the golden west. "flowers, song and sunshine, just one thing is wanting, just the happy laughter of a little child." so we brought our dearest, doris all-enchanting; tenderly he kissed her; radiant he smiled. "in the golden peace-time you will tell the story how for you and yours, sweet, bitter deaths were ours. . . . god bless little children!" so he passed to glory, so we left him sleeping, still amid the flow'rs. my mate i've been sittin' starin', starin' at 'is muddy pair of boots, and tryin' to convince meself it's 'im. (look out there, lad! that sniper--'e's a dysey when 'e shoots; 'e'll be layin' of you out the same as jim.) jim as lies there in the dug-out wiv 'is blanket round 'is 'ead, to keep 'is brains from mixin' wiv the mud; and 'is face as white as putty, and 'is overcoat all red, like 'e's spilt a bloomin' paint-pot--but it's blood. and i'm tryin' to remember of a time we wasn't pals. 'ow often we've played 'ookey, 'im and me; and sometimes it was music-'alls, and sometimes it was gals, and even there we 'ad no disagree. for when 'e copped mariar jones, the one i liked the best, i shook 'is 'and and loaned 'im 'arf a quid; i saw 'im through the parson's job, i 'elped 'im make 'is nest, i even stood god-farther to the kid. so when the war broke out, sez 'e: "well, wot abaht it, joe?" "well, wot abaht it, lad?" sez i to 'im. 'is missis made a awful fuss, but 'e was mad to go, ('e always was 'igh-sperrited was jim). well, none of it's been 'eaven, and the most of it's been 'ell, but we've shared our baccy, and we've 'alved our bread. we'd all the luck at wipers, and we shaved through noove chapelle, and . . . that snipin' barstard gits 'im on the 'ead. now wot i wants to know is, why it wasn't me was took? i've only got meself, 'e stands for three. i'm plainer than a louse, while 'e was 'andsome as a dook; 'e always _was_ a better man than me. 'e was goin' 'ome next toosday; 'e was 'appy as a lark, and 'e'd just received a letter from 'is kid; and 'e struck a match to show me, as we stood there in the dark, when . . . that bleedin' bullet got 'im on the lid. 'e was killed so awful sudden that 'e 'adn't time to die. 'e sorto jumped, and came down wiv a thud. them corpsy-lookin' star-shells kept a-streamin' in the sky, and there 'e lay like nothin' in the mud. and there 'e lay so quiet wiv no mansard to 'is 'ead, and i'm sick, and blamed if i can understand: the pots of 'alf and 'alf we've 'ad, and _zip!_ like that--'e's dead, wiv the letter of 'is nipper in 'is 'and. there's some as fights for freedom and there's some as fights for fun, but me, my lad, i fights for bleedin' 'ate. you can blame the war and blast it, but i 'opes it won't be done till i gets the bloomin' blood-price for me mate. it'll take a bit o' bayonet to level up for jim; then if i'm spared i think i'll 'ave a bid, wiv 'er that was mariar jones to take the place of 'im, to sorter be a farther to 'is kid. milking time there's a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane; there's old martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain; there are cherry petals falling, and a cuckoo calling, calling, and a score of larks (god bless 'em) . . . but it's all pain, pain. for you see i am not really there at all, not at all; for you see i'm in the trenches where the crump-crumps fall; and the bits o' shells are screaming and it's only blessed dreaming that in fancy i am seeming back in old saint pol. oh i've thought of it so often since i've come down here; and i never dreamt that any place could be so dear; the silvered whinstone houses, and the rosy men in blouses, and the kindly, white-capped women with their eyes spring-clear. and mother's sitting knitting where her roses climb, and the angelus is calling with a soft, soft chime, and the sea-wind comes caressing, and the light's a golden blessing, and yvonne, yvonne is guessing that it's milking time. oh it's sunday, for she's wearing of her broidered gown; and she draws the pasture pickets and the cows come down; and their feet are powdered yellow, and their voices honey-mellow, and they bring a scent of clover, and their eyes are brown. and yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue; and her lips are made for laughter, and her white teeth too; and her mouth is like a cherry, and a dimple mocking merry is lurking in the very cheek she turns to you. so i walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me; and i heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree; and a golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling, and a thousand birds are telling how it's good to be. and what are pouting lips for if they can't be kissed? and i've filled her arms with blossom so she can't resist; and the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be saying that yvonne is long delaying . . . _god! how close that missed!_ a nice polite reminder that the boche are nigh; that we're here to fight like devils, and if need-be die; that from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benches of the battered, tattered trenches is a far, far cry. yet still i'm sitting dreaming in the glare and grime; and once again i'm hearing of them church-bells chime; and how i wonder whether in the golden summer weather we will fetch the cows together when it's milking time. . . . (english voice, months later):-- "_ow bill! a rottin' frenchy. whew! 'e ain't 'arf prime._" young fellow my lad "where are you going, young fellow my lad, on this glittering morn of may?" "i'm going to join the colours, dad; they're looking for men, they say." "but you're only a boy, young fellow my lad; you aren't obliged to go." "i'm seventeen and a quarter, dad, and ever so strong, you know." . . . . . "so you're off to france, young fellow my lad, and you're looking so fit and bright." "i'm terribly sorry to leave you, dad, but i feel that i'm doing right." "god bless you and keep you, young fellow my lad, you're all of my life, you know." "don't worry. i'll soon be back, dear dad, and i'm awfully proud to go." . . . . . "why don't you write, young fellow my lad? i watch for the post each day; and i miss you so, and i'm awfully sad, and it's months since you went away. and i've had the fire in the parlour lit, and i'm keeping it burning bright till my boy comes home; and here i sit into the quiet night." . . . . . "what is the matter, young fellow my lad? no letter again to-day. why did the postman look so sad, and sigh as he turned away? i hear them tell that we've gained new ground, but a terrible price we've paid: god grant, my boy, that you're safe and sound; but oh i'm afraid, afraid." . . . . . "they've told me the truth, young fellow my lad: you'll never come back again: _(oh god! the dreams and the dreams i've had, and the hopes i've nursed in vain!)_ for you passed in the night, young fellow my lad, and you proved in the cruel test of the screaming shell and the battle hell that my boy was one of the best. "so you'll live, you'll live, young fellow my lad, in the gleam of the evening star, in the wood-note wild and the laugh of the child, in all sweet things that are. and you'll never die, my wonderful boy, while life is noble and true; for all our beauty and hope and joy we will owe to our lads like you." a song of the sandbags no, bill, i'm not a-spooning out no patriotic tosh (the cove be'ind the sandbags ain't a death-or-glory cuss). and though i strafes 'em good and 'ard i doesn't 'ate the boche, i guess they're mostly decent, just the same as most of us. i guess they loves their 'omes and kids as much as you or me; and just the same as you or me they'd rather shake than fight; and if we'd 'appened to be born at berlin-on-the-spree, we'd be out there with 'ans and fritz, dead sure that we was right. a-standin' up to the sandbags it's funny the thoughts wot come; starin' into the darkness, 'earin' the bullets 'um; _(zing! zip! ping! rip! 'ark 'ow the bullets 'um!)_ a-leanin' against the sandbags wiv me rifle under me ear, oh, i've 'ad more thoughts on a sentry-go than i used to 'ave in a year. i wonder, bill, if 'ans and fritz is wonderin' like me wot's at the bottom of it all? wot all the slaughter's for? 'e thinks 'e's right (of course 'e ain't) but this we both agree, if them as made it 'ad to fight, there wouldn't be no war. if them as lies in feather beds while we kips in the mud; if them as makes their fortoons while we fights for 'em like 'ell; if them as slings their pot of ink just 'ad to sling their blood: by crust! i'm thinkin' there 'ud be another tale to tell. shiverin' up to the sandbags, with a hicicle 'stead of a spine, don't it seem funny the things you think 'ere in the firin' line: _(whee! whut! ziz! zut! lord! 'ow the bullets whine!)_ hunkerin' down when a star-shell cracks in a sputter of light, you can jaw to yer soul by the sandbags most any old time o' night. they talks o' england's glory and a-'oldin' of our trade, of empire and 'igh destiny until we're fair flim-flammed; but if it's for the likes o' that that bloody war is made, then wot i say is: empire and 'igh destiny be damned! there's only one good cause, bill, for poor blokes like us to fight: that's self-defence, for 'earth and 'ome, and them that bears our name; and that's wot i'm a-doin' by the sandbags 'ere to-night. . . . but fritz out there will tell you 'e's a-doin' of the same. starin' over the sandbags, sick of the 'ole damn thing; firin' to keep meself awake, 'earin' the bullets sing. _(hiss! twang! tsing! pang! saucy the bullets sing.)_ dreamin' 'ere by the sandbags of a day when war will cease, when 'ans and fritz and bill and me will clink our mugs in fraternity, and the brotherhood of labour will be the brotherhood of peace. on the wire o god, take the sun from the sky! it's burning me, scorching me up. god, can't you hear my cry? 'water! a poor, little cup!' it's laughing, the cursed sun! see how it swells and swells fierce as a hundred hells! god, will it never have done? it's searing the flesh on my bones; it's beating with hammers red my eyeballs into my head; it's parching my very moans. see! it's the size of the sky, and the sky is a torrent of fire, foaming on me as i lie here on the wire . . . the wire. . . . of the thousands that wheeze and hum heedlessly over my head, why can't a bullet come, pierce to my brain instead, blacken forever my brain, finish forever my pain? here in the hellish glare why must i suffer so? is it god doesn't care? is it god doesn't know? oh, to be killed outright, clean in the clash of the fight! that is a golden death, that is a boon; but this . . . drawing an anguished breath under a hot abyss, under a stooping sky of seething, sulphurous fire, scorching me up as i lie here on the wire . . . the wire. . . . hasten, o god, thy night! hide from my eyes the sight of the body i stare and see shattered so hideously. i can't believe that it's mine. my body was white and sweet, flawless and fair and fine, shapely from head to feet; oh no, i can never be the thing of horror i see under the rifle fire, trussed on the wire . . . the wire. . . . of night and of death i dream; night that will bring me peace, coolness and starry gleam, stillness and death's release: ages and ages have passed,-- lo! it is night at last. night! but the guns roar out. night! but the hosts attack. red and yellow and black geysers of doom upspout. silver and green and red star-shells hover and spread. yonder off to the right fiercely kindles the fight; roaring near and more near, thundering now in my ear; close to me, close . . . oh, hark! someone moans in the dark. i hear, but i cannot see, i hear as the rest retire, someone is caught like me, caught on the wire . . . the wire. . . . again the shuddering dawn, weird and wicked and wan; again, and i've not yet gone. the man whom i heard is dead. now i can understand: a bullet hole in his head, a pistol gripped in his hand. well, he knew what to do,-- yes, and now i know too. . . . hark the resentful guns! oh, how thankful am i to think my beloved ones will never know how i die! i've suffered more than my share; i'm shattered beyond repair; i've fought like a man the fight, and now i demand the right (god! how his fingers cling!) to do without shame this thing. good! there's a bullet still; now i'm ready to fire; blame me, god, if you will, here on the wire . . . the wire. . . . bill's grave i'm gatherin' flowers by the wayside to lay on the grave of bill; i've sneaked away from the billet, 'cause jim wouldn't understand; 'e'd call me a silly fat'ead, and larf till it made 'im ill, to see me 'ere in the cornfield, wiv a big bookay in me 'and. for jim and me we are rough uns, but bill was one o' the best; we 'listed and learned together to larf at the wust wot comes; then bill copped a packet proper, and took 'is departure west, so sudden 'e 'adn't a minit to say good-bye to 'is chums. and they took me to where 'e was planted, a sort of a measly mound, and, thinks i, 'ow bill would be tickled, bein' so soft and queer, if i gathered a bunch o' them wild-flowers, and sort of arranged them round like a kind of a bloody headpiece . . . and that's the reason i'm 'ere. but not for the love of glory i wouldn't 'ave jim to know. 'e'd call me a slobberin' cissy, and larf till 'is sides was sore; i'd 'ave larfed at meself too, it isn't so long ago; but some'ow it changes a feller, 'avin' a taste o' war. it 'elps a man to be 'elpful, to know wot 'is pals is worth (them golden poppies is blazin' like lamps some fairy 'as lit); i'm fond o' them big white dysies. . . . now jim's o' the salt o' the earth; but 'e 'as got a tongue wot's a terror, and 'e ain't sentimental a bit. i likes them blue chaps wot's 'idin' so shylike among the corn. won't bill be glad! we was allus thicker 'n thieves, us three. why! 'oo's that singin' so 'earty? _jim!_ and as sure as i'm born 'e's there in the giddy cornfields, a-gatherin' flowers like me. quick! drop me posy be'ind me. i watches 'im for a while, then i says: "wot 'o, there, chummy! wot price the little bookay?" and 'e starts like a bloke wot's guilty, and 'e says with a sheepish smile: "she's a bit of orl right, the widder wot keeps the estaminay." so 'e goes away in a 'urry, and i wishes 'im best o' luck, and i picks up me bunch o' wild-flowers, and the light's gettin' sorto dim, when i makes me way to the boneyard, and . . . i stares like a man wot's stuck, for wot do i see? _bill's grave-mound strewn with the flowers of jim._ of course i won't never tell 'im, bein' a tactical lad; and jim parley-voos to the widder: "trez beans, lamoor; compree?" oh, 'e'd die of shame if 'e knew i knew; but say! won't bill be glad when 'e stares through the bleedin' clods and sees the blossoms of jim and me? jean desprez oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to war's romance, hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of france; a lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came, could feel within his soul upleap and soar the sacred flame; could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes may: oh, harken! let me try to tell the tale of jean desprez. with fire and sword the teuton horde was ravaging the land, and there was darkness and despair, grim death on every hand; red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin's black abyss; the wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss. and on they came with fear and flame, to burn and loot and slay, until they reached the red-roofed croft, the home of jean desprez. "rout out the village, one and all!" the uhlan captain said. "behold! some hand has fired a shot. my trumpeter is dead. now shall they prussian vengeance know; now shall they rue the day, for by this sacred german slain, ten of these dogs shall pay." they drove the cowering peasants forth, women and babes and men, and from the last, with many a jeer, the captain chose he ten; ten simple peasants, bowed with toil; they stood, they knew not why, against the grey wall of the church, hearing their children cry; hearing their wives and mothers wail, with faces dazed they stood. a moment only. . . . _ready! fire!_ they weltered in their blood. but there was one who gazed unseen, who heard the frenzied cries, who saw these men in sabots fall before their children's eyes; a zouave wounded in a ditch, and knowing death was nigh, he laughed with joy: "ah! here is where i settle ere i die." he clutched his rifle once again, and long he aimed and well. . . . a shot! beside his victims ten the uhlan captain fell. they dragged the wounded zouave out; their rage was like a flame. with bayonets they pinned him down, until their major came. a blonde, full-blooded man he was, and arrogant of eye; he stared to see with shattered skull his favourite captain lie. "nay, do not finish him so quick, this foreign swine," he cried; "go nail him to the big church door: he shall be crucified." with bayonets through hands and feet they nailed the zouave there, and there was anguish in his eyes, and horror in his stare; "water! a single drop!" he moaned; but how they jeered at him, and mocked him with an empty cup, and saw his sight grow dim; and as in agony of death with blood his lips were wet, the prussian major gaily laughed, and lit a cigarette. but mid the white-faced villagers who cowered in horror by, was one who saw the woeful sight, who heard the woeful cry: "water! one little drop, i beg! for love of christ who died. . . ." it was the little jean desprez who turned and stole aside; it was the little bare-foot boy who came with cup abrim and walked up to the dying man, and gave the drink to him. a roar of rage! they seize the boy; they tear him fast away. the prussian major swings around; no longer is he gay. his teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all dark with spite: "go, shoot the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our prussian might. yet stay! i have another thought. i'll kindly be, and spare; quick! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him squarely there, and bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. haste! make him understand the dying dog he fain would save shall perish by his hand. and all his kindred they shall see, and all shall curse his name, who bought his life at such a cost, the price of death and shame." they brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand; they stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand. "make haste!" said they; "the time is short, and you must kill or die." the major puffed his cigarette, amusement in his eye. and then the dying zouave heard, and raised his weary head: "shoot, son, 'twill be the best for both; shoot swift and straight," he said. "fire first and last, and do not flinch; for lost to hope am i; and i will murmur: _vive la france!_ and bless you ere i die." half-blind with blows the boy stood there; he seemed to swoon and sway; then in that moment woke the soul of little jean desprez. he saw the woods go sheening down; the larks were singing clear; and oh! the scents and sounds of spring, how sweet they were! how dear! he felt the scent of new-mown hay, a soft breeze fanned his brow; o god! the paths of peace and toil! how precious were they now! the summer days and summer ways, how bright with hope and bliss! the autumn such a dream of gold . . . and all must end in this: this shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all around; the zouave there with dying glare; the blood upon the ground; the brutal faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame; that prussian bully standing by, as if he watched a game. "make haste and shoot," the major sneered; "a minute more i give; a minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself would live." they only saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and twitching face; they did not see within his eyes the glory of his race; the glory of a million men who for fair france have died, the splendour of self-sacrifice that will not be denied. yet . . . he was but a peasant lad, and oh! but life was sweet. . . . "your minute's nearly gone, my lad," he heard a voice repeat. "shoot! shoot!" the dying zouave moaned; "shoot! shoot!" the soldiers said. then jean desprez reached out and shot . . . _the prussian major dead!_ going home i'm goin' 'ome to blighty--ain't i glad to 'ave the chance! i'm loaded up wiv fightin', and i've 'ad my fill o' france; i'm feelin' so excited-like, i want to sing and dance, for i'm goin' 'ome to blighty in the mawnin'. i'm goin' 'ome to blighty: can you wonder as i'm gay? i've got a wound i wouldn't sell for 'alf a year o' pay; a harm that's mashed to jelly in the nicest sort o' way, for it takes me 'ome to blighty in the mawnin'. 'ow everlastin' keen i was on gettin' to the front! i'd ginger for a dozen, and i 'elped to bear the brunt; but cheese and crust! i'm crazy, now i've done me little stunt, to sniff the air of blighty in the mawnin'. i've looked upon the wine that's white, and on the wine that's red; i've looked on cider flowin', till it fairly turned me 'ead; but oh, the finest scoff will be, when all is done and said, a pint o' bass in blighty in the mawnin'. i'm goin' back to blighty, which i left to strafe the 'un; i've fought in bloody battles, and i've 'ad a 'eap of fun; but now me flipper's busted, and i think me dooty's done, and i'll kiss me gel in blighty in the mawnin'. oh, there be furrin' lands to see, and some of 'em be fine; and there be furrin' gels to kiss, and scented furrin' wine; but there's no land like england, and no other gel like mine: thank gawd for dear old blighty in the mawnin'. cocotte when a girl's sixteen, and as poor as she's pretty, and she hasn't a friend and she hasn't a home, heigh-ho! she's as safe in paris city as a lamb night-strayed where the wild wolves roam; and that was i; oh, it's seven years now (some water's run down the seine since then), and i've almost forgotten the pangs and the tears now, and i've almost taken the measure of men. oh, i found me a lover who loved me only, artist and poet, and almost a boy. and my heart was bruised, and my life was lonely, and him i adored with a wonderful joy. if he'd come to me with his pockets empty, how we'd have laughed in a garret gay! but he was rich, and in radiant plenty we lived in a villa at viroflay. then came the war, and of bliss bereft me; then came the call, and he went away; all that he had in the world he left me, with the rose-wreathed villa at viroflay. then came the news and the tragic story: my hero, my splendid lover was dead, sword in hand on the field of glory, and he died with my name on his lips, they said. so here am i in my widow's mourning, the weeds i've really no right to wear; and women fix me with eyes of scorning, call me "cocotte", but i do not care. and men look at me with eyes that borrow the brightness of love, but i turn away; alone, say i, i will live with sorrow, in my little villa at viroflay. and lo! i'm living alone with 'pity', and they say that pity from love's not far; let me tell you all: last week in the city i took the metro at saint lazare; and the carriage was crowded to overflowing, and when there entered at chateaudun two wounded 'poilus' with medals showing, i eagerly gave my seat to one. you should have seen them: they'd slipped death's clutches, but sadder a sight you will rarely find; one had a leg off and walked on crutches, the other, a bit of a boy, was blind. and they both sat down, and the lad was trying to grope his way as a blind man tries; and half of the women around were crying, and some of the men had tears in their eyes. how he stirred me, this blind boy, clinging just like a child to his crippled chum. but i did not cry. oh no; a singing came to my heart for a year so dumb, then i knew that at three-and-twenty there is wonderful work to be done, comfort and kindness and joy in plenty, peace and light and love to be won. oh, thought i, could mine eyes be given to one who will live in the dark alway! to love and to serve--'twould make life heaven here in my villa at viroflay. so i left my 'poilus': and now you wonder why to-day i am so elate. . . . look! in the glory of sunshine yonder they're bringing my blind boy in at the gate. my bay'nit when first i left blighty they gave me a bay'nit and told me it 'ad to be smothered wiv gore; but blimey! i 'aven't been able to stain it, so far as i've gone wiv the vintage of war. for ain't it a fraud! when a boche and yours truly gits into a mix in the grit and the grime, 'e jerks up 'is 'ands wiv a yell and 'e's duly part of me outfit every time. left, right, hans and fritz! goose step, keep up yer mits! oh my, ain't it a shyme! part of me outfit every time. at toasting a biscuit me bay'nit's a dandy; i've used it to open a bully beef can; for pokin' the fire it comes in werry 'andy; for any old thing but for stickin' a man. 'ow often i've said: "'ere, i'm goin' to press you into a 'un till you're seasoned for prime," and fiercely i rushes to do it, but bless you! part of me outfit every time. lor, yus; _don't_ they look glad? right o! 'owl kamerad! oh my, always the syme! part of me outfit every time. i'm 'untin' for someone to christen me bay'nit, some nice juicy chewton wot's fightin' in france; i'm fairly down-'earted--'ow _can_ yer explain it? i keeps gettin' prisoners every chance. as soon as they sees me they ups and surrenders, extended like monkeys wot's tryin' to climb; and i uses me bay'nit--to slit their suspenders-- part of me outfit every time. four 'uns; lor, wot a bag! 'ere, fritz, sample a fag! oh my, ain't it a gyme! part of me outfit every time. carry on! it's easy to fight when everything's right, and you're mad with the thrill and the glory; it's easy to cheer when victory's near, and wallow in fields that are gory. it's a different song when everything's wrong, when you're feeling infernally mortal; when it's ten against one, and hope there is none, buck up, little soldier, and chortle: carry on! carry on! there isn't much punch in your blow. you're glaring and staring and hitting out blind; you're muddy and bloody, but never you mind. carry on! carry on! you haven't the ghost of a show. it's looking like death, but while you've a breath, carry on, my son! carry on! and so in the strife of the battle of life it's easy to fight when you're winning; it's easy to slave, and starve and be brave, when the dawn of success is beginning. but the man who can meet despair and defeat with a cheer, there's the man of god's choosing; the man who can fight to heaven's own height is the man who can fight when he's losing. carry on! carry on! things never were looming so black. but show that you haven't a cowardly streak, and though you're unlucky you never are weak. carry on! carry on! brace up for another attack. it's looking like hell, but--you never can tell: carry on, old man! carry on! there are some who drift out in the deserts of doubt, and some who in brutishness wallow; there are others, i know, who in piety go because of a heaven to follow. but to labour with zest, and to give of your best, for the sweetness and joy of the giving; to help folks along with a hand and a song; why, there's the real sunshine of living. carry on! carry on! fight the good fight and true; believe in your mission, greet life with a cheer; there's big work to do, and that's why you are here. carry on! carry on! let the world be the better for you; and at last when you die, let this be your cry: _carry on, my soul! carry on!_ over the parapet all day long when the shells sail over i stand at the sandbags and take my chance; but at night, at night i'm a reckless rover, and over the parapet gleams romance. romance! romance! how i've dreamed it, writing dreary old records of money and mart, me with my head chuckful of fighting and the blood of vikings to thrill my heart. but little i thought that my time was coming, sudden and splendid, supreme and soon; and here i am with the bullets humming as i crawl and i curse the light of the moon. out alone, for adventure thirsting, out in mysterious no man's land; prone with the dead when a star-shell, bursting, flares on the horrors on every hand. there are ruby stars and they drip and wiggle; and the grasses gleam in a light blood-red; there are emerald stars, and their tails they wriggle, and ghastly they glare on the face of the dead. but the worst of all are the stars of whiteness, that spill in a pool of pearly flame, pretty as gems in their silver brightness, and etching a man for a bullet's aim. yet oh, it's great to be here with danger, here in the weird, death-pregnant dark, in the devil's pasture a stealthy ranger, when the moon is decently hiding. hark! what was that? was it just the shiver of an eerie wind or a clammy hand? the rustle of grass, or the passing quiver of one of the ghosts of no man's land? it's only at night when the ghosts awaken, and gibber and whisper horrible things; for to every foot of this god-forsaken zone of jeopard some horror clings. ugh! what was that? it felt like a jelly, that flattish mound in the noisome grass; you three big rats running free of its belly, out of my way and let me pass! but if there's horror, there's beauty, wonder; the trench lights gleam and the rockets play. that flood of magnificent orange yonder is a battery blazing miles away. with a rush and a singing a great shell passes; the rifles resentfully bicker and brawl, and here i crouch in the dew-drenched grasses, and look and listen and love it all. god! what a life! but i must make haste now, before the shadow of night be spent. it's little the time there is to waste now, if i'd do the job for which i was sent. my bombs are right and my clippers ready, and i wriggle out to the chosen place, when i hear a rustle . . . steady! . . . steady! who am i staring slap in the face? there in the dark i can hear him breathing, a foot away, and as still as death; and my heart beats hard, and my brain is seething, and i know he's a hun by the smell of his breath. then: "will you surrender?" i whisper hoarsely, for it's death, swift death to utter a cry. "english schwein-hund!" he murmurs coarsely. "then we'll fight it out in the dark," say i. so we grip and we slip and we trip and wrestle there in the gutter of no man's land; and i feel my nails in his wind-pipe nestle, and he tries to gouge, but i bite his hand. and he tries to squeal, but i squeeze him tighter: "now," i say, "i can kill you fine; but tell me first, you teutonic blighter! have you any children?" he answers: "nein." _nine!_ well, i cannot kill such a father, so i tie his hands and i leave him there. do i finish my little job? well, rather; and i get home safe with some light to spare. heigh-ho! by day it's just prosy duty, doing the same old song and dance; but oh! with the night--joy, glory, beauty: over the parapet--life, romance! the ballad of soulful sam you want me to tell you a story, a yarn of the firin' line, of our thin red kharki 'eroes, out there where the bullets whine; out there where the bombs are bustin', and the cannons like 'ell-doors slam-- just order another drink, boys, and i'll tell you of soulful sam. oh, sam, he was never 'ilarious, though i've 'ad some mates as was wus; he 'adn't c. b. on his programme, he never was known to cuss. for a card or a skirt or a beer-mug he 'adn't a friendly word; but when it came down to scriptures, say! wasn't he just a bird! he always 'ad tracts in his pocket, the which he would haste to present, and though the fellers would use them in ways that they never was meant, i used to read 'em religious, and frequent i've been impressed by some of them bundles of 'oly dope he carried around in his vest. for i--and oh, 'ow i shudder at the 'orror the word conveys! 'ave been--let me whisper it 'oarsely--a gambler 'alf of me days; a gambler, you 'ear--a gambler. it makes me wishful to weep, and yet 'ow it's true, my brethren!--i'd rather gamble than sleep. i've gambled the 'ole world over, from monte carlo to maine; from dawson city to dover, from san francisco to spain. cards! they 'ave been me ruin. they've taken me pride and me pelf, and when i'd no one to play with--why, i'd go and i'd play by meself. and sam 'e would sit and watch me, as i shuffled a greasy deck, and 'e'd say: "you're bound to perdition," and i'd answer: "git off me neck!" and that's 'ow we came to get friendly, though built on a different plan, me wot's a desprite gambler, 'im sich a good young man. but on to me tale. just imagine . . . darkness! the battle-front! the furious 'uns attackin'! us ones a-bearin' the brunt! me crouchin' be'ind a sandbag, tryin' 'ard to keep calm, when i 'ears someone singin' a 'ymn toon; be'old! it is soulful sam. yes; right in the crash of the combat, in the fury of flash and flame, 'e was shootin' and singin' serenely as if 'e enjoyed the same. and there in the 'eat of the battle, as the 'ordes of demons attacked, he dipped down into 'is tunic, and 'e 'anded me out a tract. then a star-shell flared, and i read it: oh, flee from the wrath to come! nice cheerful subject, i tell yer, when you're 'earin' the bullets 'um. and before i 'ad time to thank 'im, just one of them bits of lead comes slingin' along in a 'urry, and it 'its my partner. . . . dead? no, siree! not by a long sight! for it plugged 'im 'ard on the chest, just where 'e'd tracts for a army corps stowed away in 'is vest. on its mission of death that bullet 'ustled along, and it caved a 'ole in them tracts to 'is 'ide, boys--but the life o' me pal was saved. and there as 'e showed me in triumph, and 'orror was chokin' me breath, on came another bullet on its 'orrible mission of death; on through the night it cavorted, seekin' its 'aven of rest, and it zipped through a crack in the sandbags, and it wolloped me bang on the breast. was i killed, do you ask? oh no, boys. why am i sittin' 'ere gazin' with mournful vision at a mug long empty of beer? with a throat as dry as a--oh, thanky! i don't much mind if i do. beer with a dash of 'ollands, that's my particular brew. yes, that was a terrible moment. it 'ammered me 'ard o'er the 'eart; it bowled me down like a nine-pin, and i looked for the gore to start; and i saw in the flash of a moment, in that thunder of hate and strife, me wretched past like a pitchur--the sins of a gambler's life. for i 'ad no tracts to save me, to thwart that mad missile's doom; i 'ad no pious pamphlets to 'elp me to cheat the tomb; i 'ad no 'oly leaflets to baffle a bullet's aim; i'd only--a deck of cards, boys, but . . . _it seemed to do just the same._ only a boche we brought him in from between the lines: we'd better have let him lie; for what's the use of risking one's skin for a _tyke_ that's going to die? what's the use of tearing him loose under a gruelling fire, when he's shot in the head, and worse than dead, and all messed up on the wire? however, i say, we brought him in. _diable!_ the mud was bad; the trench was crooked and greasy and high, and oh, what a time we had! and often we slipped, and often we tripped, but never he made a moan; and how we were wet with blood and with sweat! but we carried him in like our own. now there he lies in the dug-out dim, awaiting the ambulance, and the doctor shrugs his shoulders at him, and remarks, "he hasn't a chance." and we squat and smoke at our game of bridge on the glistening, straw-packed floor, and above our oaths we can hear his breath deep-drawn in a kind of snore. for the dressing station is long and low, and the candles gutter dim, and the mean light falls on the cold clay walls and our faces bristly and grim; and we flap our cards on the lousy straw, and we laugh and jibe as we play, and you'd never know that the cursed foe was less than a mile away. as we con our cards in the rancid gloom, oppressed by that snoring breath, you'd never dream that our broad roof-beam was swept by the broom of death. heigh-ho! my turn for the dummy hand; i rise and i stretch a bit; the fetid air is making me yawn, and my cigarette's unlit, so i go to the nearest candle flame, and the man we brought is there, and his face is white in the shabby light, and i stand at his feet and stare. stand for a while, and quietly stare: for strange though it seems to be, the dying boche on the stretcher there has a queer resemblance to me. it gives one a kind of a turn, you know, to come on a thing like that. it's just as if i were lying there, with a turban of blood for a hat, lying there in a coat grey-green instead of a coat grey-blue, with one of my eyes all shot away, and my brain half tumbling through; lying there with a chest that heaves like a bellows up and down, and a cheek as white as snow on a grave, and lips that are coffee brown. and confound him, too! he wears, like me, on his finger a wedding ring, and around his neck, as around my own, by a greasy bit of string, a locket hangs with a woman's face, and i turn it about to see: just as i thought . . . on the other side the faces of children three; clustered together cherub-like, three little laughing girls, with the usual tiny rosebud mouths and the usual silken curls. "zut!" i say. "he has beaten me; for me, i have only two," and i push the locket beneath his shirt, feeling a little blue. oh, it isn't cheerful to see a man, the marvellous work of god, crushed in the mutilation mill, crushed to a smeary clod; oh, it isn't cheerful to hear him moan; but it isn't that i mind, it isn't the anguish that goes with him, it's the anguish he leaves behind. for his going opens a tragic door that gives on a world of pain, and the death he dies, those who live and love, will die again and again. so here i am at my cards once more, but it's kind of spoiling my play, thinking of those three brats of his so many a mile away. war is war, and he's only a boche, and we all of us take our chance; but all the same i'll be mighty glad when i'm hearing the ambulance. one foe the less, but all the same i'm heartily glad i'm not the man who gave him his broken head, the sniper who fired the shot. no trumps you make it, i think you said? you'll pardon me if i err; for a moment i thought of other things . . . _mon dieu! quelle vache de guerre._ pilgrims for oh, when the war will be over we'll go and we'll look for our dead; we'll go when the bee's on the clover, and the plume of the poppy is red: we'll go when the year's at its gayest, when meadows are laughing with flow'rs; and there where the crosses are greyest, we'll seek for the cross that is ours. for they cry to us: 'friends, we are lonely, a-weary the night and the day; but come in the blossom-time only, come when our graves will be gay: when daffodils all are a-blowing, and larks are a-thrilling the skies, oh, come with the hearts of you glowing, and the joy of the spring in your eyes. 'but never, oh, never come sighing, for ours was the splendid release; and oh, but 'twas joy in the dying to know we were winning you peace! so come when the valleys are sheening, and fledged with the promise of grain; and here where our graves will be greening, just smile and be happy again.' and so, when the war will be over, we'll seek for the wonderful one; and maiden will look for her lover, and mother will look for her son; and there will be end to our grieving, and gladness will gleam over loss, as--glory beyond all believing! we point . . . to a name on a cross. my prisoner we was in a crump-'ole, 'im and me; fightin' wiv our bayonets was we; fightin' 'ard as 'ell we was, fightin' fierce as fire because it was 'im or me as must be downed; 'e was twice as big as me; i was 'arf the weight of 'e; we was like a terryer and a 'ound. 'struth! but 'e was sich a 'andsome bloke. me, i'm 'andsome as a chunk o' coke. did i give it 'im? not 'arf! why, it fairly made me laugh, 'cos 'is bloomin' bellows wasn't sound. couldn't fight for monkey nuts. soon i gets 'im in the guts, there 'e lies a-floppin' on the ground. in i goes to finish up the job. quick 'e throws 'is 'ands above 'is nob; speakin' english good as me: "'tain't no use to kill," says 'e; "can't yer tyke me prisoner instead?" "why, i'd like to, sir," says i; "but--yer knows the reason why: if we pokes our noses out we're dead. "sorry, sir. then on the other 'and (as a gent like you must understand), if i 'olds you longer 'ere, wiv yer pals so werry near, it's me 'oo'll 'ave a free trip to berlin; if i lets yer go away, why, you'll fight another day: see the sitooation i am in. "anyway i'll tell you wot i'll do, bein' kind and seein' as it's you, knowin' 'ow it's cold, the feel of a 'alf a yard o' steel, i'll let yer 'ave a rifle ball instead; now, jist think yerself in luck. . . . 'ere, ol' man! you keep 'em stuck, them saucy dooks o' yours, above yer 'ead." 'ow 'is mits shot up it made me smile! 'ow 'e seemed to ponder for a while! then 'e says: "it seems a shyme, me, a man wot's known ter fyme: give me blocks of stone, i'll give yer gods. whereas, pardon me, i'm sure you, my friend, are still obscure. . . ." "in war," says i, "that makes no blurry odds." then says 'e: "i've painted picters too. . . . oh, dear god! the work i planned to do, and to think this is the end!" "'ere," says i, "my hartist friend, don't you give yerself no friskin' airs. picters, statoos, is that why you should be let off to die? that the best ye done? just say yer prayers." once again 'e seems ter think awhile. then 'e smiles a werry 'aughty smile: "why, no, sir, it's not the best; there's a locket next me breast, picter of a gel 'oo's eyes are blue. that's the best i've done," says 'e. "that's me darter, aged three. . . ." "blimy!" says i, "i've a nipper, too." straight i chucks my rifle to one side; shows 'im wiv a lovin' farther's pride me own little mary jane. proud 'e shows me 'is elaine, and we talks as friendly as can be; then i 'elps 'im on 'is way, 'opes 'e's sife at 'ome to-day, wonders--_'ow would 'e 'ave treated me?_ tri-colour _poppies,_ you try to tell me, glowing there in the wheat; poppies! ah no! you mock me: it's blood, i tell you, it's blood. it's gleaming wet in the grasses; it's glist'ning warm in the wheat; it dabbles the ferns and the clover; it brims in an angry flood; it leaps to the startled heavens; it smothers the sun; it cries with scarlet voices of triumph from blossom and bough and blade. see the bright horror of it! it's roaring out of the skies, and the whole red world is a-welter. . . . oh god! i'm afraid! i'm afraid! _cornflowers,_ you say, just cornflowers, gemming the golden grain; ah no! you can't deceive me. can't i believe my eyes? look! it's the dead, my comrades, stark on the dreadful plain, all in their dark-blue blouses, staring up at the skies. comrades of canteen laughter, dumb in the yellow wheat. see how they sprawl and huddle! see how their brows are white! goaded on to the shambles, there in death and defeat. . . . father of pity, hide them! hasten, o god, thy night! _lilies_ (the light is waning), only lilies you say, nestling and softly shining there where the spear-grass waves. no, my friend, i know better; brighter i see than day: it's the poor little wooden crosses over their quiet graves. oh, how they're gleaming, gleaming! see! each cross has a crown. yes, it's true i am dying; little will be the loss. . . . darkness . . . but look! in heaven a light, and it's shining down. . . . god's accolade! lift me up, friends. i'm going to win--_my cross._ a pot of tea you make it in your mess-tin by the brazier's rosy gleam; you watch it cloud, then settle amber clear; you lift it with your bay'nit, and you sniff the fragrant steam; the very breath of it is ripe with cheer. you're awful cold and dirty, and a-cursin' of your lot; you scoff the blushin' 'alf of it, so rich and rippin' 'ot; it bucks you up like anythink, just seems to touch the spot: god bless the man that first discovered tea! since i came out to fight in france, which ain't the other day, i think i've drunk enough to float a barge; all kinds of fancy foreign dope, from caffy and doo lay, to rum they serves you out before a charge. in back rooms of estaminays i've gurgled pints of cham; i've swilled down mugs of cider till i've felt a bloomin' dam; but 'struth! they all ain't in it with the vintage of assam: god bless the man that first invented tea! i think them lazy lumps o' gods wot kips on asphodel swigs nectar that's a flavour of oolong; i only wish them sons o' guns a-grillin' down in 'ell could 'ave their daily ration of suchong. hurrah! i'm off to battle, which is 'ell and 'eaven too; and if i don't give some poor bloke a sexton's job to do, to-night, by fritz's campfire, won't i 'ave a gorgeous brew (for fightin' mustn't interfere with tea). to-night we'll all be tellin' of the boches that we slew, as we drink the giddy victory in tea. the revelation _the same old sprint in the morning, boys, to the same old din and smut; chained all day to the same old desk, down in the same old rut; posting the same old greasy books, catching the same old train: oh, how will i manage to stick it all, if i ever get back again?_ we've bidden good-bye to life in a cage, we're finished with pushing a pen; they're pumping us full of bellicose rage, they're showing us how to be men. we're only beginning to find ourselves; we're wonders of brawn and thew; but when we go back to our sissy jobs,--oh, what are we going to do? for shoulders curved with the counter stoop will be carried erect and square; and faces white from the office light will be bronzed by the open air; and we'll walk with the stride of a new-born pride, with a new-found joy in our eyes, scornful men who have diced with death under the naked skies. and when we get back to the dreary grind, and the bald-headed boss's call, don't you think that the dingy window-blind, and the dingier office wall, will suddenly melt to a vision of space, of violent, flame-scarred night? then . . . oh, the joy of the danger-thrill, and oh, the roar of the fight! don't you think as we peddle a card of pins the counter will fade away, and again we'll be seeing the sand-bag rims, and the barb-wire's misty grey? as a flat voice asks for a pound of tea, don't you fancy we'll hear instead the night-wind moan and the soothing drone of the packet that's overhead? don't you guess that the things we're seeing now will haunt us through all the years; heaven and hell rolled into one, glory and blood and tears; life's pattern picked with a scarlet thread, where once we wove with a grey to remind us all how we played our part in the shock of an epic day? oh, we're booked for the great adventure now, we're pledged to the real romance; we'll find ourselves or we'll lose ourselves somewhere in giddy old france; we'll know the zest of the fighter's life; the best that we have we'll give; we'll hunger and thirst; we'll die . . . but first-- we'll live; by the gods, we'll live! we'll breathe free air and we'll bivouac under the starry sky; we'll march with men and we'll fight with men, and we'll see men laugh and die; we'll know such joy as we never dreamed; we'll fathom the deeps of pain: but the hardest bit of it all will be--when we come back home again. _for some of us smirk in a chiffon shop, and some of us teach in a school; some of us help with the seat of our pants to polish an office stool; the merits of somebody's soap or jam some of us seek to explain, but all of us wonder what we'll do when we have to go back again._ grand-père and so when he reached my bed the general made a stand: "my brave young fellow," he said, "i would shake your hand." so i lifted my arm, the right, with never a hand at all; only a stump, a sight fit to appal. "well, well. now that's too bad! that's sorrowful luck," he said; "but there! you give me, my lad, the left instead." so from under the blanket's rim i raised and showed him the other, a snag as ugly and grim as its ugly brother. he looked at each jagged wrist; he looked, but he did not speak; and then he bent down and kissed me on either cheek. you wonder now i don't mind i hadn't a hand to offer. . . . they tell me (you know i'm blind) _'twas grand-peÈre joffre._ son he hurried away, young heart of joy, under our devon sky! and i watched him go, my beautiful boy, and a weary woman was i. for my hair is grey, and his was gold; he'd the best of his life to live; and i'd loved him so, and i'm old, i'm old; and he's all i had to give. ah yes, he was proud and swift and gay, but oh how my eyes were dim! with the sun in his heart he went away, but he took the sun with him. for look! how the leaves are falling now, and the winter won't be long. . . . oh boy, my boy with the sunny brow, and the lips of love and of song! how we used to sit at the day's sweet end, we two by the firelight's gleam, and we'd drift to the valley of let's pretend, on the beautiful river of dream. oh dear little heart! all wealth untold would i gladly, gladly pay could i just for a moment closely hold that golden head to my grey. for i gaze in the fire, and i'm seeing there a child, and he waves to me; and i run and i hold him up in the air, and he laughs and shouts with glee; a little bundle of love and mirth, crying: "come, mumsie dear!" ah me! if he called from the ends of the earth i know that my heart would hear. . . . . . yet the thought comes thrilling through all my pain: how worthier could he die? yea, a loss like that is a glorious gain, and pitiful proud am i. for peace must be bought with blood and tears, and the boys of our hearts must pay; and so in our joy of the after-years, let us bless them every day. and though i know there's a hasty grave with a poor little cross at its head, and the gold of his youth he so gladly gave, yet to me he'll never be dead. and the sun in my devon lane will be gay, and my boy will be with me still, so i'm finding the heart to smile and say: "oh god, if it be thy will!" the black dudeen _humping it here in the dug-out, sucking me black dudeen, i'd like to say in a general way, there's nothing like nickyteen; there's nothing like nickyteen, me boys, be it pipes or snipes or cigars; so be sure that a bloke has plenty to smoke, if you wants him to fight your wars._ when i've eat my fill and my belt is snug, i begin to think of my baccy plug. i whittle a fill in my horny palm, and the bowl of me old clay pipe i cram. i trim the edges, i tamp it down, i nurse a light with an anxious frown; i begin to draw, and my cheeks tuck in, and all my face is a blissful grin; and up in a cloud the good smoke goes, and the good pipe glimmers and fades and glows; in its throat it chuckles a cheery song, for i likes it hot and i likes it strong. oh, it's good is grub when you're feeling hollow, but the best of a meal's the smoke to follow. there was micky and me on a night patrol, having to hide in a fizz-bang hole; and sure i thought i was worse than dead wi' them crump-crumps hustlin' over me head. sure i thought 'twas the dirty spot, hammer and tongs till the air was hot. and mind you, water up to your knees. and cold! a monkey of brass would freeze. and if we ventured our noses out a "typewriter" clattered its pills about. the field of glory! well, i don't think! i'd sooner be safe and snug in clink. then micky, he goes and he cops one bad, he always was having ill-luck, poor lad. says he: "old chummy, i'm booked right through; death and me 'as a wrongday voo. but . . . 'aven't you got a pinch of shag?-- i'd sell me perishin' soul for a fag." and there he shivered and cussed his luck, so i gave him me old black pipe to suck. and he heaves a sigh, and he takes to it like a babby takes to his mammy's tit; like an infant takes to his mother's breast, poor little micky! he went to rest. but the dawn was near, though the night was black, so i left him there and i started back. and i laughed as the silly old bullets came, for the bullet ain't made wot's got me name. yet some of 'em buzzed onhealthily near, and one little blighter just chipped me ear. but there! i got to the trench all right, when sudden i jumped wi' a start o' fright, and a word that doesn't look well in type: _i'd clean forgotten me old clay pipe._ so i had to do it all over again, crawling out on that filthy plain. through shells and bombs and bullets and all-- only this time--i do not crawl. i run like a man wot's missing a train, or a tom-cat caught in a plump of rain. i hear the spit of a quick-fire gun tickle my heels, but i run, i run. through crash and crackle, and flicker and flame, (oh, the packet ain't issued wot's got me name!) i run like a man that's no ideer of hunting around for a sooveneer. i run bang into a german chap, and he stares like an owl, so i bash his map. and just to show him that i'm his boss, i gives him a kick on the parados. and i marches him back with me all serene, with, _tucked in me gub, me old dudeen._ _sitting here in the trenches me heart's a-splittin' with spleen, for a parcel o' lead comes missing me head, but it smashes me old dudeen. god blast that red-headed sniper! i'll give him somethin' to snipe; before the war's through just see how i do that blighter that smashed me pipe._ the little piou-piou * the french "tommy". oh, some of us lolled in the chateau, and some of us slinked in the slum; but now we are here with a song and a cheer to serve at the sign of the drum. they put us in trousers of scarlet, in big sloppy ulsters of blue; in boots that are flat, a box of a hat, and they call us the little piou-piou, piou-piou, the laughing and quaffing piou-piou, the swinging and singing piou-piou; and so with a rattle we march to the battle, the weary but cheery piou-piou. _encore un petit verre de vin, pour nous mettre en route; encore un petit verre de vin pour nous mettre en train._ they drive us head-on for the slaughter; we haven't got much of a chance; the issue looks bad, but we're awfully glad to battle and die for la france. for some must be killed, that is certain; there's only one's duty to do; so we leap to the fray in the glorious way they expect of the little piou-piou. en avant! the way of the gallant piou-piou, the dashing and smashing piou-piou; the way grim and gory that leads us to glory is the way of the little piou-piou. _allons, enfants de la patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé._ to-day you would scarce recognise us, such veterans war-wise are we; so grimy and hard, so calloused and scarred, so "crummy", yet gay as can be. we've finished with trousers of scarlet, they're giving us breeches of blue, with a helmet instead of a cap on our head, yet still we're the little piou-piou. nous les aurons! the jesting, unresting piou-piou; the cheering, unfearing piou-piou; the keep-your-head-level and fight-like-the-devil; the dying, defying piou-piou. _À la bayonette! jusqu'à la mort! sonnez la charge, clairons!_ bill the bomber the poppies gleamed like bloody pools through cotton-woolly mist; the captain kept a-lookin' at the watch upon his wrist; and there we smoked and squatted, as we watched the shrapnel flame; 'twas wonnerful, i'm tellin' you, how fast them bullets came. 'twas weary work the waiting, though; i tried to sleep a wink, for waitin' means a-thinkin', and it doesn't do to think. so i closed my eyes a little, and i had a niceish dream of a-standin' by a dresser with a dish of devon cream; but i hadn't time to sample it, for suddenlike i woke: "come on, me lads!" the captain says, 'n i climbed out through the smoke. we spread out in the open: it was like a bath of lead; but the boys they cheered and hollered fit to raise the bloody dead, till a beastly bullet copped 'em, then they lay without a sound, and it's odd--we didn't seem to heed them corpses on the ground. and i kept on thinkin', thinkin', as the bullets faster flew, how they picks the werry best men, and they lets the rotters through; so indiscriminatin' like, they spares a man of sin, and a rare lad wot's a husband and a father gets done in. and while havin' these reflections and advancin' on the run, a bullet biffs me shoulder, and says i: "that's number one." well, it downed me for a jiffy, but i didn't lose me calm, for i knew that i was needed: i'm a bomber, so i am. i 'ad lost me cap and rifle, but i "carried on" because i 'ad me bombs and knew that they was needed, so they was. we didn't 'ave no singin' now, nor many men to cheer; maybe the shrapnel drowned 'em, crashin' out so werry near; and the maxims got us sideways, and the bullets faster flew, and i copped one on me flipper, and says i: "that's number two." i was pleased it was the left one, for i 'ad me bombs, ye see, and 'twas 'ard if they'd be wasted like, and all along o' me. and i'd lost me 'at and rifle--but i told you that before, so i packed me mit inside me coat and "carried on" once more. but the rumpus it was wicked, and the men were scarcer yet, and i felt me ginger goin', but me jaws i kindo set, and we passed the boche first trenches, which was 'eapin' 'igh with dead, and we started for their second, which was fifty feet ahead; when something like a 'ammer smashed me savage on the knee, and down i came all muck and blood: says i: "that's number three." so there i lay all 'elpless like, and bloody sick at that, and worryin' like anythink, because i'd lost me 'at; and thinkin' of me missis, and the partin' words she said: "if you gets killed, write quick, ol' man, and tell me as you're dead." and lookin' at me bunch o' bombs--that was the 'ardest blow, to think i'd never 'ave the chance to 'url them at the foe. and there was all our boys in front, a-fightin' there like mad, and me as could 'ave 'elped 'em wiv the lovely bombs i 'ad. and so i cussed and cussed, and then i struggled back again, into that bit of battered trench, packed solid with its slain. now as i lay a-lyin' there and blastin' of me lot, and wishin' i could just dispose of all them bombs i'd got, i sees within the doorway of a shy, retirin' dug-out six boches all a-grinnin', and their captain stuck 'is mug out; and they 'ad a nice machine gun, and i twigged what they was at; and they fixed it on a tripod, and i watched 'em like a cat; and they got it in position, and they seemed so werry glad, like they'd got us in a death-trap, which, condemn their souls! they 'ad. for there our boys was fightin' fifty yards in front, and 'ere this lousy bunch of boches they 'ad got us in the rear. oh it set me blood a-boilin' and i quite forgot me pain, so i started crawlin', crawlin' over all them mounds of slain; and them barstards was so busy-like they 'ad no eyes for me, and me bleedin' leg was draggin', but me right arm it was free. . . . and now they 'ave it all in shape, and swingin' sweet and clear; and now they're all excited like, but--i am drawin' near; and now they 'ave it loaded up, and now they're takin' aim. . . . rat-tat-tat-tat! oh here, says i, is where i join the game. and my right arm it goes swingin', and a bomb it goes a-slingin', and that "typewriter" goes wingin' in a thunderbolt of flame. then these boches, wot was left of 'em, they tumbled down their 'ole, and up i climbed a mound of dead, and down on them i stole. and oh that blessed moment when i heard their frightened yell, and i laughed down in that dug-out, ere i bombed their souls to hell. and now i'm in the hospital, surprised that i'm alive; we started out a thousand men, we came back thirty-five. and i'm minus of a trotter, but i'm most amazin' gay, for me bombs they wasn't wasted, though, you might say, "thrown away". the whistle of sandy mcgraw you may talk o' your lutes and your dulcimers fine, your harps and your tabors and cymbals and a', but here in the trenches jist gie me for mine the wee penny whistle o' sandy mcgraw. oh, it's: "sandy, ma lad, will you lilt us a tune?" and sandy is willin' and trillin' like mad; sae silvery sweet that we a' throng aroun', and some o' it's gay, but the maist o' it's sad. jist the wee simple airs that sink intae your hert, and grup ye wi' love and wi' longin' for hame; and ye glour like an owl till you're feelin' the stert o' a tear, and you blink wi' a feelin' o' shame. for his song's o' the heather, and here in the dirt you listen and dream o' a land that's sae braw, and he mak's you forget a' the harm and the hurt, for he pipes like a laverock, does sandy mcgraw. . . . . . at eepers i mind me when rank upon rank we rose from the trenches and swept like the gale, till the rapid-fire guns got us fell on the flank and the murderin' bullets came swishin' like hail: till a' that were left o' us faltered and broke; till it seemed for a moment a panicky rout, when shrill through the fume and the flash and the smoke the wee valiant voice o' a whistle piped out. 'the campbells are comin'': then into the fray we bounded wi' bayonets reekin' and raw, and oh we fair revelled in glory that day, jist thanks to the whistle o' sandy mcgraw. . . . . . at loose, it wis after a sconnersome fecht, on the field o' the slain i wis crawlin' aboot; and the rockets were burnin' red holes in the nicht; and the guns they were veciously thunderin' oot; when sudden i heard a bit sound like a sigh, and there in a crump-hole a kiltie i saw: "whit ails ye, ma lad? are ye woundit?" says i. "i've lost ma wee whustle," says sandy mcgraw. "'twas oot by yon bing where we pressed the attack, it drapped frae ma pooch, and between noo and dawn there isna much time so i'm jist crawlin' back. . . ." "ye're daft, man!" i telt him, but sandy wis gone. weel, i waited a wee, then i crawled oot masel, and the big stuff wis gorin' and roarin' around, and i seemed tae be under the oxter o' hell, and creation wis crackin' tae bits by the sound. and i says in ma mind: "gang ye back, ye auld fule!" when i thrilled tae a note that wis saucy and sma'; and there in a crater, collected and cool, wi' his wee penny whistle wis sandy mcgraw. ay, there he wis playin' as gleg as could be, and listenin' hard wis a spectacled boche; then sandy turned roon' and he noddit tae me, and he says: "dinna blab on me, sergeant mctosh. the auld chap is deein'. he likes me tae play. it's makin' him happy. jist see his een shine!" and thrillin' and sweet in the hert o' the fray wee sandy wis playin' 'the watch on the rhine'. . . . . . the last scene o' a'--'twas the day that we took that bit o' black ruin they ca' labbiesell. it seemed the hale hillside jist shivered and shook, and the red skies were roarin' and spewin' oot shell. and the sergeants were cursin' tae keep us in hand, and hard on the leash we were strainin' like dugs, when upward we shot at the word o' command, and the bullets were dingin' their songs in oor lugs. and onward we swept wi' a yell and a cheer, and a' wis destruction, confusion and din, and we knew that the trench o' the boches wis near, and it seemed jist the safest bit hole tae be in. so we a' tumbled doon, and the boches were there, and they held up their hands, and they yelled: "kamarad!" and i merched aff wi' ten, wi' their palms in the air, and my! i wis prood-like, and my! i wis glad. and i thocht: if ma lassie could see me jist then. . . . when sudden i sobered at somethin' i saw, and i stopped and i stared, and i halted ma men, for there on a stretcher wis sandy mcgraw. weel, he looks in ma face, jist as game as ye please: "ye ken hoo i hate tae be workin'," says he; "but noo i can play in the street for bawbees, wi' baith o' ma legs taken aff at the knee." and though i could see he wis rackit wi' pain, he reached for his whistle and stertit tae play; and quaverin' sweet wis the pensive refrain: 'the floors o' the forest are a' wede away'. then sudden he stoppit: "man, wis it no grand hoo we took a' them trenches?" . . . he shakit his heid: "i'll--no--play--nae--mair----" feebly doon frae his hand slipped the wee penny whistle and--_sandy wis deid._ . . . . . and so you may talk o' your steinways and strads, your wonderful organs and brasses sae braw; but oot in the trenches jist gie me, ma lads, yon wee penny whistle o' sandy mcgraw. the stretcher-bearer my stretcher is one scarlet stain, and as i tries to scrape it clean, i tell you wot--i'm sick with pain for all i've 'eard, for all i've seen; around me is the 'ellish night, and as the war's red rim i trace, i wonder if in 'eaven's height, our god don't turn away 'is face. i don't care 'oose the crime may be; i 'olds no brief for kin or clan; i 'ymns no 'ate: i only see as man destroys his brother man; i waves no flag: i only know, as 'ere beside the dead i wait, a million 'earts is weighed with woe, a million 'omes is desolate. in drippin' darkness, far and near, all night i've sought them woeful ones. dawn shudders up and still i 'ear the crimson chorus of the guns. look! like a ball of blood the sun 'angs o'er the scene of wrath and wrong. . . . "quick! stretcher-bearers on the run!" _o prince of peace! 'ow long, 'ow long?_ wounded is it not strange? a year ago to-day, with scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round, i did my decent job and earned my pay; was averagely happy, i'll be bound. ay, in my little groove i was content, seeing my life run smoothly to the end, with prosy days in stolid labour spent, and jolly nights, a pipe, a glass, a friend. in god's good time a hearth fire's cosy gleam, a wife and kids, and all a fellow needs; when presto! like a bubble goes my dream: i leap upon the stage of splendid deeds. i yell with rage; i wallow deep in gore: i, that was clerk in a drysalter's store. stranger than any book i've ever read. here on the reeking battlefield i lie, under the stars, propped up with smeary dead, like too, if no one takes me in, to die. hit on the arms, legs, liver, lungs and gall; damn glad there's nothing more of me to hit; but calm, and feeling never pain at all, and full of wonder at the turn of it. for of the dead around me three are mine, three foemen vanquished in the whirl of fight; so if i die i have no right to whine, i feel i've done my little bit all right. i don't know how--but there the beggars are, as dead as herrings pickled in a jar. and here am i, worse wounded than i thought; for in the fight a bullet bee-like stings; you never heed; the air is metal-hot, and all alive with little flicking wings. _but on you charge._ you see the fellows fall; your pal was by your side, fair fighting-mad; you turn to him, and lo! no pal at all; you wonder vaguely if he's copped it bad. _but on you charge._ the heavens vomit death; and vicious death is besoming the ground. you're blind with sweat; you're dazed, and out of breath, and though you yell, you cannot hear a sound. _but on you charge._ oh, war's a rousing game! around you smoky clouds like ogres tower; the earth is rowelled deep with spurs of flame, and on your helmet stones and ashes shower. _but on you charge._ it's odd! you have no fear. machine-gun bullets whip and lash your path; red, yellow, black the smoky giants rear; the shrapnel rips, the heavens roar in wrath. _but on you charge._ barbed wire all trampled down. the ground all gored and rent as by a blast; grim heaps of grey where once were heaps of brown; a ragged ditch--the hun first line at last. all smashed to hell. their second right ahead, _so on you charge._ there's nothing else to do. more reeking holes, blood, barbed wire, gruesome dead; (your puttee strap's undone--that worries you). you glare around. you think you're all alone. but no; your chums come surging left and right. the nearest chap flops down without a groan, his face still snarling with the rage of fight. ha! here's the second trench--just like the first, only a little more so, more "laid out"; more pounded, flame-corroded, death-accurst; a pretty piece of work, beyond a doubt. now for the third, and there your job is done, _so on you charge._ you never stop to think. your cursed puttee's trailing as you run; you feel you'd sell your soul to have a drink. the acrid air is full of cracking whips. you wonder how it is you're going still. you foam with rage. oh, god! to be at grips with someone you can rush and crush and kill. your sleeve is dripping blood; you're seeing red; you're battle-mad; your turn is coming now. see! there's the jagged barbed wire straight ahead, and there's the trench--you'll get there anyhow. your puttee catches on a strand of wire, and down you go; perhaps it saves your life, for over sandbag rims you see 'em fire, crop-headed chaps, their eyes ablaze with strife. you crawl, you cower; then once again you plunge with all your comrades roaring at your heels. _have at 'em, lads!_ you stab, you jab, you lunge; a blaze of glory, then the red world reels. a crash of triumph, then . . . you're faint a bit . . . that cursed puttee! now to fasten it. . . . well, that's the charge. and now i'm here alone. i've built a little wall of hun on hun, to shield me from the leaden bees that drone (it saves me worry, and it hurts 'em none). the only thing i'm wondering is when some stretcher-men will stroll along my way? it isn't much that's left of me, but then where life is, hope is, so at least they say. well, if i'm spared i'll be the happy lad. i tell you i won't envy any king. i've stood the racket, and i'm proud and glad; i've had my crowning hour. oh, war's the thing! it gives us common, working chaps our chance, a taste of glory, chivalry, romance. ay, war, they say, is hell; it's heaven, too. it lets a man discover what he's worth. it takes his measure, shows what he can do, gives him a joy like nothing else on earth. it fans in him a flame that otherwise would flicker out, these drab, discordant days; it teaches him in pain and sacrifice faith, fortitude, grim courage past all praise. yes, war is good. so here beside my slain, a happy wreck i wait amid the din; for even if i perish mine's the gain. . . . hi, there, you fellows! won't you take me in? give me a fag to smoke upon the way. . . . we've taken la boiselle! the hell, you say! well, that would make a corpse sit up and grin. . . . lead on! i'll live to fight another day. faith since all that is was ever bound to be; since grim, eternal laws our being bind; and both the riddle and the answer find, and both the carnage and the calm decree; since plain within the book of destiny is written all the journey of mankind inexorably to the end; since blind and mortal puppets playing parts are we: then let's have faith; good cometh out of ill; the power that shaped the strife shall end the strife; then let's bow down before the unknown will; fight on, believing all is well with life; seeing within the worst of war's red rage the gleam, the glory of the golden age. the coward 'ave you seen bill's mug in the noos to-day? 'e's gyned the victoriar cross, they say; little bill wot would grizzle and run away, if you 'it 'im a swipe on the jawr. 'e's slaughtered the kaiser's men in tons; 'e's captured one of their quick-fire guns, and 'e 'adn't no practice in killin' 'uns afore 'e went off to the war. little bill wot i nussed in 'is by-by clothes; little bill wot told me 'is childish woes; 'ow often i've tidied 'is pore little nose wiv the 'em of me pinnyfore. and now all the papers 'is praises ring, and 'e's been and 'e's shaken the 'and of the king and i sawr 'im to-day in the ward, pore thing, where they're patchin' 'im up once more. and 'e says: "wot d'ye think of it, lizer ann?" and i says: "well, i can't make it out, old man; you'd 'ook it as soon as a scrap began, when you was a bit of a kid." and 'e whispers: "'ere, on the quiet, liz, they're makin' too much of the 'ole damn biz, and the papers is printin' me ugly phiz, but . . . i'm 'anged if i know wot i did. "oh, the captain comes and 'e says: 'look 'ere! they're far too quiet out there: it's queer. they're up to somethin'--'oo'll volunteer to crawl in the dark and see?' then i felt me 'eart like a 'ammer go, and up jumps a chap and 'e says: 'right o!' but i chips in straight, and i says 'oh no! 'e's a missis and kids--take me.' "and the next i knew i was sneakin' out, and the oozy corpses was all about, and i felt so scared i wanted to shout, and me skin fair prickled wiv fear; and i sez: 'you coward! you 'ad no right to take on the job of a man this night,' yet still i kept creepin' till ('orrid sight!) the trench of the 'uns was near. "it was all so dark, it was all so still; yet somethin' pushed me against me will; 'ow i wanted to turn! yet i crawled until i was seein' a dim light shine. then thinks i: 'i'll just go a little bit, and see wot the doose i can make of it,' and it seemed to come from the mouth of a pit: 'christmas!' sez i, 'a _mine.'_ "then 'ere's the part wot i can't explain: i wanted to make for 'ome again, but somethin' was blazin' inside me brain, so i crawled to the trench instead; then i saw the bullet 'ead of a 'un, and 'e stood by a rapid-firer gun, and i lifted a rock and i 'it 'im one, and 'e dropped like a chunk o' lead. "then all the 'uns that was underground, comes up with a rush and on with a bound, and i swings that giddy old maxim round and belts 'em solid and square. you see i was off me chump wiv fear: 'if i'm sellin' me life,' sez i, 'it's dear.' and the trench was narrow and they was near, so i peppered the brutes for fair. "so i 'eld 'em back and i yelled wiv fright, and the boys attacked and we 'ad a fight, and we 'captured a section o' trench' that night which we didn't expect to get; and they found me there with me maxim gun, and i'd laid out a score if i'd laid out one, and i fainted away when the thing was done, and i 'aven't got over it yet." so that's the 'istory bill told me. of course it's all on the strict q. t.; it wouldn't do to get out, you see, as 'e hacted against 'is will. but 'e's convalescin' wiv all 'is might, and 'e 'opes to be fit for another fight-- say! ain't 'e a bit of the real all right? wot's the matter with bill! missis moriarty's boy missis moriarty called last week, and says she to me, says she: "sure the heart of me's broken entirely now-- it's the fortunate woman you are; you've still got your dinnis to cheer up your home, but me patsy boy where is he? lyin' alone, cold as a stone, kilt in the weariful wahr. oh, i'm seein' him now as i looked on him last, wid his hair all curly and bright, and the wonderful, tenderful heart he had, and his eyes as he wint away, shinin' and lookin' down on me from the pride of his proper height: sure i'll remember me boy like that if i live to me dyin' day." and just as she spoke them very same words me dinnis came in at the door, came in from mcgonigle's ould shebeen, came in from drinkin' his pay; and missis moriarty looked at him, and she didn't say anny more, but she wrapped her head in her ould black shawl, and she quietly wint away. and what was i thinkin', i ask ye now, as i put me dinnis to bed, wid him ravin' and cursin' one half of the night, as cold by his side i sat; was i thinkin' the poor ould woman she was wid her patsy slaughtered and dead? was i weepin' for missis moriarty? i'm not so sure about that. missis moriarty goes about wid a shinin' look on her face; wid her grey hair under her ould black shawl, and the eyes of her mother-mild; some say she's a little bit off her head; but annyway it's the case, her timper's so swate that you nivver would tell she'd be losin' her only child. and i think, as i wait up ivery night for me dinnis to come home blind, and i'm hearin' his stumblin' foot on the stair along about half-past three: sure there's many a way of breakin' a heart, and i haven't made up me mind-- would i be missis moriarty, or missis moriarty me? my foe a belgian priest-soldier speaks:-- _gurr!_ you 'cochon'! stand and fight! show your mettle! snarl and bite! spawn of an accursed race, turn and meet me face to face! here amid the wreck and rout let us grip and have it out! here where ruins rock and reel let us settle, steel to steel! look! our houses, how they spit sparks from brands your friends have lit. see! our gutters running red, bright with blood your friends have shed. hark! amid your drunken brawl how our maidens shriek and call. why have _you_ come here alone, to this hearth's blood-spattered stone? come to ravish, come to loot, come to play the ghoulish brute. ah, indeed! we well are met, bayonet to bayonet. god! i never killed a man: now i'll do the best i can. rip you to the evil heart, laugh to see the life-blood start. bah! you swine! i hate you so. show you mercy? no! . . . and no! . . . there! i've done it. see! he lies death a-staring from his eyes; glazing eyeballs, panting breath, how it's horrible, is death! plucking at his bloody lips with his trembling finger-tips; choking in a dreadful way as if he would something say in that uncouth tongue of his. . . . oh, how horrible death is! how i wish that he would die! so unnerved, unmanned am i. see! his twitching face is white! see! his bubbling blood is bright. why do i not shout with glee? what strange spell is over me? there he lies; the fight was fair; let me toss my cap in air. why am i so silent? why do i pray for him to die? where is all my vengeful joy? ugh! _my foe is but a boy._ i'd a brother of his age perished in the war's red rage; perished in the ypres hell: oh, i loved my brother well. and though i be hard and grim, how it makes me think of him! he had just such flaxen hair as the lad that's lying there. just such frank blue eyes were his. . . . god! how horrible war is! i have reason to be gay: there is one less foe to slay. i have reason to be glad: yet--my foe is such a lad. so i watch in dull amaze, see his dying eyes a-glaze, see his face grow glorified, see his hands outstretched and wide to that bit of ruined wall where the flames have ceased to crawl, where amid the crumbling bricks hangs _a blackened crucifix._ now, oh now i understand. quick i press it in his hand, close his feeble finger-tips, hold it to his faltering lips. as i watch his welling blood i would stem it if i could. god of pity, let him live! god of love, forgive, forgive. . . . . . his face looked strangely, as he died, like that of one they crucified. and in the pocket of his coat i found a letter; thus he wrote: 'the things i've seen! oh, mother dear, i'm wondering can god be here? to-night amid the drunken brawl i saw a cross hung on a wall; i'll seek it now, and there alone perhaps i may atone, atone. . . .' ah no! 'tis i who must atone. no other saw but god alone; yet how can i forget the sight of that face so woeful white! dead i kissed him as he lay, knelt by him and tried to pray; left him lying there at rest, crucifix upon his breast. not for him the pity be. ye who pity, pity me, crawling now the ways i trod, blood-guilty in sight of god. my job i've got a little job on 'and, the time is drawin' nigh; at seven by the captain's watch i'm due to go and do it; i wants to 'ave it nice and neat, and pleasin' to the eye, and i 'opes the god of soldier men will see me safely through it. because, you see, it's somethin' i 'ave never done before; and till you 'as experience noo stunts is always tryin'; the chances is i'll never 'ave to do it any more: at seven by the captain's watch my little job is . . . _dyin'._ i've got a little note to write; i'd best begin it now. i ain't much good at writin' notes, but here goes: "dearest mother, i've been in many 'ot old 'do's'; i've scraped through safe some'ow, but now i'm on the very point of tacklin' another. a little job of hand-grenades; they called for volunteers. they picked me out; i'm proud of it; it seems a trifle dicky. if anythin' should 'appen, well, there ain't no call for tears, and so . . . i 'opes this finds you well.--your werry lovin' micky." i've got a little score to settle wiv them swine out there. i've 'ad so many of me pals done in it's quite upset me. i've seen so much of bloody death i don't seem for to care, if i can only even up, how soon the blighters get me. i'm sorry for them perishers that corpses in a bed; i only 'opes mine's short and sweet, no linger-longer-lyin'; i've made a mess of life, but now i'll try to make instead . . . it's seven sharp. good-bye, old pals! . . . _a decent job in dyin'._ the song of the pacifist what do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our dead? think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed? by the cheers of our victory will the heart of the mother be comforted? if by the victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe; is the pomp and power of a glitt'ring hour, and a truce for an age or so: by the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow! if by the triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright; that justice and truth and love endure; that freedom's throned on the height; that the feebler folks shall be unafraid; that might shall never be right; if this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, by the havoc of fire and fear, by the rending roar of the war of wars, by the dead so doubly dear. . . . then our victory is a vast defeat, and it mocks us as we cheer. victory! there can be but one, hallowed in every land: when by the graves of our common dead we who were foemen stand; and in the hush of our common grief hand is tendered to hand. triumph! yes, when out of the dust in the splendour of their release the spirits of those who fell go forth and they hallow our hearts to peace, and, brothers in pain, with world-wide voice, we clamour that war shall cease. glory! ay, when from blackest loss shall be born most radiant gain; when over the gory fields shall rise a star that never shall wane: then, and then only, our dead shall know that they have not fall'n in vain. when our children's children shall talk of war as a madness that may not be; when we thank our god for our grief to-day, and blazon from sea to sea in the name of the dead the banner of peace . . . _that will be victory._ the twins there were two brothers, john and james, and when the town went up in flames, to save the house of james dashed john, then turned, and lo! his own was gone. and when the great world war began, to volunteer john promptly ran; and while he learned live bombs to lob, james stayed at home and--sneaked his job. john came home with a missing limb; that didn't seem to worry him; but oh, it set his brain awhirl to find that james had--sneaked his girl! time passed. john tried his grief to drown; to-day james owns one-half the town; his army contracts riches yield; and john? well, _search the potter's field._ the song of the soldier-born _give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant; wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant; night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant._ give me to live and love in the old, bold fashion; a soldier's billet at night and a soldier's ration; a heart that leaps to the fight with a soldier's passion. for i hold as a simple faith there's no denying: the trade of a soldier's the only trade worth plying; the death of a soldier's the only death worth dying. so let me go and leave your safety behind me; go to the spaces of hazard where nothing shall bind me; go till the word is war--and then you will find me. then you will call me and claim me because you will need me; cheer me and gird me and into the battle-wrath speed me. . . . and when it's over, spurn me and no longer heed me. for guile and a purse gold-greased are the arms you carry; with deeds of paper you fight and with pens you parry; you call on the hounds of the law your foes to harry. you with your "art for its own sake", posing and prinking; you with your "live and be merry", eating and drinking; you with your "peace at all hazard", from bright blood shrinking. fools! i will tell you now: though the red rain patters, and a million of men go down, it's little it matters. . . . there's the flag upflung to the stars, though it streams in tatters. there's a glory gold never can buy to yearn and to cry for; there's a hope that's as old as the sky to suffer and sigh for; there's a faith that out-dazzles the sun to martyr and die for. ah no! it's my dream that war will never be ended; that men will perish like men, and valour be splendid; that the flag by the sword will be served, and honour defended. that the tale of my fights will never be ancient story; that though my eye may be dim and my beard be hoary, i'll die as a soldier dies on the field of glory. _so give me a strong right arm for a wrong's swift righting; stave of a song on my lips as my sword is smiting; death in my boots may-be, but fighting, fighting._ afternoon tea as i was saying . . . (no, thank you; i never take cream with my tea; cows weren't allowed in the trenches--got out of the habit, y'see.) as i was saying, our colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten: "come on, lads!" he shouts, "and we'll show 'em." and he sprang to the head of the men. then some bally thing seemed to trip him, and he fell on his face with a slam. . . . oh, he died like a true british soldier, and the last word he uttered was "damn!" and hang it! i loved the old fellow, and something just burst in my brain, and i cared no more for the bullets than i would for a shower of rain. 'twas an awf'ly funny sensation (i say, this is jolly nice tea); i felt as if something had broken; by gad! i was suddenly free. free for a glorified moment, beyond regulations and laws, free just to wallow in slaughter, as the chap of the stone age was. so on i went joyously nursing a berserker rage of my own, and though all my chaps were behind me, feeling most frightf'ly alone; with the bullets and shells ding-donging, and the "krock" and the swish of the shrap; and i found myself humming "ben bolt" . . . (will you pass me the sugar, old chap? two lumps, please). . . . what was i saying? oh yes, the jolly old dash; we simply ripped through the barrage, and on with a roar and a crash. my fellows--old nick couldn't stop 'em. on, on they went with a yell, till they tripped on the boches' sand-bags,--nothing much left to tell: a trench so tattered and battered that even a rat couldn't live; some corpses tangled and mangled, wire you could pass through a sieve. the jolly old guns had bilked us, cheated us out of our show, and my fellows were simply yearning for a red mix-up with the foe. so i shouted to them to follow, and on we went roaring again, battle-tuned and exultant, on in the leaden rain. then all at once a machine gun barks from a bit of a bank, and our major roars in a fury: "we've got to take it on flank." he was running like fire to lead us, when down like a stone he comes, as full of "typewriter" bullets as a pudding is full of plums. so i took his job and we got 'em. . . . by gad! we got 'em like rats; down in a deep shell-crater we fought like kilkenny cats. 'twas pleasant just for a moment to be sheltered and out of range, with someone you _saw_ to go for--it made an agreeable change. and the boches that missed my bullets, my chaps gave a bayonet jolt, and all the time, i remember, i whistled and hummed "ben bolt". well, that little job was over, so hell for leather we ran, on to the second line trenches,--that's where the fun began. for though we had strafed 'em like fury, there still were some boches about, and my fellows, teeth set and eyes glaring, like terriers routed 'em out. then i stumbled on one of their dug-outs, and i shouted: "is anyone there?" and a voice, "yes, one; but i'm wounded," came faint up the narrow stair; and my man was descending before me, when sudden a cry! a shot! (i say, this cake is delicious. you make it yourself, do you not?) my man? oh, they killed the poor devil; for if there was one there was ten; so after i'd bombed 'em sufficient i went down at the head of my men, and four tried to sneak from a bunk-hole, but we cornered the rotters all right; i'd rather not go into details, 'twas messy that bit of the fight. but all of it's beastly messy; let's talk of pleasanter things: the skirts that the girls are wearing, ridiculous fluffy things, so short that they show. . . . oh, hang it! well, if i must, i must. we cleaned out the second trench line, bomb and bayonet thrust; and on we went to the third one, quite calloused to crumping by now; and some of our fellows who'd passed us were making a deuce of a row; and my chaps--well, i just couldn't hold 'em; (it's strange how it is with gore; in some ways it's just like whiskey: if you taste it you must have more.) their eyes were like beacons of battle; by gad, sir! they _couldn't_ be calmed, so i headed 'em bang for the bomb-belt, racing like billy-be-damned. oh, it didn't take long to arrive there, those who arrived at all; the machine guns were certainly chronic, the shindy enough to appal. oh yes, i omitted to tell you, i'd wounds on the chest and the head, and my shirt was torn to a gun-rag, and my face blood-gummy and red. i'm thinking i looked like a madman; i fancy i felt one too, half naked and swinging a rifle. . . . god! what a glorious "do". as i sit here in old piccadilly, sipping my afternoon tea, i see a blind, bullet-chipped devil, and it's hard to believe that it's me; i see a wild, war-damaged demon, smashing out left and right, and humming "ben bolt" rather loudly, and hugely enjoying the fight. and as for my men, may god bless 'em! i've loved 'em ever since then: they fought like the shining angels; they're the pick o' the land, my men. and the trench was a reeking shambles, not a boche to be seen alive-- so i thought; but on rounding a traverse i came on a covey of five; and four of 'em threw up their flippers, but the fifth chap, a sergeant, was game, and though i'd a bomb and revolver he came at me just the same. a sporty thing that, i tell you; i just couldn't blow him to hell, so i swung to the point of his jaw-bone, and down like a ninepin he fell. and then when i'd brought him to reason, he wasn't half bad, that hun; he bandaged my head and my short-rib as well as the doc could have done. so back i went with my boches, as gay as a two-year-old colt, and it suddenly struck me as rummy, i still was a-humming "ben bolt". and now, by jove! how i've bored you. you've just let me babble away; let's talk of the things that _matter_--your car or the newest play. . . . the mourners i look into the aching womb of night; i look across the mist that masks the dead; the moon is tired and gives but little light, the stars have gone to bed. the earth is sick and seems to breathe with pain; a lost wind whimpers in a mangled tree; i do not see the foul, corpse-cluttered plain, the dead i do not see. the slain i _would_ not see . . . and so i lift my eyes from out the shambles where they lie; when lo! a million woman-faces drift like pale leaves through the sky. the cheeks of some are channelled deep with tears; but some are tearless, with wild eyes that stare into the shadow of the coming years of fathomless despair. and some are young, and some are very old; and some are rich, some poor beyond belief; yet all are strangely like, set in the mould of everlasting grief. they fill the vast of heaven, face on face; and then i see one weeping with the rest, whose eyes beseech me for a moment's space. . . . oh eyes i love the best! nay, i but dream. the sky is all forlorn, and there's the plain of battle writhing red: god pity them, the women-folk who mourn! how happy are the dead! l'envoi my job is done; my rhymes are ranked and ready, my word-battalions marching verse by verse; here stanza-companies are none too steady; there print-platoons are weak, but might be worse. and as in marshalled order i review them, my type-brigades, unfearful of the fray, my eyes that seek their faults are seeing through them immortal visions of an epic day. it seems i'm in a giant bowling-alley; the hidden heavies round me crash and thud; a spire snaps like a pipe-stem in the valley; the rising sun is like a ball of blood. along the road the "fantassins" are pouring, and some are gay as fire, and some steel-stern. . . . then back again i see the red tide pouring, along the reeking road from hebuterne. and once again i seek hill sixty-seven, the hun lines grey and peaceful in my sight; when suddenly the rosy air is riven-- a "coal-box" blots the "boyou" on my right. or else to evil carnoy i am stealing, past sentinels who hail with bated breath; where not a cigarette spark's dim revealing may hint our mission in that zone of death. i see across the shrapnel-seeded meadows the jagged rubble-heap of la boiselle; blood-guilty fricourt brooding in the shadows, and thiepval's chateau empty as a shell. down albert's riven streets the moon is leering; the hanging virgin takes its bitter ray; and all the road from hamel i am hearing the silver rage of bugles over bray. once more within the sky's deep sapphire hollow i sight a swimming taube, a fairy thing; i watch the angry shell flame flash and follow in feather puffs that flick a tilted wing; and then it fades, with shrapnel mirror's flashing; the flashes bloom to blossoms lily gold; the batteries are rancorously crashing, and life is just as full as it can hold. oh spacious days of glory and of grieving! oh sounding hours of lustre and of loss! let us be glad we lived you, still believing the god who gave the cannon gave the cross. let us be sure amid these seething passions, the lusts of blood and hate our souls abhor: the power that order out of chaos fashions smites fiercest in the wrath-red forge of war. . . . have faith! fight on! amid the battle-hell love triumphs, freedom beacons, all is well. about the author robert william service was born january in preston, england, but also lived in scotland before emigrating to canada in . service went to the yukon territory in as a bank clerk, and became famous for his poems about this region, which are mostly in his first two books of poetry. he wrote quite a bit of prose as well, and worked as a reporter for some time, but those writings are not nearly as well known as his poems. he travelled around the world quite a bit, and died september in france. service's books of poetry: the spell of the yukon ( ) a.k.a. songs of a sourdough ballads of a cheechako ( ) rhymes of a rolling stone ( ) rhymes of a red cross man ( ) ballads of a bohemian ( ) bar-room ballads ( ) the complete poems ( ?) [this is simply a compilation of the six books.] [note: a sourdough is an old-timer, while a cheechako is a newbie.] a few other books by robert w. service: the trail of ' --a northland romance ( ) ploughman of the moon ( ) | a two-volume harper of heaven ( ) | autobiography. counter-attack and other poems by siegfried sassoon with an introduction by robert nichols to robert ross dans la trêve desolée de cette matinée, ces hommes qui avaient été tenaillés par la fatigue, fouettés par la pluie, bouleversés par toute une nuit de tonnerre, ces rescapés des volcans et de l'inondation entrevoyaient à quel point la guerre, aussi hideuse au moral qu'au physique, non seulement viole le bon sens, avilit les grandes idées, commande tous les crimes--mais ils se rappelaient combien elle avait développé en eux et autour d'eux tous les mauvais instincts sans en excepter un seul; la méchanceté jusqu'au sadisme, l'égoisme jusqu'à la férocité, le besoin de jouir jusqu'à la folie. henri barbusse. (le feu.) contents introduction by robert nichols prelude: the troops counter-attack the rear-guard wirers attack dreamers how to die the effect twelve months after the fathers base details the general lamentations does it matter? fight to a finish editorial impressions suicide in the trenches glory of women their frailty the hawthorn tree the investiture trench duty break of day to any dead officer sick leave banishment song-books of the war thrushes autumn invocation repression of war experience the triumph survivors joy-bells remorse dead musicians the dream in barracks together introduction sassoon the man in appearance he is tall, big-boned, loosely built. he is clean-shaven, pale or with a flush; has a heavy jaw, wide mouth with the upper lip slightly protruding and the curve of it very pronounced like that of a shrivelled leaf (as i have noticed is common in many poets). his nose is aquiline, the nostrils being wide and heavily arched. this characteristic and the fullness, depth and heat of his dark eyes give him the air of a sullen falcon. he speaks slowly, enunciating the words as if they pained him, in a voice that has something of the troubled thickness apparent in the voices of those who emerge from a deep grief. as he speaks, his large hands, roughened by trench toil and by riding, wander aimlessly until some emotion grips him when the knuckles harden and he clutches at his knees or at the edge of the table. and all the while he will be breathing hard like a man who has swum a distance. when he reads his poems he chants and one would think that he communed with himself save that, at the pauses, he shoots a powerful glance at the listener. between the poems he is still but moves his lips... he likes best to speak of hunting (he will shout of it!), of open air mornings when the gorse alone flames brighter than the sky, of country quiet, of his mother, [footnote: his father was a well-to-do country gentleman of anglo-jewish stock, his mother an english woman, a miss thornycroft, sister of the sculptor of that name.] of poetry--usually shelley, masefield and thomas hardy--and last and chiefly--but always with a rapid, tumbling enunciation and a much-irked desperate air filled with pain--of soldiers. for the incubus of war is on him so that his days are shot with anguish and his nights with horror. he is twenty-eight years old; was educated at marlborough and christchurch, oxford; was a master of fox-hounds and is a captain in the royal welsh fusiliers. thrice he has fought in france and once in palestine. behind his name are set the letters m.c. since he has won the military cross for an act of valour which went near to securing him a higher honour. sassoon the poet the poetry of siegfried sassoon divides itself into two rough classes--the idyllic and the satiric. war has defiled one to produce the other. at heart siegfried sassoon is an idealist. before the war he had hardly published a line. he spent his summers in the company of books, at the piano, on expeditions, and in playing tennis. during winter he hunted. hunting was a greater passion with him than poetry. much of his poetry celebrated the loveliness of the field as seen by the huntsman in the early morning light. but few probably guessed that the youth known to excel in field sports excelled also in poetry. for, in its way, this early poetry does excel. it was characteristic of him that nearly every little book he then wrote was privately printed. poetry was for him just something for private and particular enjoyment--like a ride alone before breakfast. among these privately printed books are twelve sonnets ( ), melodies, an ode for music, hyacinth (all ). the names are significant. he was occupied with natural beauty and with music. in he publishes in a limited and obscure edition apollo in doelyrium, wherein it seems that he is beginning to find a certain want of body and basis in his poems made of beautiful words about beautiful objects. later in the same year, with masefield's everlasting mercy ( ), widow in the bye sheet ( ) and daffodil fields ( ) before him, he starts to write a parody of these uncouth intrusions of the sorrows of obscure persons into his paradise but half way through the poem adopts the masefield manner in earnest [footnote: i had this from his own mouth.] and finishes by unsuccessfully endeavouring to rival his master. in the war breaks out. home on leave in he privately prints discoveries, a little book which contains some of the loveliest of his 'paradise' poems. in the change has come. he can hardly believe it himself. 'morning glory' (privately printed) includes four war poems. he has not definitely turned to his later style but he hovers on the brink. the war is beginning to pain him. the poems 'to victory' and 'the dragon and the undying' show him turning toward his paradise to see if its beauty can save him ... the year witnesses the publication of the old huntsman. [footnote: 'the old huntsman,' dutton & co., .] this book secured instantaneous success. siegfried sassoon, on its publication, became one of the leading young poets of england. the book begins with the long monologue of a retired huntsman, a piece of remarkable characterisation. it continues with all the best of the 'paradise' poems, including the loveliest in 'discoveries' and 'morning glory.' there are also the 'bridge' poems between his old manner and his new such as the 'to victory' mentioned above. but interspersed among the paradise poems are the first poems in his final war style. he tells the story of the change in a characteristic manner--conscripts (page , 'the old huntsman'). for like nearly every one of the young english poets, he is to some extent a humourist. his humour is not, however, even through 'the old huntsman' all of such a wise and gentle tenor. he breaks out into lively bitterness in such poems as 'they,' 'the tombstone maker' and 'blighters.' conscripts "fall in, that awkward squad, and strike no more "attractive attitudes! dress by the right! "the luminous rich colours that you wore "have changed to hueless khaki in the night. "magic? what's magic got to do with you? "there's no such thing! blood's red and skies are blue." they gasped and sweated, marching up and down. i drilled them till they cursed my raucous shout. love chucked his lute away and dropped his crown. rhyme got sore heels and wanted to fall out. "left, right! press on your butts!" they looked at me reproachful; how i longed to set them free! i gave them lectures on defence, attack; they fidgeted and shuffled, yawned and sighed, and boggled at my questions. joy was slack, and wisdom gnawed his fingers, gloomy-eyed. young fancy--how i loved him all the while-- stared at his note-book with a rueful smile. their training done, i shipped them all to france. where most of those i'd loved too well got killed. rapture and pale enchantment and romance, and many a sickly, slender lord who'd filled my soul long since with litanies of sin. went home, because they couldn't stand the din. but the kind, common ones that i despised, (hardly a man of them i'd count as friend), what stubborn-hearted virtues they disguised! they stood and played the hero to the end, won gold and silver medals bright with bars, and marched resplendent home with crowns and stars. this book (in consequence almost wholly of these bitter poems) enjoyed a remarkable success with the soldiers fighting in france. one met it everywhere. "hello, you know siegfried sassoon then, do you? well, tell him from me that the more he lays it on thick to those who don't realize the war the better. that's the stuff we want. we're fed up with the old men's death-or-glory stunt." in appeared 'countermans' attack': here there is hardly a trace of the 'paradise' feeling. you can't even think of paradise when you're in hell. for sassoon was now well along the way of thorns. how many lives had he not seen spilled apparently to no purpose? did not the fact of war arch him in like a dirty blood-red sky? he breaks out, almost like a mad man, into imprecations, into vehement tirades, into sarcasms, ironies, the hellish laughters that arise from a heart that is not broken once for all but that is newly broken every day while the monster that devours the lives of the young continues its ravages. take, for instance, the magnificent 'to any dead officer', written just before america entered the war. many reading this poem would think great britain was going to cease fighting. but nothing of the sort. one must always remember that bitter as these imprecations are against those who mismanaged certain episodes in the war, the ultimate foe is not they but the german junkers who planned this war for forty years, who have given the lovely earth over to hideous defilement and the youths of all nations to carnage... sometimes in this book sassoon fails to express himself properly. this fact is, i think, a tribute to his sincerity. for his earlier work very clearly displays his technical proficiency. but here what can he do? indignation chokes and strangles him. he claws often enough at unsatisfactory words, dislocates his sentences, tumbles out his images as if he would pulp the makers of war beneath them. very rarely does he attain to the poignant simplicity of 'the hawthorn tree' or the detached irony of 'does it matter?' can he then see nothing else in war? i remember him once turning to me and saying suddenly apropos of certain exalté poems in my 'ardours and endurances': 'yes, i see all that and i agree with you, robert. war has made me. i think i am a man now as well as a poet. you have said the things well enough. now let us nevermore say another word of whatever little may be good in war for the individual who has a heart to be steeled.' i remember i nodded, for further acquaintance with war inclines me to his opinion. 'let no one ever,' he continued, 'from henceforth say a word in any way countenancing war. it is dangerous even to speak of how here and there the individual may gain some hardship of soul by it. for war is hell and those who institute it are criminals. were there anything to say for it, it should not be said for its spiritual disasters far outweigh any of its advantages.' for myself this is the truth. war doesn't ennoble: it degrades. the words of barbusse placed at the beginning of this book should be engraved over the doors of every war office of every state in the world. while war is a possibility man is little better than a savage and civilisation the mere moments of rest between a succession of nightmares. it is to help to end this horror that siegfried sassoon and the many others who feel like him have continued to fight as after the publication of this book he fought in palestine and in france. you civilized persons who read this book not only as a poet but as a soldier i beg of you not to turn from it. read it again and again till its words become part of your consciousness. it was written by a man for mankind's sake, that 'that which is humane' might no more be an empty phrase, that the words of blake might blossom to a new meaning-- thou art a man, god is no more, thine own humanity learn to adore. new york city, nov. th- rd. robert nichols. prelude: the troops dim, gradual thinning of the shapeless gloom shudders to drizzling daybreak that reveals disconsolate men who stamp their sodden boots and turn dulled, sunken faces to the sky haggard and hopeless. they, who have beaten down the stale despair of night, must now renew their desolation in the truce of dawn, murdering the livid hours that grope for peace. yet these, who cling to life with stubborn hands, can grin through storms of death and find a gap in the clawed, cruel tangles of his defence. they march from safety, and the bird-sung joy of grass-green thickets, to the land where all is ruin, and nothing blossoms but the sky that hastens over them where they endure sad, smoking, flat horizons, reeking woods, and foundered trench-lines volleying doom for doom. o my brave brown companions, when your souls flock silently away, and the eyeless dead shame the wild beast of battle on the ridge, death will stand grieving in that field of war since your unvanquished hardihood is spent. and through some mooned valhalla there will pass battalions and battalions, scarred from hell; the unreturning army that was youth; the legions who have suffered and are dust. counter-attack we'd gained our first objective hours before while dawn broke like a face with blinking eyes, pallid, unshaved and thirsty, blind with smoke. things seemed all right at first. we held their line, with bombers posted, lewis guns well placed, and clink of shovels deepening the shallow trench. the place was rotten with dead; green clumsy legs high-booted, sprawled and grovelled along the saps; and trunks, face downward, in the sucking mud, wallowed like trodden sand-bags loosely filled; and naked sodden buttocks, mats of hair, bulged, clotted heads slept in the plastering slime. and then the rain began,--the jolly old rain! a yawning soldier knelt against the bank, staring across the morning blear with fog; he wondered when the allemands would get busy; and then, of course, they started with five-nines traversing, sure as fate, and never a dud. mute in the clamour of shells he watched them burst spouting dark earth and wire with gusts from hell, while posturing giants dissolved in drifts of smoke. he crouched and flinched, dizzy with galloping fear, sick for escape,--loathing the strangled horror and butchered, frantic gestures of the dead. an officer came blundering down the trench: "stand-to and man the fire-step!" on he went ... gasping and bawling, "fire-step ... counter-attack!" then the haze lifted. bombing on the right down the old sap: machine-guns on the left; and stumbling figures looming out in front. "o christ, they're coming at us!" bullets spat, and he remembered his rifle ... rapid fire ... and started blazing wildly ... then a bang crumpled and spun him sideways, knocked him out to grunt and wriggle: none heeded him; he choked and fought the flapping veils of smothering gloom, lost in a blurred confusion of yells and groans ... down, and down, and down, he sank and drowned, bleeding to death. the counter-attack had failed. the rear-guard (hindenburg line, april .) groping along the tunnel, step by step, he winked his prying torch with patching glare from side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air. tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague to know, a mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed; and he, exploring fifty feet below the rosy gloom of battle overhead. tripping, he grabbed the wall; saw some one lie humped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug, and stooped to give the sleeper's arm a tug. "i'm looking for headquarters." no reply. "god blast your neck!" (for days he'd had no sleep.) "get up and guide me through this stinking place." savage, he kicked a soft, unanswering heap, and flashed his beam across the livid face terribly glaring up, whose eyes yet wore agony dying hard ten days before; and fists of fingers clutched a blackening wound. alone he staggered on until he found dawn's ghost that filtered down a shafted stair to the dazed, muttering creatures underground who hear the boom of shells in muffled sound. at last, with sweat of horror in his hair, he climbed through darkness to the twilight air, unloading hell behind him step by step. wirers "pass it along, the wiring party's going out"-- and yawning sentries mumble, "wirers going out," unravelling; twisting; hammering stakes with muffled thud, they toil with stealthy haste and anger in their blood. the boche sends up a flare. black forms stand rigid there, stock-still like posts; then darkness, and the clumsy ghosts stride hither and thither, whispering, tripped by clutching snare of snags and tangles. ghastly dawn with vaporous coasts gleams desolate along the sky, night's misery ended. young hughes was badly hit; i heard him carried away, moaning at every lurch; no doubt he'll die to-day. but _we_ can say the front-line wire's been safely mended. attack at dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun in the wild purple of the glowering sun, smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud the menacing scarred slope; and, one by one, tanks creep and topple forward to the wire. the barrage roars and lifts. then, clumsily bowed with bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear, men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire. lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear, they leave their trenches, going over the top, while time ticks blank and busy on their wrists, and hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists, flounders in mud. o jesu, make it stop! dreamers soldiers are citizens of death's grey land, drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows. in the great hour of destiny they stand, each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows. soldiers are sworn to action; they must win some flaming, fatal climax with their lives. soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin they think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives. i see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats, and in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain, dreaming of things they did with balls and bats, and mocked by hopeless longing to regain bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats, and going to the office in the train. how to die dark clouds are smouldering into red while down the craters morning burns. the dying soldier shifts his head to watch the glory that returns: he lifts his fingers toward the skies where holy brightness breaks in flame; radiance reflected in his eyes, and on his lips a whispered name. you'd think, to hear some people talk, that lads go west with sobs and curses, and sullen faces white as chalk, hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses. but they've been taught the way to do it like christian soldiers; not with haste and shuddering groans; but passing through it with due regard for decent taste. the effect "the effect of our bombardment was terrific. one man told me he had never seen so many dead before."--_war correspondent_. _"he'd never seen so many dead before."_ they sprawled in yellow daylight while he swore and gasped and lugged his everlasting load of bombs along what once had been a road. _"how peaceful are the dead."_ who put that silly gag in some one's head? _"he'd never seen so many dead before."_ the lilting words danced up and down his brain, while corpses jumped and capered in the rain. no, no; he wouldn't count them any more ... the dead have done with pain: they've choked; they can't come back to life again. when dick was killed last week he looked like that, flapping along the fire-step like a fish, after the blazing crump had knocked him flat ... _"how many dead? as many as ever you wish. don't count 'em; they're too many. who'll buy my nice fresh corpses, two a penny?"_ twelve months after hullo! here's my platoon, the lot i had last year. "the war'll be over soon." "what 'opes?" "no bloody fear!" then, "number seven, 'shun! all present and correct." they're standing in the sun, impassive and erect. young gibson with his grin; and morgan, tired and white; jordan, who's out to win a d.c.m. some night; and hughes that's keen on wiring; and davies (' ), who always must be firing at the boche front line. * * * * * "old soldiers never die; they simply fide a-why!" that's what they used to sing along the roads last spring; that's what they used to say before the push began; that's where they are to-day, knocked over to a man. the fathers snug at the club two fathers sat, gross, goggle-eyed, and full of chat. one of them said: "my eldest lad writes cheery letters from bagdad. but arthur's getting all the fun at arras with his nine-inch gun." "yes," wheezed the other, "that's the luck! my boy's quite broken-hearted, stuck in england training all this year. still, if there's truth in what we hear, the huns intend to ask for more before they bolt across the rhine." i watched them toddle through the door-- these impotent old friends of mine. base details if i were fierce, and bald, and short of breath, i'd live with scarlet majors at the base, and speed glum heroes up the line to death. you'd see me with my puffy petulant face, guzzling and gulping in the best hotel, reading the roll of honour. "poor young chap," i'd say--"i used to know his father well; yes, we've lost heavily in this last scrap." and when the war is done and youth stone dead, i'd toddle safely home and die--in bed. the general "good-morning; good-morning!" the general said when we met him last week on our way to the line. now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead, and we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine. "he's a cheery old card," grunted harry to jack as they slogged up to arras with rifle and pack. * * * * * but he did for them both by his plan of attack. lamentations i found him in the guard-room at the base. from the blind darkness i had heard his crying and blundered in. with puzzled, patient face a sergeant watched him; it was no good trying to stop it; for he howled and beat his chest. and, all because his brother had gone west, raved at the bleeding war; his rampant grief moaned, shouted, sobbed, and choked, while he was kneeling half-naked on the floor. in my belief such men have lost all patriotic feeling. does it matter? does it matter?--losing your leg? ... for people will always be kind, and you need not show that you mind when the others come in after hunting to gobble their muffins and eggs. does it matter?--losing your sight? ... there's such splendid work for the blind; and people will always be kind, as you sit on the terrace remembering and turning your face to the light. do they matter?--those dreams from the pit? ... you can drink and forget and be glad, and people won't say that you're mad; for they'll know that you've fought for your country, and no one will worry a bit. fight to a finish the boys came back. bands played and flags were flying, and yellow-pressmen thronged the sunlit street to cheer the soldiers who'd refrained from dying, and hear the music of returning feet. "of all the thrills and ardours war has brought, this moment is the finest." (so they thought.) snapping their bayonets on to charge the mob, grim fusiliers broke ranks with glint of steel. at last the boys had found a cushy job. * * * * * i heard the yellow-pressmen grunt and squeal; and with my trusty bombers turned and went to clear those junkers out of parliament. editorial impressions he seemed so certain "all was going well," as he discussed the glorious time he'd had while visiting the trenches. "one can tell you've gathered big impressions!" grinned the lad who'd been severely wounded in the back in some wiped-out impossible attack. "impressions? yes, most vivid! i am writing a little book called _europe on the rack_, based on notes made while witnessing the fighting. i hope i've caught the feeling of 'the line' and the amazing spirit of the troops. by jove, those flying-chaps of ours are fine! i watched one daring beggar looping loops, soaring and diving like some bird of prey. and through it all i felt that splendour shine which makes us win." the soldier sipped his wine. "ah, yes, but it's the press that leads the way!" suicide in the trenches i knew a simple soldier boy who grinned at life in empty joy, slept soundly through the lonesome dark, and whistled early with the lark. in winter trenches, cowed and glum, with crumps and lice and lack of rum, he put a bullet through his brain. no one spoke of him again. * * * * * you snug-faced crowds with kindling eye who cheer when soldier lads march by, sneak home and pray you'll never know the hell where youth and laughter go. glory of women you love us when we're heroes, home on leave, or wounded in a mentionable place. you worship decorations; you believe that chivalry redeems the war's disgrace. you make us shells. you listen with delight, by tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled. you crown our distant ardours while we fight, and mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed. you can't believe that british troops "retire" when hell's last horror breaks them, and they run, trampling the terrible corpses--blind with blood. o german mother dreaming by the fire, while you are knitting socks to send your son his face is trodden deeper in the mud. their frailty he's got a blighty wound. he's safe; and then war's fine and bold and bright. she can forget the doomed and prisoned men who agonize and fight. he's back in france. she loathes the listless strain and peril of his plight. beseeching heaven to send him home again, she prays for peace each night. husbands and sons and lovers; everywhere they die; war bleeds us white. mothers and wives and sweethearts,--they don't care so long as he's all right. the hawthorn tree not much to me is yonder lane where i go every day; but when there's been a shower of rain and hedge-birds whistle gay, i know my lad that's out in france with fearsome things to see would give his eyes for just one glance at our white hawthorn tree. * * * * * not much to me is yonder lane where _he_ so longs to tread; but when there's been a shower of rain i think i'll never weep again until i've heard he's dead. the investiture god with a roll of honour in his hand sits welcoming the heroes who have died, while sorrowless angels ranked on either side stand easy in elysium's meadow-land. then _you_ come shyly through the garden gate, wearing a blood-soaked bandage on your head; and god says something kind because you're dead, and homesick, discontented with your fate. if i were there we'd snowball death with skulls; or ride away to hunt in devil's wood with ghosts of puppies that we walked of old. but you're alone; and solitude annuls our earthly jokes; and strangely wise and good you roam forlorn along the streets of gold. trench duty shaken from sleep, and numbed and scarce awake, out in the trench with three hours' watch to take, i blunder through the splashing mirk; and then hear the gruff muttering voices of the men crouching in cabins candle-chinked with light. hark! there's the big bombardment on our right rumbling and bumping; and the dark's a glare of flickering horror in the sectors where we raid the boche; men waiting, stiff and chilled, or crawling on their bellies through the wire. "what? stretcher-bearers wanted? some one killed?" five minutes ago i heard a sniper fire: why did he do it? ... starlight overhead-- blank stars. i'm wide-awake; and some chap's dead. break of day there seemed a smell of autumn in the air at the bleak end of night; he shivered there in a dank, musty dug-out where he lay, legs wrapped in sand-bags,--lumps of chalk and clay spattering his face. dry-mouthed, he thought, "to-day we start the damned attack; and, lord knows why, zero's at nine; how bloody if i'm done in under the freedom of that morning sky!" and then he coughed and dozed, cursing the din. was it the ghost of autumn in that smell of underground, or god's blank heart grown kind, that sent a happy dream to him in hell?-- where men are crushed like clods, and crawl to find some crater for their wretchedness; who lie in outcast immolation, doomed to die far from clean things or any hope of cheer, cowed anger in their eyes, till darkness brims and roars into their heads, and they can hear old childish talk, and tags of foolish hymns. he sniffs the chilly air; (his dreaming starts). he's riding in a dusty sussex lane in quiet september; slowly night departs; and he's a living soul, absolved from pain. beyond the brambled fences where he goes are glimmering fields with harvest piled in sheaves, and tree-tops dark against the stars grown pale; then, clear and shrill, a distant farm-cock crows; and there's a wall of mist along the vale where willows shake their watery-sounding leaves. he gazes on it all, and scarce believes that earth is telling its old peaceful tale; he thanks the blessed world that he was born ... then, far away, a lonely note of the horn. they're drawing the big wood! unlatch the gate, and set golumpus going on the grass: _he_ knows the corner where it's best to wait and hear the crashing woodland chorus pass; the corner where old foxes make their track to the long spinney; that's the place to be. the bracken shakes below an ivied tree, and then a cub looks out; and "tally-o-back!" he bawls, and swings his thong with volleying crack,-- all the clean thrill of autumn in his blood, and hunting surging through him like a flood in joyous welcome from the untroubled past; while the war drifts away, forgotten at last. now a red, sleepy sun above the rim of twilight stares along the quiet weald, and the kind, simple country shines revealed in solitudes of peace, no longer dim. the old horse lifts his face and thanks the light, then stretches down his head to crop the green. all things that he has loved are in his sight; the places where his happiness has been are in his eyes, his heart, and they are good. * * * * * hark! there's the horn: they're drawing the big wood. to any dead officer well, how are things in heaven? i wish you'd say, because i'd like to know that you're all right. tell me, have you found everlasting day, or been sucked in by everlasting night? for when i shut my eyes your face shows pain; i hear you make some cheery old remark-- i can rebuild you in my brain, though you've gone out patrolling in the dark. you hated tours of trenches; you were proud of nothing more than having good years to spend; longed to get home and join the careless crowd of chaps who work in peace with time for friend. that's all washed out now. you're beyond the wire: no earthly chance can send you crawling back; you've finished with machine-gun fire-- knocked over in a hopeless dud-attack. somehow i always thought you'd get done in, because you were so desperate keen to live: you were all out to try and save your skin, well knowing how much the world had got to give. you joked at shells and talked the usual "shop," stuck to your dirty job and did it fine: with "jesus christ! when _will_ it stop? three years... it's hell unless we break their line." so when they told me you'd been left for dead i wouldn't believe them, feeling it _must_ be true. next week the bloody roll of honour said "wounded and missing"--(that's the thing to do when lads are left in shell-holes dying slow, with nothing but blank sky and wounds that ache, moaning for water till they know it's night, and then it's not worth while to wake!) * * * * * good-bye, old lad! remember me to god, and tell him that our politicians swear they won't give in till prussian rule's been trod under the heel of england... are you there? ... yes ... and the war won't end for at least two years; but we've got stacks of men... i'm blind with tears, staring into the dark. cheero! i wish they'd killed you in a decent show. sick leave when i'm asleep, dreaming and lulled and warm,-- they come, the homeless ones, the noiseless dead. while the dim charging breakers of the storm bellow and drone and rumble overhead, out of the gloom they gather about my bed. they whisper to my heart; their thoughts are mine. "why are you here with all your watches ended? from ypres to frise we sought you in the line." in bitter safety i awake, unfriended; and while the dawn begins with slashing rain i think of the battalion in the mud. "when are you going out to them again? are they not still your brothers through our blood?" banishment i am banished from the patient men who fight. they smote my heart to pity, built my pride. shoulder to aching shoulder, side by side, they trudged away from life's broad wealds of light. their wrongs were mine; and ever in my sight they went arrayed in honour. but they died,-- not one by one: and mutinous i cried to those who sent them out into the night. the darkness tells how vainly i have striven to free them from the pit where they must dwell in outcast gloom convulsed and jagged and riven by grappling guns. love drove me to rebel. love drives me back to grope with them through hell; and in their tortured eyes i stand forgiven. song-books of the war in fifty years, when peace outshines remembrance of the battle lines, adventurous lads will sigh and cast proud looks upon the plundered past. on summer morn or winter's night, their hearts will kindle for the fight, reading a snatch of soldier-song, savage and jaunty, fierce and strong; and through the angry marching rhymes of blind regret and haggard mirth, they'll envy us the dazzling times when sacrifice absolved our earth. some ancient man with silver locks will lift his weary face to say: "war was a fiend who stopped our clocks although we met him grim and gay." and then he'll speak of haig's last drive, marvelling that any came alive out of the shambles that men built and smashed, to cleanse the world of guilt. but the boys, with grin and sidelong glance, will think, "poor grandad's day is done." and dream of those who fought in france and lived in time to share the fun. thrushes tossed on the glittering air they soar and skim, whose voices make the emptiness of light a windy palace. quavering from the brim of dawn, and bold with song at edge of night, they clutch their leafy pinnacles and sing scornful of man, and from his toils aloof whose heart's a haunted woodland whispering; whose thoughts return on tempest-baffled wing; who hears the cry of god in everything, and storms the gate of nothingness for proof. autumn october's bellowing anger breaks and cleaves the bronzed battalions of the stricken wood in whose lament i hear a voice that grieves for battle's fruitless harvest, and the feud of outraged men. their lives are like the leaves scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown along the westering furnace flaring red. o martyred youth and manhood overthrown, the burden of your wrongs is on my head. invocation come down from heaven to meet me when my breath chokes, and through drumming shafts of stifling death i stumble toward escape, to find the door opening on morn where i may breathe once more clear cock-crow airs across some valley dim with whispering trees. while dawn along the rim of night's horizon flows in lakes of fire, come down from heaven's bright hill, my song's desire. belov'd and faithful, teach my soul to wake in glades deep-ranked with flowers that gleam and shake and flock your paths with wonder. in your gaze show me the vanquished vigil of my days. mute in that golden silence hung with green, come down from heaven and bring me in your eyes remembrance of all beauty that has been, and stillness from the pools of paradise. repression of war experience now light the candles; one; two; there's a moth; what silly beggars they are to blunder in and scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame-- no, no, not that,--it's bad to think of war, when thoughts you've gagged all day come back to scare you; and it's been proved that soldiers don't go mad unless they lose control of ugly thoughts that drive them out to jabber among the trees. now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand, draw a deep breath; stop thinking, count fifteen, and you're as right as rain... why won't it rain? ... i wish there'd be a thunder-storm to-night, with bucketsful of water to sluice the dark, and make the roses hang their dripping heads. books; what a jolly company they are, standing so quiet and patient on their shelves, dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green, and every kind of colour. which will you read? come on; o _do_ read something; they're so wise. i tell you all the wisdom of the world is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet you sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out, and listen to the silence: on the ceiling there's one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters; and in the breathless air outside the house the garden waits for something that delays. there must be crowds of ghosts among the trees,-- not people killed in battle,--they're in france,-- but horrible shapes in shrouds--old men who died slow, natural deaths,--old men with ugly souls, who wore their bodies out with nasty sins. * * * * * you're quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home; you'd never think there was a bloody war on! ... o yes, you would ... why, you can hear the guns. hark! thud, thud, thud,--quite soft ... they never cease-- those whispering guns--o christ, i want to go out and screech at them to stop--i'm going crazy; i'm going stark, staring mad because of the guns. the triumph when life was a cobweb of stars for beauty who came in the whisper of leaves or a bird's lone cry in the glen, on dawn-lit hills and horizons girdled with flame i sought for the triumph that troubles the faces of men. with death in the terrible flickering gloom of the fight i was cruel and fierce with despair; i was naked and bound; was stricken: and beauty returned through the shambles of night; in the faces of men she returned; and their triumph i found. survivors no doubt they'll soon get well; the shock and strain have caused their stammering, disconnected talk. of course they're "longing to go out again,"-- these boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk, they'll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed subjection to the ghosts of friends who died,-- their dreams that drip with murder; and they'll be proud of glorious war that shatter'd all their pride ... men who went out to battle, grim and glad; children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad. craiglockart, oct. . joy-bells ring your sweet bells; but let them be farewells to the green-vista'd gladness of the past that changed us into soldiers; swing your bells to a joyful chime; but let it be the last. what means this metal in windy belfries hung when guns are all our need? dissolve these bells whose tones are tuned for peace: with martial tongue let them cry doom and storm the sun with shells. bells are like fierce-browed prelates who proclaim that "if our lord returned he'd fight for _us_." so let our bells and bishops do the same, shoulder to shoulder with the motor bus. remorse lost in the swamp and welter of the pit, he flounders off the duck-boards; only he knows each flash, and spouting crash,--each instant lit when gloom reveals the streaming rain. he goes heavily, blindly on. and, while he blunders, "could anything be worse than this!"--he wonders, remembering how he saw those germans run, screaming for mercy among the stumps of trees: green-faced, they dodged and darted: there was one livid with terror, clutching at his knees... our chaps were sticking 'em like pigs... "o hell!" he thought--"there's things in war one dare not tell poor father sitting safe at home, who reads of dying heroes and their deathless deeds." dead musicians i from you, beethoven, bach, mozart, the substance of my dreams took fire. you built cathedrals in my heart, and lit my pinnacled desire. you were the ardour and the bright procession of my thoughts toward prayer. you were the wrath of storm, the light on distant citadels aflare. ii great names, i cannot find you now in these loud years of youth that strives through doom toward peace: upon my brow i wear a wreath of banished lives. you have no part with lads who fought and laughed and suffered at my side. your fugues and symphonies have brought no memory of my friends who died. iii for when my brain is on their track, in slangy speech i call them back. with fox-trot tunes their ghosts i charm. _"another little drink won't do us any harm." i think of rag-time; a bit of rag-time; and see their faces crowding round to the sound of the syncopated beat. they've got such jolly things to tell, home from hell with a blighty wound so neat..._ * * * * * and so the song breaks off; and i'm alone. they're dead... for god's sake stop that gramophone. the dream i moonlight and dew-drenched blossom, and the scent of summer gardens; these can bring you all those dreams that in the starlit silence fall: sweet songs are full of odours. while i went last night in drizzling dusk along a lane, i passed a squalid farm; from byre and midden came the rank smell that brought me once again a dream of war that in the past was hidden. ii up a disconsolate straggling village street i saw the tired troops trudge: i heard their feet. the cheery q.m.s. was there to meet and guide our company in ... i watched them stumble into some crazy hovel, too beat to grumble; saw them file inward, slipping from their backs rifles, equipment, packs. on filthy straw they sit in the gloom, each face bowed to patched, sodden boots they must unlace, while the wind chills their sweat through chinks and cracks. iii i'm looking at their blistered feet; young jones stares up at me, mud-splashed and white and jaded; out of his eyes the morning light has faded. old soldiers with three winters in their bones puff their damp woodbines, whistle, stretch their toes: _they_ can still grin at me, for each of 'em knows that i'm as tired as they are ... can they guess the secret burden that is always mine?-- pride in their courage; pity for their distress; and burning bitterness that i must take them to the accursèd line. iv i cannot hear their voices, but i see dim candles in the barn: they gulp their tea, and soon they'll sleep like logs. ten miles away the battle winks and thuds in blundering strife. and i must lead them nearer, day by day, to the foul beast of war that bludgeons life. in barracks the barrack-square, washed clean with rain, shines wet and wintry-grey and cold. young fusiliers, strong-legged and bold, march and wheel and march again. the sun looks over the barrack gate, warm and white with glaring shine, to watch the soldiers of the line that life has hired to fight with fate. fall out: the long parades are done. up comes the dark; down goes the sun. the square is walled with windowed light. sleep well, you lusty fusiliers; shut your brave eyes on sense and sight, and banish from your dreamless ears the bugle's lying notes that say, "another night; another day." together splashing along the boggy woods all day, and over brambled hedge and holding clay, i shall not think of him: but when the watery fields grow brown and dim, and hounds have lost their fox, and horses tire, i know that he'll be with me on my way home through the darkness to the evening fire. he's jumped each stile along the glistening lanes; his hand will be upon the mud-soaked reins; hearing the saddle creak, he'll wonder if the frost will come next week. i shall forget him in the morning light; and while we gallop on he will not speak: but at the stable-door he'll say good-night. the red flower poems written in war time by henry van dyke d.o.l. (oxon.) preface these are verses that came to me in this dreadful war time amid the cares and labors of a heavy task. two of the poems, "a scrap of paper" and "stand fast," were written in and bore the signature _civis americanus_--the use of my own name at the time being impossible. two others, "lights out" and "remarks about kings," were read for me by robert underwood johnson at the meeting of the american academy in boston, november, , at which i was unable to be present. the rest of the verses were printed after i had resigned my diplomatic post and was free to say what i thought and felt, without reserve. the "interludes in holland" are thoughts of the peaceful things that will abide for all the world after we have won this war against war. sylvanora, october , . contents premonition the red flower (june, ) the trial as by fire a scrap of paper stand fast lights out ( ) remarks about kings war-music might and right the price of peace storm-music france and belgium the bells op malines (august , ) the name of france jeanne d'arc returns ( - ) interludes in holland the heavenly hills of holland the proud lady flood-tide of flowers (in holland) enter america american's prosperity the glory of ships mare liberum "liberty enlightening the world" the oxford thrushes (february, ) homeward bound premonition the red flower june in the pleasant time of pentecost, by the little river kyll, i followed the angler's winding path or waded the stream at will. and the friendly fertile german land lay round me green and still. but all day long on the eastern bank of the river cool and clear, where the curving track of the double rails was hardly seen though near, the endless trains of german troops went rolling down to trier. they packed the windows with bullet heads and caps of hodden gray; they laughed and sang and shouted loud when the trains were brought to a stay; they waved their hands and sang again as they went on their iron way. no shadow fell on the smiling land, no cloud arose in the sky; i could hear the river's quiet tune when the trains had rattled by; but my heart sank low with a heavy sense of trouble,--i knew not why. then came i into a certain field where the devil's paint-brush spread 'mid the gray and green of the rolling hills a flaring splotch of red, an evil omen, a bloody sign, and a token of many dead. i saw in a vision the field-gray horde break forth at the devil's hour, and trample the earth into crimson mud in the rage of the will to power,-- all this i dreamed in the valley of kyll, at the sign of the blood-red flower. a scrap of paper "will you go to war just for a scrap of paper?"--_question of the german chancellor to the british ambassador, august , ._ a mocking question! britain's answer came swift as the light and searching as the flame. "yes, for a scrap of paper we will fight till our last breath, and god defend the right! "a scrap of paper where a name is set is strong as duty's pledge and honor's debt. "a scrap of paper holds for man and wife the sacrament of love, the bound of life. "a scrap of paper may be holy writ with god's eternal word to hallow it. "a scrap of paper binds us both to stand defenders of a neutral neighbor land. "by god, by faith, by honor, yes! we fight to keep our name upon that paper white." september, stand fast stand fast, great britain! together england, scotland, ireland stand one in the faith that makes a mighty land, true to the bond you gave and will not break and fearless in the fight for conscience' sake! against giant robber clad in steel, with blood of trampled belgium on his heel, striding through france to strike you down at last, britain, stand fast! stand fast, brave land! the huns are thundering toward the citadel; they prate of culture but their path is hell; their light is darkness, and the bloody sword they wield and worship is their only lord. o land where reason stands secure on right, o land where freedom is the source of light, against the mailed barbarians' deadly blast, britain, stand fast! stand fast, dear land! thou island mother of a world-wide race, whose children speak thy tongue and love thy face, their hearts and hopes are with thee in the strife, their hands will break the sword that seeks thy life; fight on until the teuton madness cease; fight bravely on, until the word of peace is spoken in the english tongue at last, britain, stand fast! september, . lights out ( ) "lights out" along the land, "lights out" upon the sea. the night must put her hiding hand o'er peaceful towns where children sleep, and peaceful ships that darkly creep across the waves, as if they were not free. the dragons of the air, the hell-hounds of the deep, lurking and prowling everywhere, go forth to seek their helpless prey, not knowing whom they maim or slay-- mad harvesters, who care not what they reap. out with the tranquil lights, out with the lights that burn for love and law and human rights! set back the clock a thousand years: all they have gained now disappears, and the dark ages suddenly return. kaiser who loosed wild death and terror in the night god grant you draw no quiet breath, until the madness you began is ended, and long-suffering man, set free from war lords, cries, "let there be light." october, . read at the meeting of the american academy, boston, november, . remarks about kings _god said, "i am tired of kings._"--emerson. god said, "i am tired of kings,"-- but that was a long time ago! and meantime man said, "no, i like their looks in their robes and rings." so he crowned a few more, and they went on playing the game as before fighting and spoiling things. man said, "i am tired of kings! sons of the robber-chiefs of yore, they make me pay for their lust and their war; i am the puppet, they pull the strings; the blood of my heart is the wine they drink. i will govern myself for while i think, and see what that brings!" then god, who made the first remark, smiled in the dark. read at the meeting of the american academy, boston. november, . war-music break off! dance no more! danger is at the door. music is in arms. to signal war's alarms, hark, a sudden trumpet calling over the hill why are you calling, trumpet, calling? what is your will? men, men, men! men who are ready to fight for their country's life, and the right. of a liberty-loving land to be free, free, free! free from a tyrant's chain, free from dishonor's stain, free to guard and maintain all that her fathers fought for, all that her sons have wrought for, resolute, brave, and free! call again, trumpet, call again, call up the men! do you hear the storm of cheers mingled with the women's tears and the tramp, tramp, tramp of marching feet? do you hear the throbbing drum as the hosts of battle come keeping time, time, time to its beat? o music give a song to make their spirit strong for the fury of the tempest they must meet. the hoarse roar of the monster guns; and the sharp bark of the lesser guns; the whine of the shells, the rifles' clatter where the bullets patter, the rattle, rattle, rattle of the mitrailleuse in battle, and the yells of the men who charge through hells where the poison gas descends. and the bursting shrapnel rends limb from limb in the dim chaos and clamor of the strife where no man thinks of his life but only of fighting through, blindly fighting through, through! 'tis done at last! the victory won, the dissonance of warfare past! o music mourn the dead whose loyal blood was shed, and sound the taps for every hero slain; then lend into the song that made their spirit strong, and tell the world they did not die in vain. thank god we can see, in the glory of morn, the invincible flag that our fathers defended; and our hearts can repeat what the heroes have sworn, that war shall not end till the war-lust is ended, then the bloodthirsty sword shall no longer be lord of the nations oppressed by the conqueror's horde, but the banners of freedom shall peacefully wave o'er the world of the free and the lands of the brave. may, might and right if might made right, life were a wild-beasts' cage; if right made might, this were the golden age; but now, until we win the long campaign right must gain might to conquer and to reign. july , . the price of peace peace without justice is a low estate,-- a coward cringing to an iron fate! but peace through justice is the great ideal,-- we'll pay the price of war to make it real. december , . storm music o music hast thou only heard the laughing river, the singing bird, the murmuring wind in the poplar-trees,-- nothing but nature's melodies? nay, thou hearest all her tones, as a queen must hear! sounds of wrath and fear, mutterings, shouts, and moans, mildness, tumult, and despair,-- all she has that shakes the air with voices fierce and wild! thou art a queen and not a dreaming child,-- put on thy crown and let us hear thee reign triumphant in a world of storm and strain! echo the long-drawn sighs of the mounting wind in the pines; and the sobs of the mounting waves that rise in the dark of the troubled deep to break on the beach in fiery lines. echo the far-off roll of thunder, rumbling loud and ever louder, under the blue-black curtain of cloud, where the lightning serpents gleam, echo the moaning of the forest in its sleep like a giant groaning in the torment of a dream. now an interval of quiet for a moment holds the air in the breathless hush of a silent prayer. then the sudden rush of the rain, and the riot of the shrieking, tearing gale breaks loose in the night, with a fusillade of hail! hear the forest fight, with its tossing arms that crack and clash in the thunder's cannonade, while the lightning's forkèd flash brings the old hero-trees to the ground with a crash! hear the breakers' deepening roar, driven like a herd of cattle in the wild stampede of battle, trampling, trampling, trampling, to overwhelm the shore. is it the end of all? will the land crumble and fall? nay, for a voice replies out of the hidden skies, "thus far, o sea, shalt thou go, so long, o wind, shalt thou blow: return to your bounds and cease, and let the earth have peace!" o music, lead the way-- the stormy night is past, lift up our heads to greet the day, and the joy of things that last. the dissonance and pain that mortals must endure are changed in thine immortal strain to something great and pure. true love will conquer strife, and strength from conflict flows, for discord is the thorn of life and harmony the rose. may, . france and belgium the bells of malines august , the gabled roofs of old malines are russet red and gray and green, and o'er them in the sunset hour looms, dark and huge, st. rombold's tower. high in that rugged nest concealed, the sweetest bells that ever pealed, the deepest bells that ever rung, the lightest bells that ever sung, are waiting for the master's hand to fling their music o'er the land. and shall they ring to-night, malines? in nineteen hundred and fourteen, the frightful year, the year of woe, when fire and blood and rapine flow across the land from lost liége, storm-driven by the german rage? the other carillons have ceased; fallen is hasselt, fallen diesl, from ghent and bruges no voices come, antwerp is silent, brussels dumb! but in thy belfry, o malines, the master of the bells unseen has climbed to where the keyboard stands,-- to-night his heart is in his hands! once more, before invasion's hell breaks round the tower he loves so well, once more he strikes the well-worn keys, and sends aërial harmonies far-floating through the twilight dim in patriot song and holy hymn. o listen, burghers of malines! soldier and workman, pale béguine. and mother with a trembling flock of children clinging to thy frock,-- look up and listen, listen all! what tunes are these that gently fall around you like a benison? "the flemish lion," "brabançonne," "o brave liége," and all the airs that belgium in her bosom bears. ring up, ye silvery octaves high, whose notes like circling swallows fly; and ring, each old sonorous bell,-- "jesu," "maria," "michaël!" weave in and out, and high and low, the magic music that you know, and let it float and flutter down to cheer the heart of the troubled town. ring out, "salvator," lord of all,-- "roland" in ghent may hear thee call! o brave bell-music of malines, in this dark hour how much you mean! the dreadful night of blood and tears sweeps down on belgium, but she hears deep in her heart the melody of songs she learned when she was free. she will not falter, faint, nor fail, but fight until her rights prevail and all her ancient belfries ring "the flemish lion," "god save the king!" the name of france give us a name to fill the mind with the shining thoughts that lead mankind, the glory of learning, the joy of art,-- a name that tells of a splendid part. in long, long toil and the strenuous fight of the human race to win its way from the feudal darkness into the day of freedom, brotherhood, equal right,-- a name like a star, a name of light. i give you _france_! give us a name to stir the blood with a warmer glow and a swifter flood, at the touch of a courage that knows not fear,-- a name like the sound of a trumpet, clear. and silver-sweet, and iron-strong, that calls three million men to their feet, ready to march, and steady to meet the foes who threaten that name with wrong,-- a name that rings like a battle-song. i give you _france_! give us a name to move the heart with the strength that noble griefs impart, a name that speaks of the blood outpoured to save mankind from the sway of the sword,-- a name that calls on the world to share in the burden of sacrificial strife when the cause at stake is the world's free life and the rule of the people everywhere,-- a name like a vow, a name like a prayer. i give you _france_! the hague, september, . jeanne d'arc returns what hast thou done, o womanhood of france, mother and daughter, sister, sweetheart, wife, what hast thou done, amid this fateful strife, to prove the pride of thine inheritance. in this fair land of freedom and romance? i hear thy voice with tears and courage rife,-- smiling against the swords that seek thy life-- make answer in a noble utterance: "i give france all i have, and all she asks. would it were more! ah, let her ask and take; my hands to nurse her wounded, do her tasks,-- my feet to run her errands through the dark,-- my heart to bleed in triumph for her sake,-- and all my soul to follow thee, jeanne d'arc!" april , . interludes in holland the heavenly hills of holland the heavenly hills of holland,-- how wondrously they rise above the smooth green pastures into the azure skies! with blue and purple hollows, with peaks of dazzling snow, along the far horizon the clouds are marching slow, no mortal fool has trodden the summits of that range, nor walked those mystic valleys whose colors ever change; yet we possess their beauty, and visit them in dreams, while the ruddy gold of sunset from cliff and canyon gleams. in days of cloudless weather they melt into the light; when fog and mist surround us they're hidden from our sight; but when returns a season clear shining after rain, while the northwest wind is blowing, we see the hills again. the old dutch painters loved them, their pictures show them clear,-- old hobbema and ruysduel, van goyen and vermeer, above the level landscape, rich polders, long-armed mills, canals and ancient cities,-- float holland's heavenly hills. the hague, november, . the proud lady when stävoren town was in its prime and queened the zuyder zee, its ships went out to every clime with costly merchantry. a lady dwelt in that rich town, the fairest in all the land; she walked abroad in a velvet gown, with many rings on her hand. her hair was bright as the beaten gold, her lips as coral red, her roving eyes were blue and bold, and her heart with pride was fed. for she was proud of her father's ships, as she watched them gayly pass; and pride looked out of her eyes and lips when she saw herself in the glass. "now come," she said to the captains ten, who were ready to put to sea, "ye are all my men and my father's men, and what will ye do for me?" "go north and south, go east and west, and get me gifts," she said. "and he who bringeth me home the best, with that man will i wed." so they all fared forth, and sought with care in many a famous mart, for satins and silks and jewels rare, to win that lady's heart. she looked at them all with never a thought and careless put them by; "i am not fain of the things ye brought, enough of these have i." the last that came was the head of the fleet, his name was jan borel; he bent his knee at the lady's feet,-- in truth he loved her well. "i've brought thee home the best i' the world, a shipful of danzig corn!" she stared at him long; her red lips curled, her blue eyes filled with scorn. "now out on thee, thou feckless kerl, a loon thou art," she said. "am i a starving beggar girl? shall i ever lack for bread?" "go empty all thy sacks of grain into the nearest sea, and never show thy face again to make a mock of me." young jan borel, he answered naught, but in the harbor cast the sacks of golden corn he brought, and groaned when fell the last. then jan borel, he hoisted sail, and out to sea he bore; he passed the helder in a gale and came again no more. but the grains of corn went drifting down like devil-scattered seed, to sow the harbor of the town with a wicked growth of weed. the roots were thick and the silt and sand were gathered day by day, till not a furlong out from land a shoal had barred the way. then stävoren town saw evil years, no ships could out or in. the boats lay rolling at the piers, and the mouldy grain in the bin. the grass-grown streets were all forlorn, the town in ruin stood, the lady's velvet gown was torn, her rings were sold for food. her father had perished long ago, but the lady held her pride. she walked with a scornful step and slow, till at last in her rags she died. yet still on the crumbling piers of the town, when the midnight moon shines free, a woman walks in a velvet gown and scatters corn in the sea. flood-tide of flowers in holland the laggard winter ebbed so slow with freezing rain and melting snow, it seemed as if the earth would stay forever where the tide was low, in sodden green and watery gray. but now from depths beyond our sight, the tide is turning in the night, and floods of color long concealed come silent rising toward the light, through garden bare and empty field. and first, along the sheltered nooks, the crocus runs in little brooks of joyance, till by light made bold they show the gladness of their looks in shining pools of white and gold. the tiny scilla, sapphire blue, is gently sweeping in, to strew the earth with heaven; and sudden rills of sunlit yellow, sweeping through, spread into lakes of daffodils. the hyacinths, with fragrant heads, have overflowed their sandy beds, and fill the earth with faint perfume, the breath that spring around her sheds. and now the tulips break in bloom! a sea, a rainbow-tinted sea, a splendor and a mystery, floods o'er the fields of faded gray: the roads are full of folks in glee, for lo,--to-day is easter day! april, . enter america america's prosperity they tell me thou art rich, my country: gold in glittering flood has poured into thy chest; thy flocks and herds increase, thy barns are pressed with harvest, and thy stores can hardly hold their merchandise; unending trains are rolled along thy network rails of east and west; thy factories and forges never rest; thou art enriched in all things bought and sold! but dost _thou_ prosper? better news i crave. o dearest country, is it well with thee indeed, and is thy soul in health? a nobler people, hearts more wisely brave, and thoughts that lift men up and make them free.-- these are prosperity and vital wealth! the hague, october , . the glory of ships the glory of ships is an old, old song, since the days when the sea-rovers ran in their open boats through the roaring surf, and the spread of the world began; the glory of ships is a light on the sea, and a star in the story of man. when homer sang of the galleys of greece that conquered the trojan shore, and solomon lauded the barks of tyre that brought great wealth to his door, 'twas little they knew, those ancient men, what would come of the sail and the oar. the greek ships rescued the west from the east, when they harried the persians home; and the roman ships were the wings of strength that bore up the empire, rome; and the ships or spain found a wide new world far over the fields of foam. then the tribes of courage at last saw clear that the ocean was not a bound, but a broad highway, and a challenge to seek for treasure as yet unfound; so the fearless ships fared forth to the search, in joy that the globe was round. their hulls were heightened, their sails spread out. they grew with the growth of their quest; they opened the secret doors of the east, and the golden gates of the west; and many a city of high renown was proud of a ship on its crest. the fleets of england and holland and france were at strife with each other and spain; and battle and storm sent a myriad ships to sleep in the depths of the main; but the seafaring spirit could never be drowned, and it filled up the fleets again. they greatened and grew, with the aid of steam, to a wonderful, vast array, that carries the thoughts and the traffic of men into every harbor and bay; and now in the world-wide work of the ships 'tis england that leads the way. o well for the leading that follows the law of a common right on the sea! but ill for the leader who tries to hold what belongs to mankind in fee! the way of the ships is an open way, and the ocean must ever be free! remember, o first of the maritime folk, how the rise of your greatness began. it will live if you safeguard the round-the-world road from the shame of a selfish ban; for the glory of ships is a light on the sea, and a star in the story of man! september , . mare liberum i you dare to say with perjured lips, "we fight to make the ocean free"? _you_, whose black trail of butchered ships bestrews the bed of every sea where german submarines have wrought their horrors! have you never thought,-- what you call freedom, men call piracy! ii unnumbered ghosts that haunt the wave, where you have murdered, cry you down; and seamen whom you would not save, weave now in weed grown depths a crown of shame for your imperious head,-- a dark memorial of the dead,-- women and children whom you sent to drown. iii nay, not till thieves are set to guard the gold, and corsairs called to keep o'er peaceful commerce watch and ward and wolves do herd the helpless sheep, shall men and women look to thee, thou ruthless old man of the sea, to safeguard law and freedom on the deep! iv in nobler breeds we put our trust; the nations in whose sacred lore the "ought" stands out above the "must," and honor rules in peace and war. with these we hold in soul and heart, with these we choose our lot and part, till liberty is safe on sea and shore. _london times_, february , . "liberty enlightening the world" thou warden of the western gate, above manhattan bay, the fogs of doubt that hid thy face are driven clean away: thine eyes at last look far and clear, thou liftest high thy hand to spread the light of liberty world-wide for every land. no more thou dreamest of a peace reserved alone for thee, while friends are fighting for thy cause beyond the guardian sea; the battle that they wage is thine; thou fallest if they fall; the swollen flood of prussian pride will sweep unchecked o'er all. o cruel is the conquer-lust in hohenzollern brains; the paths they plot to gain their goal are dark with shameful stains: no faith they keep, no law revere, no god but naked might;-- they are the foemen of mankind. up, liberty; and smite! britain, and france, and italy, and russia newly born, have waited for thee in the night. oh, come as comes the morn! serene and strong and full of faith, america, arise, with steady hope and mighty help to join thy brave allies. o dearest country of my heart, home of the high desire, make clean thy soul for sacrifice on freedom's altar-fire; for thou must suffer, thou must fight, until the war-lords cease, and all the peoples lift their heads in liberty and peace. _london times_, april , . the oxford thrushes february, i never thought again to hear the oxford thrushes singing clear, amid the february rain, their sweet, indomitable strain. a wintry vapor lightly spreads among the trees, and round the beds where daffodil and jonquil sleep, only the snowdrop wakes to weep. it is not springtime yet. alas, what dark, tempestuous days must pass, till england's trial by battle cease, and summer comes again with peace. the lofty halls, the tranquil towers, where learning in untroubled hours held her high court, serene in fame, are lovely still, yet not the same. the novices in fluttering gown no longer fill the ancient town, but fighting men in khaki drest-- and in the schools the wounded rest. ah, far away, 'neath stranger skies full many a son of oxford lies, and whispers from his warrior grave, "i died to keep the faith you gave." the mother mourns, but does not fail, her courage and her love prevail o'er sorrow, and her spirit hears the promise of triumphant years. then sing, ye thrushes, in the rain your sweet, indomitable strain. ye bring a word from god on high and voices in our hearts reply. homeward bound home, for my heart still calls me; home, through the danger zone; home, whatever befalls me, i will sail again to my own! wolves of the sea are hiding closely along the way, under the water biding their moment to rend and slay. black is the eagle that brands them, black are their hearts as the night, black is the hate that sends them to murder but not to fight. flower of the german culture, boast of the kaiser's marine, choose for your emblem the vulture, cowardly, cruel, obscene! forth from her sheltered haven our peaceful ship glides slow, noiseless in flight as a raven, gray as a hoodie crow. she doubles and turns in her bearing, like a twisting plover she goes; the way of her westward faring only the captain knows. in a lonely bay concealing she lingers for days, and slips at dusk from her covert, stealing thro' channels feared by the ships. brave are the men, and steady, who guide her over the deep,-- british mariners, ready to face the sea-wolf's leap. lord of the winds and waters, bring our ship to her mark, safe from this game of hide-and-seek with murderers in the dark! on the s.s. _baltic_, may, . the vagabond and other poems from _punch_ by r. c. lehmann author of "anni fugaces", "crumbs of pity", and "light and shade" london: john lane, the bodley head new york: john lane company mcmxviii _printed in great britain by tumbull & spears, edinburgh_ note all but two of the pieces here printed appeared originally in _punch_. my thanks are due to messrs bradbury, agnew & co., the proprietors of _punch_, for permitting me to reprint them here. "for wilma" was first published in _blackwood's magazine_, and appears here by the courtesy of the editor. r. c. l. contents the vagabond singing water for wilma cragwell end the bird in the room killed in action epitaph to flight-lieutenant robinson, v.c. pagan fancies robin, the sea-boy the birthday the dance pansies the dragon of winter hill fluffy, a cat the lean-to shed the contract john the sparrow gelert ave, caesar! soo-ti the bath peter, a pekinese puppy the dogs' welcome ode to john bradbury teeth-setting the death of euclid to postumus in october a ramshackle room the last straw the old grey mare at putney "a little bit of blue" the last cock-pheasant in memoriam the vagabond it was deadly cold in danbury town one terrible night in mid november, a night that the danbury folk remember for the sleety wind that hammered them down, that chilled their faces and chapped their skin, and froze their fingers and bit their feet, and made them ice to the heart within, and spattered and scattered and shattered and battered their shivering bodies about the street; and the fact is most of them didn't roam in the face of the storm, but stayed at home; while here and there a policeman, stamping to keep himself warm or sedately tramping hither and thither, paced his beat; or peered where out of the blizzard's welter some wretched being had crept to shelter, and now, drenched through by the sleet, a muddled blur of a man and his rags, lay huddled. but one there was who didn't care, whatever the furious storm might dare, a wonderful, hook-nosed bright-eyed fellow in a thin brown cape and a cap of yellow that perched on his dripping coal-black hair. a red scarf set off his throat and bound him, crossing his breast, and, winding round him, flapped at his flank in a red streak dank; and his hose were red, with a purple sheen from his tunic's blue, and his shoes were green. he was most outlandishly patched together with ribbons of silk and tags of leather, and chains of silver and buttons of stone, and knobs of amber and polished bone, and a turquoise brooch and a collar of jade, and a belt and a pouch of rich brocade, and a gleaming dagger with inlaid blade and jewelled handle of burnished gold rakishly stuck in the red scarf's fold-- a dress, in short, that might suit a wizard on a calm warm day in the month of may, but was hardly fit for an autumn blizzard. whence had he come there? who could say, as he swung through danbury town that day, with a friendly light in his deep-set eyes, and his free wild gait and his upright bearing, and his air that nothing could well surprise, so bright it was and so bold and daring? he might have troubled the slothful ease of the great mogul in a warlike fever; he might have bled for the maccabees, or risen, spurred by the prophet's word, and swooped on the hosts of the unbeliever. whatever his birth and his nomenclature, something he seemed to have, some knowledge that never was taught at school or college, but was part of his very being's nature: some ingrained lore that wanderers show as over the earth they come and go, though they hardly know what it is they know. and so with his head upheld he walked, and ever the rain drove down; and now and again to himself he talked in the streets of danbury town. and now and again he'd stop and troll a stave of music that seemed to roll from the inmost depths of his ardent soul; but the wind took hold of the notes and tossed them and the few who chanced to be near him lost them. so, moving on where his fancy listed, he came to a street that turned and twisted; and there by a shop-front dimly lighted he suddenly stopped as though affrighted, stopped and stared with his deep gaze centred on something seen, like a dream's illusion, through the streaming glass, mid the queer confusion of objects littered on shelf and floor, and about the counter and by the door-- and then with his lips set tight he entered. there were rusty daggers and battered breastplates, and jugs of pewter and carved oak cases, and china monsters with hideous faces, and cracked old plates that had once been best plates; and needle-covers and such old-wivery; wonderful chess-men made from ivory; cut-glass bottles for wines and brandies, sticks once flourished by bucks and dandies; deep old glasses they drank enough in, and golden boxes they took their snuff in; rings that flashed on a gallant's knuckles, seals and lockets and shining buckles; watches sadly in need of menders, blackened firedogs and dinted fenders; prints and pictures and quaint knick-knackery, rare old silver and mere gimcrackery-- such was the shop, and in its middle stood an old man holding a dusty fiddle. the vagabond bowed and the old man bowed, and then the vagabond spoke aloud. "sir," he said, "we are two of a trade, each for the other planned and made, and so we shall come to a fair agreement, since i am for you and you're for me meant. and i, having travelled hither from far, gain you yourself as my life's best bargain. but i am one who chaffers for fun, who when he perceives such stores of beauty outspread conceives it to be his duty to buy of his visit a slight memento: some curious gem of the quattrocento, or something equally rare and priceless, though its outward fashions perhaps entice less: a sultan's slipper, a bishop's mitre, or the helmet owned by a roundhead fighter, or an old buff coat by the years worn thin, or--what do you say to the violin? i'll wager you've many, so you can't miss one, and i--well, i have a mind for this one, this which was made, as you must know, three hundred years and a year ago by one who dwelt in cremona city for me--but i lost it, more's the pity, sixty years back in a wild disorder that flamed to a fight on the afghan border; and, whatever it costs, i am bound to win it, for i left the half of my full soul in it." and now as he spoke his eyes began to shiver the heart of the grey old man; and the old man stuttered, and "sir," he muttered, "the words you speak are the merest riddle, but-five pounds down, and you own the fiddle! and i'll choose for your hand, while the pounds you dole out, a bow with which you may pick that soul out." so said so done, and our friend again was out in the raging wind and rain. swift through the twisting street he passed and came to the market square at last, and climbed and stood on a block of wood where a pent-house, leant to a wall, gave shelter from the brunt of the blizzard's helter-skelter, and, waving his bow, he cried, "ahoy! now steady your hearts for an hour of joy!" and so to his cheek and jutting chin straight he fitted the violin, and, rounding his arm in a movement gay, touched the strings and began to play. there hasn't been heard since the world spun round such a marvellous blend of thrilling sound. it streamed, it flamed, it rippled and blazed, and now it reproached and now it praised, and the liquid notes of it wove a scheme that was one-half life and one-half a dream. and again it scaled in a rush of fire the glittering peaks of high desire; now, foiled and shattered, it rose again and plucked at the souls and hearts of men; and still as it rose the sleet came down in the market square of danbury town. and now from hundreds of opened doors, with quiet paces and happy faces, in ones and twos and threes and fours, a crowd pressed out to the market square and stood in the storm and listened there. and, oh, with what a solemn tender strain the long-drawn music eased their hearts of pain; and gave them visions of divine content; green fields and happy valleys far away, and rippling streams and sunshine and the scent of bursting buds and flowers that come in may. and one spoke in a rapt and gentle voice, and bade his friends rejoice, "for now," he said, "i see, i see once more my little lass upon a pleasant shore standing, as long ago she used to stand, and beckoning to me with her dimpled hand. as in the vanished years, so i behold her and forget my tears." and each one had his private joy, his own, all the old happy things he once had known, renewed and from the prisoning past set free, and mixed with hope and happy things to be. so for a magic hour the music gushed, then faded to a close, and all was hushed, and the tranced people woke and looked about, and fell to wondering what had brought them out on such a night of wind and piercing sleet, exposed with hatless heads and thin-shod feet. something, they knew, had chased their heavy sadness; and for the years to come they still may keep, as from a morning sleep, some broken gleam of half-remembered gladness. but the wild fiddler on his feet of flame vanished and went the secret way he came. singing water i heard--'twas on a morning, but when it was and where, except that well i heard it, i neither know nor care-- i heard, and, oh, the sunlight was shining in the blue, a little water singing as little waters do. at lechlade and at buscot, where summer days are long, the tiny rills and ripples they tremble into song; and where the silver windrush brings down her liquid gems, there's music in the wavelets she tosses to the thames. the eddies have an air too, and brave it is and blithe; i think i may have heard it that day at bablockhythe; and where the eynsham weir-fall breaks out in rainbow spray the evenlode comes singing to join the pretty play. but where i heard that music i cannot rightly tell; i only know i heard it, and that i know full well: i heard a little water, and, oh, the sky was blue, a little water singing as little waters do. for wilma (aged five years) like winds that with the setting of the sun draw to a quiet murmuring and cease, so is her little struggle fought and done; and the brief fever and the pain in a last sigh fade out and so release the lately-breathing dust they may not hurt again. now all that wilma was is made as naught: stilled is the laughter that was erst our pleasure; the pretty air, the childish grace untaught, the innocent wiles, and all the sunny smiles, the cheek that flushed to greet some tiny treasure; the mouth demure, the tilted chin held high, the gleeful flashes of her glancing eye; her shy bold look of wildness unconfined, and the gay impulse of her baby mind that none could tame, that sent her spinning round, a spirit of living flame dancing in airy rapture o'er the ground-- all these with that faint sigh are made to be man's breath upon a glass, a mortal memory. then from the silent room where late she played, setting a steady course toward the light, swifter than thistledown the little shade, reft from the nooks that she had made her own and from the love that sheltered, fared alone forth through the gloomy spaces of the night, until at last she lit before the gate where all the suppliant shades must stand and wait. grim cerberus, the foiler of the dead, keeping his everlasting vigil there in deep-mouthed wrath athwart the rocky path, did at her coming raise his triple head and lift his bristling hair; but when he saw our tender little maid forlorn, but unafraid, he blinked his flaming eyes and ceased to frown, and, fawning on her, smoothed his shaggy crest, composed his savage limbs and settled down with ears laid back and all his care at rest; and so with kindly aspect beckoned in the little playmate of his earthly kin. for often she had tugged old rollo's mane, and often lufra felt the loving check of childish arms about her glossy neck-- lufra and rollo, who with anxious faces now cast about the haunts and hiding-places to find their friend, but ever cast in vain. so now, set free from all that can oppress, and in her own white innocence arrayed, made one for ever with all happiness, alert she wanders through the starry glade; or, where the blissful shades intone their praise, she from the lily-covered bowers heaping her arms with flowers soars and is borne along the amaranthine the delightful ways, gushes the pretty notes and careless trills of her unstudied song, and with her music all the joyous valley fills. yet, oh ye powers whose rule is set above these fair abodes that ring the firmament, spirits of peace and happiness and love, and thou, too, mild-eyed spirit of content, ye will not chide if sometimes in her play the child should start and droop her shining head, turning in meek surmise her wistful eyes back tow'rd the dimness of our mortal day and the loved home from which her soul was sped. soon shall our little wilma learn to be amid the immortal blest an unrepining guest, who now, dear heart, is young for your eternity. cragwell end i there's nothing i know of to make you spend a day of your life at cragwell end. it's a village quiet and grey and old, a little village tucked into a fold (a sort of valley, not over wide) of the hills that flank it on either side. there's a large grey church with a square stone tower, and a clock to mark you the passing hour in a chime that shivers the village calm with a few odd bits of the th psalm. a red-brick vicarage stands thereby, breathing comfort and lapped in ease, with a row of elms thick-trunked and high, and a bevy of rooks to caw in these. 'tis there that the revd. salvyn bent (no tie could be neater or whiter than _his_ tie) maintains the struggle against dissent, an oxford scholar _ex aede christi_; and there in his twenty-minute sermons he makes mince-meat of the modern germans, defying their _apparatus criticus_ like a brave old vicar, a famous sticker to genesis, exodus and leviticus. he enjoys himself like a hearty boy who finds his life for his needs the aptest; but the poisoned drop in his cup of joy is the revd. joshua fall, the baptist, an earnest man with a tongue that stings-- the vicar calls him a child of schism-- who has dared to utter some dreadful things on the vices of sacerdotalism, and the ruination of education by the church of england catechism. set in a circle of oak and beech, north of the village lies cragwell hall; and stretching far as the eye can reach, over the slopes and beyond the fall of the hills so keeping their guard about it that the north wind never may chill or flout it, through forests as dense as that of arden, with orchard and park and trim-kept garden, and farms for pasture and farms for tillage, the hall maintains its rule of the village. and in the hall lived the lord of all, girt round with all that our hearts desire of leisure and wealth, the ancient squire. he was the purplest-faced old man since ever the darville race began, pompous and purple-faced and proud; with a portly girth and a voice so loud you might have heard it a mile away when he cheered the hounds on a hunting day. he was hard on dissenters and such encroachers, he was hard on sinners and hard on poachers; he talked of his rights as one who knew that the pick of the earth to him was due: the right to this and the right to that, to the humble look and the lifted hat; the right to scold or evict a peasant, the right to partridge and hare and pheasant; the right to encourage discontent by raising a hard-worked farmer's rent; the manifest right to ride to hounds through his own or anyone else's grounds; the right to eat of the best by day and to snore the whole of the night away; for his motto, as often he explained, was "a darville holds what a darville gained." he tried to be just, but that may be small merit in one who has most things free; and his neighbours averred, when they heard the word, "old darville's a just man, is he? bust his gills, we could do without his justice!" ii the village itself runs, more or less, on the sinuous line of a letter s, twining its little houses through the twists of the street, as our hamlets do, for no good reason, so far as i know, save that chance has arranged it so. it's a quaint old ramshackle moss-grown place, keeping its staid accustomed pace; not moved at all by the rush and flurry, the mad tempestuous windy hurry of the big world tossing in rage and riot, while the village holds to its old-world quiet. there's a family grocer, a family baker, a family butcher and sausage-maker-- a butcher, proud of his craft and willing to admit that his business in life is killing, who parades a heart as soft as his meat's tough-- there's a little shop for the sale of sweet stuff; there's a maker and mender of boots and shoes of the sort that the country people use, studded with iron and clamped with steel, and stout as a ship from toe to heel, who announces himself above his entry as "patronised by the leading gentry." there's an inn, "the george"; there's a blacksmith's forge, and in the neat little inn's trim garden the old men, each with his own churchwarden, bent and grey, but gossipy fellows, sip their innocent pints of beer, while the anvil-notes ring high and clear to the rushing bass of the mighty bellows. and thence they look on a cheerful scene as the little ones play on the village green, skipping about with laugh and shout as if no darville could ever squire them, and nothing on earth could tame or tire them. on the central point of the pleasant green the famous stone-walled well is seen which has never stinted its ice-cold waters to generations of cragwell's daughters. no matter how long the rain might fail there was always enough for can and pail-- enough for them and enough to lend to the dried-out rivals of cragwell end. an army might have been sent to raise enough for a thousand washing days crowded and crammed together in one day, one vast soap-sudded and wash-tubbed monday, and, however fast they might wind the winch, the water wouldn't have sunk an inch. for the legend runs that crag the saint, at the high noon-tide of a summer's day, thirsty, spent with his toil and faint, to the site of the well once made his way, and there he saw a delightful rill and sat beside it and drank his fill, drank of the rill and found it good, sitting at ease on a block of wood, and blessed the place, and thenceforth never the waters have ceased but they run for ever. they burnt st. crag, so the stories say, and his ashes cast on the winds away, but the well survives, and the block of wood stands--nay, stood where it always stood, and still was the village's pride and glory on the day of which i shall tell my story. gnarled and knotty and weather-stained, battered and cracked, it still remained; and thither came, footsore and lame, on an autumn evening a year ago the wandering pedlar, gipsy joe. beside the block he stood and set his table out on the well-stones wet. "who'll buy? who'll buy?" was the call he cried as the folk came flocking from every side; for they knew their gipsy joe of old, his free wild words and his laughter bold: so high and low all gathered together by the village well in the autumn weather, lured by the gipsy's bargain-chatter and the reckless lilt of his hare-brained patter. and there the revd. salvyn bent, the parish church's ornament, stood, as it chanced, in discontent, and eyed with a look that was almost sinister the revd. joshua fall, the minister. and the squire, it happened, was riding by, with an angry look in his bloodshot eye, growling, as was his wont, and grunting at the wasted toil of a bad day's hunting; and he stopped his horse on its homeward way to hear what the gipsy had to say. iii then the pedlar called to the crowd to hear, and his voice rang loud and his voice rang clear; and he lifted his head and began to troll the whimsical words of his rigmarole:-- "_since last i talked to you here i've hurled my lone way over the wide, wide world. south and north and west and east i've fought with man and i've fought with beast_; _and i've opened the gates and cleared the bar that blocks the road to the morning star!_ "_i've seen king pharaoh sitting down on his golden throne in his jewelled crown, with wizards fanning like anything to cool the face of the mighty king: but the king said, 'wizards are off,' said he; 'let joseph the gipsy talk to me.'_ "_so i sat by the king and began to spout as the day drew in and the sun went out; and i sat by the king and spun my tale till the light returned and the night grew pale; and none of the wizards blinked or stirred while the king sat drinking it word by word._ "_then he gave me rubies and diamonds old; he gave me masses of minted gold. he gave me all that a king can give: the right to live and to cease to live whenever--and that'll be soon, i know-- the days are numbered of gipsy joe._ "_then i went and i wandered on and on till i came to the kingdom of prester john; and there i stood on a crystal stool and sang the song of 'the first wise fool': oh, i sang it low and i sang it high till john he whimpered and piped his eye._ "_then i drew a tooth from the lively jaw of the prester's ebony aunt-in-law; and he bubbled and laughed so long, d'you see, that his wife looked glum and i had to flee. so i fled to the place where the rajahs grow, a place where they wanted gipsy joe._ "_the rajahs summoned the turbaned hordes and gave me sheaves of their inlaid swords; and the shah of persia next i saw, who's brother and friend to the big bashaw; and he sent me a rope of turquoise stones the size of a giant's knuckle-bones._ "_but a little brown pygmie took my hand and rattled me fast to a silver strand, where the little brown pygmie boys and girls are cradled and rocked to sleep in pearls._ _and the pygmies flattered me soft and low, 'you are tall; be king of us, gipsy joe.'_ "_i governed them well for half-a-year, but it came to an end, and now i'm here. oh, i've opened the gates and cleared the bar, and i've come, i've come to my friends from far. i'm old and broken, i'm lame and tired, but i've come to the friends my soul desired._ "_so it's watches and lockets, and who will buy? it's ribbon and lace, and they're not priced high. if you're out for a ring or a golden chain you can't look over my tray in vain: and here is a balsam made of drops from a tree that's grown by the aethiops!_ "_i've a chip of the tooth of a mastodont that's sure to give you the girl you want. i've a packet of spells to make men sigh for the lustrous glance of your liquid eye-- but it's much too dark for such wondrous wares, so back, stand back, while i light my flares!_" then he lit a match, but his fingers fumbled, and, striking his foot on a stone, he stumbled; and the match, released by the sudden shock, fell in flame on the old wood-block, and burnt there very quietly-- but before you could have counted three, hardly giving you time to shout, a red-blue column of fire shot out, up and up and ever higher, a marvellous burst of raging fire, lighting the crowd that shrank from its flashes, and so decreasing, and suddenly ceasing as the seat of st. crag was burnt to ashes! but in the smoke that drifted on the green queer freaks of vision weirdly wrought were seen: for on that shifting background each one saw his own reflection and recoiled in awe; saw himself there, a bright light shining through him, not as he thought himself, but as men knew him. before this sudden and revealing sense each rag of sham, each tatter of pretence withered and vanished, as dissolved in air, and left the shuddering human creature bare. but when they turned and looked upon a friend they saw a sight that all but made amend: for they beheld him as a radiant spirit indued with virtue and surpassing merit, not vain or dull or mean or keen for pelf, but splendid--as he mostly saw himself. darville and fall were drawn to one another, and both to bent as to their heart's own brother; and a strange feeling grew in every breast, a self-defeating altruistic zest which from that moment's flash composed their strife, informed their nature and controlled their life. but when they sought the gipsy, him they found, his dark eyes staring, dead upon the ground. the bird in the room a robin skimmed into the room, and blithe he looked and jolly, a foe to every sort of gloom, and, most, to melancholy. he cocked his head, he made no sound, but gave me stare for stare back, when, having fluttered round and round, he perched upon a chair-back. i rose; ah, then, it seemed, he knew too late his reckless error: away in eager haste he flew, and at his tail flew terror. now here, now there, from wall to floor, for mere escape appealing, he fled and struck against the door or bumped about the ceiling. i went and flung each window wide, i drew each half-raised blind up; to coax him out in vain i tried; he could not make his mind up. he flew, he fell, he took a rest, and off again he scuffled with parted beak and panting breast and every feather ruffled. at length i lured him to the sill, all dazed and undivining; beyond was peace o'er vale and hill, and all the air was shining. i stretched my hand and touched him; then he made no more resistance, but left the cramped abode of men and flew into the distance. * * * * * is life like that? we make it so; we leave the sunny spaces, and beat about, or high or low, in dark and narrow places; till, worn with failure, vexed with doubt, our strength at last we rally, and the bruised spirit flutters out to find the happy valley. killed in action rupert is dead, and rupert was my friend; "only surviving son of"--so it ran-- "beloved husband" and the rest of it. but six months back i saw him full of life, ardent for fighting; now he lies at ease in some obscure but splendid field of france, his strivings over and his conflicts done. he was a fellow of most joyous moods and quaint contrivings, ever on the point of shaking fame and fortune by the hand but always baulked of meeting them at last. he could not brook--and always so declared-- the weak pomposities of little men, scorned all the tin-gods of our petty world, and plunged headlong into imprudences, and smashed conventions with a reckless zeal, holding his luck and not himself to blame for aught that might betide when reckoning came. but he was true as steel and staunch as oak. and if he pledged his word he bore it out unswerving to the finish, and he gave whate'er he had of strength to help a friend. when the great summons came he rushed to arms, counting no cost and all intent to serve his country and to prove himself a man. yet he could laugh at all his ardour too and find some fun in glory, as a child laughs at a bauble but will guard it well. now he is fall'n, and on his shining brow glory has set her everlasting seal. i like to think how cheerily he talked amid the ceaseless tumult of the guns, how, when the word was given, he stood erect, sprang from the trench and, shouting to his men, led them forthright to where the sullen foe waited their coming; and his brain took fire, and all was exultation and a high heroic ardour and a pulse of joy. "forward!" his cry rang out, and all his men thundered behind him with their eyes ablaze, "forward for england! clear the beggars out! remember--" and death found him, and he fell fronting the germans, and the rush swept on. thrice blesséd fate! we linger here and droop beneath the heavy burden of our years, and may not, though we envy, give our lives for england and for honour and for right; but still must wear our weary hours away, while he, that happy fighter, in one leap, from imperfection to perfection borne, breaks through the bonds that bound him to the earth. now of his failures is a triumph made; his very faults are into virtues turned; and, reft for ever from the haunts of men, he wears immortal honour and is joined with those who fought for england and are dead. epitaph for an english soldier and an indian soldier buried together in france when the fierce bugle thrilled alarm, from lands apart these fighters came. an equal courage nerved each arm, and stirred each generous heart to flame. now, greatly dead, they lie below; their creed or language no man heeds, since for their colour they can show the blood-red blazon of their deeds! to flight-lieutenant robinson, v.c. you with the hawk's eyes and the nerves of steel, how was it with you when the hurried word roused you and sent you swiftly forth to deal a blow for justice? sure your pulses stirred, and all your being leapt to meet the call which bade you strike nor spare where poised in air murder and ravening flame were hid intent to fall. alone upon your fearful task you flew, where in the vault of heaven the high stars swing, alone and upward, lost to mortal view, winding about the assassin craft a ring of fateful motion, till at last you sped through the far tracts of gloom the bolt of doom, shattering the dastard foe to earth with all his dead. for this we thank you, and we bid you know that henceforth in the air, by day or night, a myriad hopes of ours, where'er you go, rise as companions of your soaring flight; and well we know that when there comes the need a host of men like you, as staunch, as true, will rush to prove the daring of the island breed. pagan fancies blow, father triton, blow your wreathéd horn cheerly, as is your wont, and let the blast circle our island on the breezes borne; blow, while the shining hours go swiftly past. rise, proteus, from the cool depths rise, and be a friend to them that breast your ancient sea. i shall be there to greet you, for i tire of the dull meadows and the crawling stream. now with a heart uplifted and a-fire i come to greet you and to catch the gleam of jocund nereids tossing in the air the sportive tresses of their amber hair. high on a swelling upland i shall stand stung by the buffets of the wind-borne spray; or join the troops that sport upon the sand, with shouts and laughter wearing out the day; or pace apart and listen to the roar of the great waves that beat the crumbling shore. then, when the children all are lapped in sleep the pretty nymphlets of the sea shall rise, and we shall know them as they flit and creep and peep and glance and murmur lullabies; while the pale moon comes up beyond the hill, and proteus rests and triton's horn is still. robin, the sea-boy ho, ruddy-cheeked boys and curly maids, who deftly ply your pails and spades, all you who sturdily take your stand on your pebble-buttressed forts of sand, and thence defy with a fearless eye and a burst of rollicking high-pitched laughter the stealthy trickling waves that lap you and the crested breakers that tumble after to souse and batter you, sting and sap you-- all you roll-about rackety little folk, down-again, up-again, not-a-bit brittle folk, attend, attend, and let each girl and boy join in a loud "ahoy!" for, lo, he comes, your tricksy little friend, from the clear caverns of his crystal home beyond the tossing ridges of the foam: planner of sandy romps and wet delights, robin the sea-boy, prince of ocean-sprites, is come, is come to lead you in your play and fill your hearts with mirth and jocund sport to-day! what! can't you see him? there he stands on a sheer rock and lifts his hands, a little lad not three feet high, with dancing mischief in his eye. his body gleams against the light, a clear-cut shape of dazzling white set off and topped by golden hair that streams and tosses in the air. a moment poised, he dares the leap and cuts the wind and cleaves the deep. down through the emerald vaults self-hurled that roof the sea-god's awful world. another moment sees him rise and beat the salt spray from his eyes. he breasts the waves, he spurns their blows; then, like a rocket, up he goes, up, up to where the gusty wind with all its wrath is left behind; still up he soars and high and high a speck of light that dots the sky. then watch him as he slowly droops where the great sea-birds wheel their troops. three broad-winged gulls, himself their lord, he hitches to a silken cord, bits them and bridles them with skill and bids them draw him where he will. above the tumult of the shores he floats, he stoops, he darts, he soars; from near and far he calls the rest and waves them forward for a quest; then straight, without a check, he speeds across the azure tracts and leads with apt reproof and cheering words as on a chase his cry of birds. and when he has finished his airy fun and all his flights and his swoops are done he will drop to the shore and lend a hand in building a castle of weed and sand. he will cover with flints its frowning face to keep the tide in its proper place, and the waves shall employ their utmost damp art in vain to abolish your moated rampart. and nobody's nurse shall make a fuss, as is far too often the case with us; instead of the usual how-de-do she will give us praise when we get wet through; in fact she will smile and think it better when we get as wet as we like and wetter. as for eating too much, you can safely risk it with chocolate, lollipop, cake, and biscuit, and your mother will revel with high delight in the state of her own one's appetite. great shells there shall be of a rainbow hue to be found and gathered by me and you; wonderful nets for the joy of making 'em. and scores of shrimps for the trouble of taking 'em; in fact it isn't half bad--now is it?-- when robin the sea-boy pays his visit. and perhaps he will tire of his shape and habit and change and turn to a frisky rabbit, a plump young gadabout cheerful fellow with a twitching nose and a coat of yellow, and never the smallest trace of fear from his flashing scut to his flattened ear. but, lo, there's a hint of coming rain, so, presto, robin is back again. he lifts his head and he cocks his eye and waves his hand and prepares to fly-- "good-bye, robin, good-bye, good-bye!" the birthday sweetheart, where all the dancing joys compete take now your choice; the world is at your feet, all turned into a gay and shining pleasance, and every face has smiles to greet your presence. treading on air, yourself you look more fair; and the dear birthday-elves unseen conspire to flush your cheeks and set your eyes on fire. mayhap they whisper what a birthday means that sets you spinning through your pretty teens. a slim-grown shape adorned with golden shimmers of tossing hair that streams and waves and glimmers, lo, how you run in mere excess of fun, or change to silence as you stand and hear some kind old tale that moves you to a tear. and, since this is your own bright day, my dear, of all the days that gem the sparkling year, see, we have picked as well as we were able and set your gifts upon your own small table: a knife from john, who straightway thereupon, lest you should cut your friendship for the boy, receives a halfpenny and departs with joy. the burnished inkstand was your mother's choice; for six new handkerchiefs i gave my voice, having in view your tender little nose's soft comfort; and the agate pen is rosie's; the torch is peg's, guide for your errant legs when ways are dark, and, last, behold with these a pencil from your faithful pekinese! and now the mysteries are all revealed that were so long, so ardently concealed-- all save the cake which still is in the making, not yet smooth-iced and unprepared for taking the thirteen flames that start the noisy games of tea-time, when my happy little maid thrones it triumphant, teened and unafraid. so through the changing years may all delight live in your face and make your being bright. may the good sprites and busy fays befriend you, and cheerful thoughts and innocent defend you; and, far away from this most joyous day, when in the chambers of your mind you see those who have loved you, then remember me. the dance when good-nights have been prattled, and prayers have been said, and the last little sunbeam is tucked up in bed, then, skirting the trees on a carpet of snow, the elves and the fairies come out in a row. with a preening of wings they are forming in rings; pirouetting and setting they cross and advance in a ripple of laughter, and pair for a dance. and it's oh for the boom of the fairy bassoon, and the oboes and horns as they strike up a tune, and the twang of the harps and the sigh of the lutes, and the clash of the cymbals, the purl of the flutes; and the fiddles sail in to the musical din, while the chief all on fire, with a flame for a hand, rattles on the gay measure and stirs up his band. with a pointing of toes and a lifting of wrists they are off through the whirls and the twirls and the twists; thread the mazes of marvellous figures, and chime with a bow to a curtsey, and always keep time: all the gallant and girls in their diamonds and pearls, and their gauze and their sparkles, designed for a dance by the leaders of fairy-land fashion in france. but the old lady fairies sit out by the trees, and the old beaux attend them as pert as you please. they quiz the young dancers and scorn their display, and deny any grace to the dance of to-day; "in oberon's reign," so they're heard to complain, "when we went out at night we could temper our fun with some manners in dancing, but now there are none." but at last, though the music goes gallantly on, and the dancers are none of them weary or gone, when the gauze is in rags and the hair is awry, comes a light in the east and a sudden cock-cry. with a scurry of fear then they all disappear, leaving never a trace of their gay little selves or the winter-night dance of the fairies and elves. pansies tufted and bunched and ranged with careless art here, where the paving-stones are set apart, alert and gay and innocent of guile, the little pansies nod their heads and smile. with what a whispering and a lulling sound they watch the children sport about the ground, longing, it seems, to join the pretty play that laughs and runs the light-winged hours away. and other children long ago there were who shone and played and made the garden fair, to whom the pansies in their robes of white and gold and purple gave a welcome bright. gone are those voices, but the others came. joyous and free, whose spirit was the same; and other pansies, robed as those of old, peeped up and smiled in purple, white and gold. for pansies are, i think, the little gleams of children's visions from a world of dreams, jewels of innocence and joy and mirth, alight with laughter as they fall to earth. below, the ancient guardian, it may hap, the kindly mother, takes them in her lap, decks them with glowing petals and replaces in the glad air the friendly pansy-faces. so tread not rashly, children, lest you crush a part of childhood in a thoughtless rush. would you not treat them gently if you knew pansies are little bits of children too? the dragon of winter hill i this is the tale the old men tell, the tale that was told to me, of the blue-green dragon, the dreadful dragon, the dragon who flew so free, the last of his horrible scaly race who settled and made his nesting place some hundreds of thousands of years ago. one day, as the light was falling low and the turbulent wind was still, in a stony hollow, where none dared follow, beyond the ridge on the gorse-clad summit, the summit of winter hill! the news went round in the camp that night; it was dickon who brought it first how the wonderful dragon, the fiery dragon, on his terrified eyes had burst. "i was out," he said, "for a fat young buck, but never a touch i had of luck; and still i wandered and wandered on till all the best of the day was gone; when, suddenly, lo, in a flash of flame full over the ridge a green head came, a green head flapped with a snarling lip, and a long tongue set with an arrow's tip. i own i didn't stand long at bay, but i cast my arrows and bow away, and i cast my coat, and i changed my plan, and forgot the buck, and away i ran-- and, oh, but my heart was chill: for still as i ran i heard the bellow of the terrible slaughtering fierce-eyed fellow who has made his lair on the gorse-clad summit, the summit of winter hill." then the women talked, as the women will, and the men-folk they talked too of the raging dragon, the hungry dragon, the dragon of green and blue. and the bards with their long beards flowing down, they sat apart and were seen to frown. but at last the chief bard up and spoke, "now i swear by beech and i swear by oak, by the grass and the streams i swear," said he, "this dragon of dickon's puzzles me. for the record stands, as well ye know, how a hundred years and a year ago we dealt the dragons a smashing blow by issuing from our magic tree a carefully-framed complete decree, which ordered dragons to cease to be. still, since our dickon is passing sure that he saw a regular simon pure. some dragon's egg, as it seems, contrived to elude our curses, and so survived on an inaccessible rocky shelf, where at last it managed to hatch itself. whatever the cause, the result is plain: we're in for a dragon-fuss again. we haven't the time, and, what is worse, we haven't the means to frame a curse. so what is there left for us to say save this, that our men at break of day must gather and go to kill the monstrous savage whose fire-blasts ravage the flocks and herds on the gorse-clad summit, the summit of winter hill?" ii so the men, when they heard the chief bard utter the order that bade them try for the awful dragon, the dauntless dragon, they all of them shouted "aye!" for everyone felt assured that he, whatever the fate of the rest might be, however few of them might survive, was certainly safe to stay alive, and was probably bound to deal the blow that would shatter the beast and lay him low, and end the days of their dragon-foe. and all the women-folk egged them on: it was "up with your heart, and at him, john!" or "gurth, you'll bring me his ugly head," or "lance, my man, when you've struck him dead, when he hasn't a wag in his fearful tail, carve off and bring me a blue-green scale." then they set to work at their swords and spears-- such a polishing hadn't been seen for years. they made the tips of their arrows sharp, re-strung and burnished the chief bard's harp, dragged out the traditional dragon-bag, sewed up the rents in the tribal flag; and all in the midst of the talk and racket each wife was making her man a packet-- a hunch of bread and a wedge of cheese and a nubble of beef, and, to moisten these, a flask of her home-brewed, not too thin, as a driving force for his javelin when the moment arrived to spill the blood of the terror hatched out in error who had perched his length on the gorse-clad summit, the summit of winter hill. the night had taken her feast of stars, and the sun shot up in flame, when "now for the dragon! who hunts the dragon?" the call from the watchers came; and, shaking the mists of sleep away, the men stepped into the light of day, twice two hundred in loose array; with a good round dozen of bards to lead them and their wives all waving their hands to speed them, while the chief bard, fixed in his chair of state, with his harp and his wreath looked most sedate. it wasn't his place to fight or tramp; when the warriors went he stayed in camp; but still from his chair he harped them on till the very last of the host had gone, then he yawned and solemnly shook his head and, leaving his seat, returned to bed, to sleep, as a good man will who, braving malice and tittle-tattle, has checked his natural lust for battle, and sent the rest to the gorse-clad summit, the summit of winter hill. iii marching at ease in the cheerful air, on duty and daring bent, in quest of the dragon, the fateful dragon, the fierce four hundred went: over the hills and through the plain, and up the slopes of the hills again. the sleek rooks, washed in the morning's dew, rose at their coming and flapped and flew in a black procession athwart the blue; and the plovers circled about on high with many a querulous piping cry. and the cropping ewes and the old bell-wether looked up in terror and pushed together; and still with a grim unbroken pace the men moved on to their battle-place. softly, silently, all tip-toeing, with their lips drawn tight and their eyes all glowing, with gleaming teeth and straining ears and the sunshine laughing on swords and spears, softly, silently on they go to the hidden lair of the fearful foe. they have neared the stream, they have crossed the bridge, and they stop in sight of the rugged ridge, and it's "flankers back!" and "skirmishers in!" and the summit is theirs to lose or win-- to win with honour or lose with shame; and so to the place itself they came, and gazed with an awful thrill at the ridge of omen, beset by foemen, at the arduous summit, the gorse-clad summit, the summit of winter hill. but where was the dragon, the scale-clad dragon, the dragon that dickon saw, the genuine dragon, the pitiless dragon, the dragon that knew no law? lo, just as the word to charge rang out, and before they could give their battle shout, on a stony ledge of the ridge's edge, with its lips curled back and its teeth laid bare, and a hiss that ripped the morning air, with its backbone arched and its tail well starched, with bristling hair and flattened ears, what shape of courage and wrath appears? a cat, a tortoiseshell mother-cat! and a very diminutive cat at that! and below her, nesting upon the ground, a litter of tiny kits they found: tortoiseshell kittens, one, two, three, lying as snug as snug could be. and they took the kittens with shouts of laughter and turned for home, and the cat came after. and when in the camp they told their tale, the women--but stop! i draw a veil. the cat had tent-life forced upon her and was kept in comfort and fed with honour; but dickon has heard his fill of the furious dragon they tried to bag on the dragonless summit, the gorse-clad summit, the summit of winter hill! fluffy, a cat so now your tale of years is done, old fluff, my friend, and you have won, beyond our land of mist and rain, your way to the elysian plain, where through the shining hours of heat a cat may bask and lap and eat; where goldfish glitter in the streams, and mice refresh your waking dreams, and all, in fact, is planned--and that's its great delight--to please the cats. yet sometimes, too, your placid mind will turn to those you've left behind, and most to one who sheds her tears, the mistress of your later years, who sheds her tears to summon back her faithful cat, the white-and-black. fluffy, full well you understood the frequent joys of motherhood-- to lick, from pointed tail to nape, the mewing litter into shape; to show, with pride that condescends, your offspring to your human friends, and all our sympathy to win for every kit tucked snugly in. in your familiar garden ground we've raised a tributary mound, and passing by it we recite your merits and your praise aright. "here lies," we say, "from care released a faithful, furry, friendly beast. responsive to the lightest word, about these walks her purr was heard. love she received, for much she earned, and much in kindness she returned. wherefore her comrades go not by her little grave without a sigh." the lean-to-shed (communicated by an eight-year-old) i've a palace set in a garden fair, and, oh, but the flowers are rich and rare, always growing and always blowing winter or summer--it doesn't matter-- for there's never a wind that dares to scatter the wonderful petals that scent the air about the walls of my palace there. and the palace itself is very old, and it's built of ivory splashed with gold. it has silver ceilings and jasper floors and stairs of marble and crystal doors; and whenever i go there, early or late, the two tame dragons who guard the gate and refuse to open the frowning portals to sisters, brothers and other mortals, get up with a grin and let me in. and i tickle their ears and pull their tails and pat their heads and polish their scales; and they never attempt to flame or fly, being quelled by me and my human eye. then i pour them drink out of golden flagons, drink for my two tame trusty dragons... but john, who's a terrible fellow for chattering on, john declares they are teddy-bears; and the palace itself, he has often said, is only the gardener's lean-to shed. in the vaulted hall where we have the dances there are suits of armour and swords and lances, plenty of steel-wrought who's-afraiders, all of them used by real crusaders; corslets, helmets and shields and things fit to be worn by warrior-kings, glittering rows of them-- think of the blows of them, lopping, chopping, smashing and slashing the paynim armies at ascalon... but, bother the boy, here comes our john munching a piece of currant cake, who says the lance is a broken rake, and the sword with its keen toledo blade is a hoe, and the dinted shield a spade, bent and useless and rusty-red, in the gardener's silly old lean-to shed. and sometimes, too, when the night comes soon with a great magnificent tea-time moon. through the nursery-window i peep and see my palace lit for a revelry; and i think i shall try to go there instead of going to sleep in my dull small bed. but who are these in the shade of the trees that creep so slow in a stealthy row? they are indian braves, a terrible band, each with a tomahawk in his hand, and each has a knife _without a sheath_ fiercely stuck in his gleaming teeth. are the dragons awake? are the dragons sleepers? will they meet and scatter these crafty creepers? what ho! ... but john, who has sorely tried me, trots up and flattens his nose beside me; against the window he flattens it and says he can see as well as me, but never an indian--not a bit; not even the top of a feathered head, but only a wall and the lean-to shed. the contract "come, peggy, put your toys away; you needn't shake your head, your bear's been working overtime; he's panting for his bed. he's turned a thousand somersaults, and now his head must ache; it's cruelty to animals to keep the bear awake." at this she stamped in mutiny, and then she urged her plea, her wonted plea, "a little time, a minute more, for me." "be off, you little rogue of rogues," i sternly made reply; "it's wicked to be sitting up with sand in either eye. "to bed, to bed, you sleepy head; and then, and then--who knows?-- some day you'll be a grown-up girl, and lovely as a rose. and some day some one else will come, a gallant youth and gay, to harry me and marry you and carry you away." at this the storm broke out afresh:--"you know i hate the boys; they're only good at taking things, and breaking things, and noise. so, daddy, please remember this, because--i--want--you--to:-- i'll never marry any boy; i'll only marry _you_." "agreed," i cried--the imp, of course, had won the bout of wits; had gained her point and got her time and beaten me to fits-- "agreed, agreed,"--she danced for joy--"we'll leave no room for doubt, but bind ourselves with pen and ink, and write the contract out:-" _this is a contract, firm and clear made, as doth from these presents appear, between peggy, being now in her sixth year, a child of laughter, a sort of funny actress, referred to hereinafter as the said contractress-- between the said contractress, that is to say, and a person with whom she is often good enough to play; who happens to have been something of a factor in bringing her into the world, who, in short, is her father, and is hereinafter spoken of as the said contractor. now the said contractress declares she would rather marry the said contractor than any other. at the same time she affirms with the utmost steadiness her perfect readiness to take any other fellow on as a brother. still, she means to marry her father, and to be his wife, and to live happily with him all the rest of her life. this contract is made without consideration, and is subject to later ratification. the said contractress had it read through to see that nothing was missed, and she took her pen, and she held it tight in a chubby and cramped-up fist, and she made her mark with a blotted cross, instead of signing her name; and the said contractor he signed in full, and they mean to observe the same._ "now give me, peg, that old brown shoe, that battered shoe of yours, i'll stow the contract in its toe, and, if the shoe endures, when sixteen years or so are gone, i'll hunt for it myself and take it gently from its drawer, or get it from its shelf. "and when, mid clouds of scattered rice, through all the wedding whirl a laughing fellow hurries out a certain graceless girl, unless my hand have lost its strength, unless my eye be dim, i'll lift the shoe, the contract too, and fling the lot at him." john he's a boy, and that's the long and (chiefly) the short of it, and the point of it and the wonderful sport of it; a two-year-old with a taste for a toy, and two chubby fists to clutch it and grasp it, and two fat arms to embrace it and clasp it; and a short stout couple of sturdy legs as hard and as smooth as ostrich eggs; and a jolly round head, so fairly round you could easily roll it, or take it and bowl it with never a bump along the ground. and, as to his cheeks, they're also fat-- i've seen them in ancient prints like that, where a wind-boy high in a cloudy sky is puffing away for all he's worth, uprooting the trees with a reckless breeze, and strewing them over the patient earth, or raising a storm to wreck the ships with the work of his lungs and cheeks and lips. take a look at his eyes; i put it to you, were ever two eyes more truly blue? if you went and worried the whole world through you'd never discover a bluer blue; i doubt if you'd find a blue so true in the coats and scarves of a cambridge crew. and his hair is as fair as a pretty girl's, but it's right for a boy with its crisp, short curls all a-gleam, as he struts about with a laugh and a shout, to summon his sister-slaves to him for his joyous majesty's careless whim. but now, as, after a stand, he budges, and sets to work and solemnly trudges, out from a bush there springs full tilt his four-legged playmate--and john is spilt. she's a young dog and a strong dog and a tall dog and a long dog, a danish lady of high degree, black coat, kind eye and a stride that's free. and out she came like a burst of flame, and john, as he trudged and strutted sturdily on, was blindly butted, and, all his dignity spent and gone, on a patch of clover was tumbled over, his two short legs having failed to score in a sudden match against lufra's four. but we picked him up and we brushed him down, and he rated the pup with a dreadful frown; and then he laughed and he went and hugged her, seized her tail in his fist and tugged her, and so, with a sister's hand to guide him, continued his march with the dog beside him. and soon he waggles his way upstairs-- he does it alone, though he finds it steep. he is stripped and gowned, and he says his prayers, and he condescends to admit his friends to a levée before he goes to sleep. he thrones it there with a battered bear and a tattered monkey to form his court, and, having come to the end of day, conceives that this is the time for play and every possible kind of sport. but at last, tucked in for the hundredth time, he babbles a bit of nursery rhyme, and on the bed droops his curly round head, gives one long sigh of unalloyed content over a day so well, so proudly spent, resigned at last to listen and obey, and so begins to breathe his quiet night away. the sparrow let others from the feathered brood which through the garden seeks its food pick out for a commending word each one his own peculiar bird; hail the plump tit, or fitly sing the finch's crest and flashing wing; exalt the rook's black satin dress-coat, the thrush's speckled fancy waistcoat; or praise the robin, meek, but sly, for breast and tail and friendly eye-- these have their place within my heart; the sparrow owns the larger part, and, for no virtues, rules in it, my reckless cheerful favourite! friend sparrow, let the world contemn your ways and make a mock of them, and dub you, if it has a mind, low, quarrelsome, and unrefined; and let it, if it will, pursue with harsh abuse the troops of you who through the orchard and the field their busy bills in mischief wield; who strip the tilth and bare the tree, and make the gardener's face to be expressive of the words he could, but must not, utter, though he would (for gardeners still, where'er they go, whate'er they do, in weal or woe, through every chance of life retain their ancient puritanic strain; tried by the weather they control each day their angry human soul, and, by the sparrow teased, may tear their careworn locks, but never swear). let us admit--alas,'tis true-- you are not adequately few; that half your little life is spent in furious strife or argument; still, though your wickedness must harrow all feeling souls, i love my sparrow; still, though i oft and gravely doubt you, i really could not do without you. your pluck, your wit, your nonchalance, your cheerful confidence in chance, your darting flight, your bouts of play, your chirp, so sociable and gay-- these, and no beauty soft or striking, make up your passport to my liking; and for your faults i'll still defend you, my little sparrow, and befriend you. gelert tested and staunch through many a changing year, gelert, his master's faithful hound, lies here. humble in friendship, but in service proud, he gave to man whate'er his lot allowed; and, rich in love, on each well-trusted friend spent all his wealth and still had more to spend. now, reft beyond the unfriendly stygian tide, for these he yearns and has no wish beside. ave, caesar! (may , ) full in the splendour of this morning hour, with tramp of men and roll of muffled drums, in what a pomp and pageantry of power, borne to his grave, our lord, king edward, comes! in flashing gold and high magnificence, lo, the proud cavalcade of comrade kings, met here to do the dead king reverence, its solemn tribute of affection brings. heralds and pursuivants and men-at-arms, sultan and paladin and potentate, scarred captains who have baffled war's alarms and courtiers glittering in their robes of state, all in their blazoned ranks, with eyes cast down, slow pacing in their sorrow pass along where that which bore the sceptre and the crown cleaves at their head the silence of the throng. and in a space behind the passing bier, looking and longing for his lord in vain, a little playmate whom the king held dear, caesar, the terrier, tugs his silver chain! * * * * * hail, caesar, lonely little caesar, hail! little for you the gathered kings avail. little you reck, as meekly past you go, of that solemnity of formal woe. in the strange silence, lo, you prick your ear for one loved voice, and that you shall not hear. so when the monarchs with their bright array of gold and steel and stars have passed away, when, to their wonted use restored again, all things go duly in their ordered train, you shall appeal at each excluding door, search through the rooms and every haunt explore; from lawn to lawn, from path to path pursue the well-loved form that still escapes your view. at every tree some happy memories rise to stir your tail and animate your eyes, and at each turn, with gathering strength endued, hope, still frustrated, must be still renewed. how should you rest from your appointed task till chance restore the happiness you ask, take from your heart the burden, ease your pain, and grant you to your master's side again, proud and content if but you could beguile his voice to flatter and his face to smile? caesar, the kindly days may bring relief; swiftly they pass and dull the edge of grief. you too, resigned at last, may school your mind to miss the comrade whom you cannot find, never forgetting, but as one who feels the world has secrets which no skill reveals. henceforth, whate'er the ruthless fates may give, you shall be loved and cherished while you live. reft of your master, little dog forlorn, to one dear mistress you shall now be sworn, and in her queenly service you shall dwell, at rest with one who loved your master well. and she, that gentle lady, shall control the faithful kingdom of a true dog's soul, and for the past's dear sake shall still defend caesar, the dead king's humble little friend. soo-ti a pekinese soo-ti, i thank the careful fate that made you wise and obstinate, alert, but with a proper pride, and gay, but wondrous dignified. i praise your black and tilted nose; i praise your heart's deep love that shows in songs made up of whimpering cries and in the radiance of your eyes (and if they bulge--forgive the allusion-- are eyes the worse for such protrusion? the smaller eyes are, sure, the blinder, and size makes every kind eye kinder). next with affection's look i note the glossy levels of your coat, where a rich black doth most prevail, shading to beaver in your tail, and lightly fading as it reaches the tufted things you wear as breeches. the dweller on the cushion purrs no less when soo-ti barks and stirs. she blinks and blinks and lets you share her bowl of milk, her fav'rite chair. for you she hides her cruel claw and taps you with a velvet paw; and, mastered by your lordly air, for you is meek and debonair. even should you growl her hair stays flat: be sure she thinks you half a cat. but you're a dog and know your job: oft have i seen you hob-a-nob, and grandly gracious to unbend with a great dane, your humble friend. as on the lawn with him you roll, he makes your very being droll. yet how you set to work to flout him, to tease and gnaw and dance about him! you risk the pressure of his paws, plunge all you are within his jaws, and, swelling to a final rage, with pin-point teeth the fight engage, while he submits his silly size to every insult you devise. at last, withdrawing from the fuss, you come and tell your tale to us, bearing aloft through every room your high tail's undefeated plume, till, fed with triumphs, you subside, and sleep and doff your native pride, composing in a wicker fane those limbs that terrify the dane. so, soo-ti, i have tried to praise yourself and all your winning ways, content if i may guard and please my little dusky pekinese. the bath hang garlands on the bathroom door; let all the passages be spruce; for, lo, the victim comes once more, and, ah, he struggles like the deuce! bring soaps of many scented sorts; let girls in pinafores attend, with john, their brother, in his shorts, to wash their dusky little friend. their little friend, the dusky dog, short-legged and very obstinate, faced like a much-offended frog, and fighting hard against his fate. no briton he! from palace-born chinese patricians he descends; he keeps their high ancestral scorn; his spirit breaks, but never bends. our water-ways he fain would'scape; he hates the customary bath that thins his tail and spoils his shape, and turns him to a fur-clad lath; and, seeing that the pekinese have lustrous eyes that bulge like buds, he fain would save such eyes as these, their owner's pride, from british suds. vain are his protests--in he goes. his young barbarians crowd around; they soap his paws, they soap his nose; they soap wherever fur is found. and soon, still laughing, they extract his limpness from the darkling tide; they make the towel's roughness act on back and head and dripping side. they shout and rub and rub and shout-- he deprecates their odious glee-- until at last they turn him out, a damp gigantic bumble-bee. released, he barks and rolls, and speeds from lawn to lawn, from path to path, and in one glorious minute needs more soapsuds and another bath. peter, a pekinese puppy our peter, who's famed as an eater of things, is a miniature dragon without any wings. he can gallop or trot, he can amble or jog, but he flies like a flash when he's after his prog; and the slaves who adore him, whatever his mood, say that nothing is fleeter than peter the eater, than peter pursuing his food. he considers the garden his absolute own: it's the place where a digger can bury a bone. then he tests his pin-teeth on a pansy or rose, spreading ruin and petals wherever he goes; and his mistress declares, when he's nibbled for hours, that nothing is sweeter than peter the eater, the resolute eater of flowers. having finished his dinner he wheedles the cook, picks a coal from the scuttle or tackles a book, or devotes all his strength to a slipper or mat, to the gnawing of this and the tearing of that; _faute de mieux_ takes a dress; and his mistress asserts that there's nothing to beat her like peter the eater attached by his teeth to her skirts. but at last he has supped, and the moment is come when, his stretchable turn being tight as a drum, he is meek and submissive, who once was so proud, and he creeps to his basket and slumbers aloud. and his mistress proclaims, as she tucks up his shawl, that nothing is neater than peter the eater, than peter curled up in a ball, asleep and digesting it all. the dogs' welcome hush! we're not a pack of boys always bound to make a noise. true, there's one amongst us, but he is young; and, wherever we may take him, we can generally shut such a youngster up and make him hold his tongue. hush! most cautiously we go on the tippest tip of toe. are the dogs expecting us at the gate? two, who usually prize us, will they jump and make a fuss? will they really recognise us where they wait? hush! i hear the funny pair softly whimpering--yes, they're there. dane and pekinese, they scratch at the wood, at the solid wood between us; duke attempts to lift the latch; it's a month since they have seen us-- open! good! down, duke, down! enough, enough! soo-ti's screaming; seize his scruff. soo-ti's having fearful fits; duke is tearing us to bits. one will trip us, one will throw us-- but, the darlings, _don't_ they know us! then off with a clatter the long dog leapt, and, oh, what a race he ran, at the hurricane pace of a minute a mile, as only a long dog can. into and out of the bushes he pierced like a shooting star; and now he thundered around us, and now he was whirling far. and the little dog gazed till he seemed amazed, and then he took to it too; with shrill notes flung from his pert pink tongue right after his friend he flew; and the long legs lashed and the short legs flashed and scurried like anything, while duke ran round in a circle and soo-ti ran in a ring. and last they hurtled amongst us, and then there were tales to tell, for all of us seemed to be scattered and torn, and all of us shrieked and fell; and john, who is plump, got an awful bump, and helen, who's tall and thin, was shot through a shrub and gained in bruise as much as she lost in skin; and rosamond's frock was rent in rags, and tattered in strips was peg's, and both of them suffered the ninepin fate to the ruin of arms and legs; and every face was licked by a dog, and battered was every limb, when duke ran round in a circle and soo-ti ran after him. ode to john bradbury (the notes for £ and s are signed by john bradbury) when the red kaiser, swoll'n with impious pride and stuffed with texts to serve his instant need, took shame for partner and disgrace for guide, earned to the full the hateful traitor's meed, and bade his hordes advance through belgium's cities towards the fields of france; and when at last our patient island race, by the attempted wrong made fierce and strong, flung back the challenge in the braggart's face, oh then, while martial music filled the air, clarion and fife and bagpipe and the drum, calling to men to muster, march, and dare, oh, then thy day, john bradbury, was come. john bradbury, the muse shall fill my strain to sing thy praises; thou hadst spent thy time not idly, nor hadst lived thy life in vain, unfitted for the guerdon of my rhyme. for lo, the funds went sudden crashing down, and men grew pale with monetary fear, and in the toppling mart the stoutest heart melted, and fortunes seemed to disappear; and some, forgetting their austere renown, went mad and sold whate'er they could and wildly called for gold! "since through no fault of ours the die was cast we shall go forth and fight in death's despite and shall return victorious at the last; but how, ah how," they said, "shall we and ours be fed and clothed and housed from dreary day to day, if, while our hearths grow cold, we have no coin to pay?" then thou, where no gold was and little store of silver, didst appear and wave thy pen, and with thy signature make things secure, bidding us all pluck up our hearts once more and face our foolish fancied fears like men. "i give you notes," you said, "of different kinds to ease your anxious minds: the one is black and shall be fairly found equal in value to a golden pound; the other--mark its healthy scarlet print-- is worth a full half-sovereign from the mint." thus didst thou speak--at least i think thou didst-- and, lo, the murmurs fell and all things went right well, while thy notes fluttered in our happy midst. therefore our grateful hearts go forth to thee, our british note-provider, brave john bradbury! teeth-setting ( ) when the thunder-shaking german hosts are marching over france-- lo, the glinting of the bayonet and the quiver of the lance!-- when a rowdy rampant kaiser, stout and mad and middle-aged, strips his breast of british orders just to prove that he's enraged; when with fire and shot and pillage he destroys each town and village; when the world is black with warfare, then there's one thing you must do: set your teeth like steel, my hearties, and sit tight and see it through. oh, it's heavy work is fighting, but our soldiers do it well-- lo, the booming of the batteries, the clatter of the shell!-- and it's weary work retiring, but they kept a dauntless front, all our company of heroes who have borne the dreadful brunt. they can meet the foe and beat him, they can scatter and defeat him, for they learnt a steady lesson (and they taught a lesson, too), having set their teeth in earnest and sat tight and seen it through. then their brothers trooped to join them, taking danger for a bride, not in insolence and malice, but in honour and in pride; caring nought to be recorded on the muster-roll of fame, so they struck a blow for britain and the glory of her name. toil and wounds could but delight them, death itself could not affright them, who went out to fight for freedom and the red and white and blue, while they set their teeth as firm as flint and vowed to see it through. the death of euclid ["euclid, we are told, is at last dead, after two thousand years of an immortality that he never much deserved."--_the times literary supplement_.] a threnody for euclid! this is he who with his learning made our youth a waste, holding our souls in fee; a god whose high-set crystal throne was based beyond the reach of tears, deeper than time and his relentless years! come then, ye angle-nymphs, and make lament; ye little postulates, and all the throng of definitions, with your heads besprent in funeral ashes, ye who long worshipped the king and followed in his train; for he is dead and cannot rise again. then from the shapes that beat their breasts and wept, soft to the light a gentle problem stepped, and, lo, her clinging robe she swiftly loosed and with majestic hands her side produced: "sweet theorem," she said, and called her mate, "sweet theorem, be with me at this hour. how oft together in a dear debate we two bore witness to our sovereign's power. but he is dead and henceforth all our days are wrapped in gloom, and we who never ceased to sing his praise may weep our lord, but cannot call him from his tomb." and, as they bowed their heads and to and fro wove in a mournful gait their web of woe, two sentinels forth came, their hearts aflame, and moved behind the pair: "warders we are," they cried, "of these two sisters who were once so fair, so joyous in their pride." and now their massy shields they lifted high, embossed with letters three, and, though a mist of tears bedimmed each eye, the sorrowing nymphs could see q., e. and f. on one, and on the other q. e. d. but on a sudden, with a hideous noise of joy and laughter rushed a rout of boys; and all the mourners in affright scattered to left and right. problems and theorems and angles too, postulates, definitions, circles, planes, a jibbering crew, with all their hoary gains of knowledge, from their monarch dead into the outer darkness shrieking fled. and now with festal dance and laughter loud broke in the boyish and intruding crowd; nor did they fail, seeing that all the painful throng was sped, to let high mirth prevail, and raise the song of joy for euclid dead. to postumous in october when you and i were younger the world was passing fair; our days were sped with laughter, our steps were free as air; life lightly lured us onward, and ceased not to unroll in endless shining vistas a playground for the soul. but now no glory fires us; we linger in the cold, and both of us are weary, and both are growing old; come, postumus, and face it, and, facing it, confess your years are half a hundred, and mine are nothing less. when you and i were twenty, my postumus, we kept in tidy rooms in college, and there we snugly slept. and still, when i am dreaming, the bells i can recall that ordered us to chapel or welcomed us to hall. the towers repeat our voices, the grey and ancient courts are filled with mirth and movement, and echo to our sports; then riverward we trudge it, all talking, once again down all the long unlovely extent of jesus lane. one figure leads the others; with frank and boyish mien, straight back and sturdy shoulders, he lords it o'er the scene; his grip is firm and manly, his cheeks are smooth and red; the tangled curls cling tightly about his jolly head. and when we launch the eight-oar i hear his orders ring; with dauntless iteration i see his body swing: the pride of all the river, the mainstay of our crew-- o postumous, my bold one, can this be truly you? nay, postumus, my comrade, the years have hurried on; you're not the only phoenix, i know, whose plumes are gone. when i recall your splendour, your memory, too, is stirred; you too can show a moulted, but once refulgent, bird; and, if i still should press you, you too could hardly fail to point a hateful moral where i adorned the tale. 'twere better to be thankful to heaven that ruled it so, and gave us for our spending the days of long ago. a ramshackle room when the gusts are at play with the trees on the lawn, and the lights are put out in the vault of the night; when within all is snug, for the curtains are drawn, and the fire is aglow and the lamps are alight, sometimes, as i muse, from the place where i am my thoughts fly away to a room near the cam. 'tis a ramshackle room, where a man might complain of a slope in the ceiling, a rise in the floor; with a view on a court and a glimpse on a lane, and no end of cool wind through the chinks of the door; with a deep-seated chair that i love to recall, and some groups of young oarsmen in shorts on the wall. there's a fat jolly jar of tobacco, some pipes-- a meerschaum, a briar, a cherry, a clay-- there's a three-handled cup fit for audit or swipes when the breakfast is done and the plates cleared away. there's a litter of papers, of books a scratch lot, such as _plato_, and _dickens_, and _liddell and scott_. and a crone in a bonnet that's more like a rag from a mist of remembrance steps suddenly out; and her funny old tongue never ceases to wag as she tidies the room where she bustles about; for a man may be strong and a man may be young, but he can't put a drag on a bedmaker's tongue. and, oh, there's a youngster who sits at his ease in the hope, which is vain, that the tongue may run down, with his feet on the grate and a book on his knees, and his cheeks they are smooth and his hair it is brown. then i sigh myself back to the place where i am from that ramshackle room near the banks of the cam. the last straw i sing the sofa! it had stood for years, an invitation to benign repose, a foe to all the fretful brood of fears, bidding the weary eye-lid sink and close. massive and deep and broad it was and bland-- in short the noblest sofa in the land. you, too, my friend, my solid friend, i sing, whom on an afternoon i did behold eying--'twas after lunch--the cushioned thing, and murmuring gently, "here are realms of gold, and i shall visit them," you said, "and be the sofa's burden till it's time for tea." "let those who will go forth," you said, "and dare, beyond the cluster of the little shops, to strain their limbs and take the eager air, seeking the heights of hedsor and its copse. i shall abide and watch the far-off gleams of fairy beacons from the world of dreams." then forth we fared, and you, no doubt, lay down, an easy victim to the sofa's charms, forgetting hopes of fame and past renown, lapped in those padded and alluring arms. "how well," you said, and veiled your heavy eyes, "it slopes to suit me! this is paradise." so we adventured to the topmost hill, and, when the sunset shot the sky with red, homeward returned and found you taking still deep draughts of peace with pillows 'neath your head. "his sleep," said one, "has been unduly long." another said, "let's bring and beat the gong." "gongs," said a third and gazed with looks intent at the full sofa, "are not adequate. there fits some dread, some heavy, punishment for one who sleeps with such a dreadful weight. behold with me," he moaned, "a scene accurst. the springs are broken and the sofa's burst!" too true! too true! beneath you on the floor lay blent in ruin all the obscure things that were the sofa's strength, a scattered store of tacks and battens and protruded springs. through the rent ticking they had all been spilt, mute proofs and mournful of your weight and guilt. and you? you slept as sweetly as a child, and when you woke you recked not of your shame, but babbled greetings, stretched yourself and smiled from that eviscerated sofa's frame, which, flawless erst, was now one mighty flaw through the addition of yourself as straw. the old grey mare there's a line of rails on an upland green with a good take-off and a landing sound, six fences grim as were ever seen, and it's there i would be with fox and hound. oh, that was a country free and fair for the raking stride of my old grey mare! with her raking stride, and her head borne high, and her ears a-prick, and her heart a-flame, and the steady look of her deep brown eye, i warrant the grey mare knew the game: it was "up to it, lass," and before i knew we were up and over, and on we flew. the rooks from the grass got up, and so, with a caw and flap, away they went; when the grey mare made up her mind to go at the tail of the bounds on a breast-high scent, the best of the startled rooks might fail to match her flight over post and rail. while some of the thrusters grew unnerved, and looked and longed for an open gate, and one crashed down and another swerved, she went for it always true and straight: she pounded the lot, for she made it good with never a touch of splintered wood. full many a year has come and gone since last she gathered her spring for me, and lifted me up, and so flew on unchecked in a country fair and free. i've ridden a score since then, but ne'er crossed one that could live with the old grey mare. at putney when eight strong fellows are out to row, with a slip of a lad to guide them, i warrant they'll make the light ship go, though the coach on the launch may chide them, with his "six, get on to it! five, you're late! don't hurry the slides, and use your weight! you're bucketing, bow; and, as to four, the sight of his shoulders makes me sore!" but stroke has steadied his fiery men, and the lift on the boat gets stronger; and the coxswain suddenly shouts for "ten! reach out to it, longer, longer!" while the wind and the tide raced hand in hand the swing of the crew and the pace were grand; but now that the two meet face to face it's buffet and slam and a tortoise-pace. for hammersmith bridge has rattled past, and, oh, but the storm is humming. the turbulent white steeds gallop fast; they're tossing their crests and coming. it's a downright rackety, gusty day, and the backs of the crew are drenched in spray; but it's "swing, boys, swing till you're deaf and blind, and you'll beat and baffle the raging wind." they have slipped through barnes; they are round thebend; and the chests of the eight are tightening. "now spend your strength, if you've strength to spend, and away with your hands like lightning! well rowed!"--and the coach is forced to cheer-- "now stick to it, all, for the post is near!" and, lo, they stop at the coxswain's call, with its message of comfort, "easy all!" so here's to the sturdy undismayed eight men who are bound together by the faith of the slide and the flashing blade and the swing and the level feather; to the deeds they do and the toil they bear; to the dauntless mind and the will to dare; and the joyous spirit that makes them one till the last fierce stroke of the race is done. "a little bit of blue" when the waves rise high and higher as they toss about together, and the march-winds, loosed and angry, cut your chilly heart in two, here are eighteen gallant gentlemen who come to face the weather all for valour and for honour and a little bit of blue! _chorus._ oh get hold of it and shove it! it is labour, but you love it; let your stroke be long and mighty; keep your body on the swing; while your pulses dance a measure full of pride and full of pleasure. and the boat flies free and joyous like a swallow on the wing. isis blessed her noble youngsters as they left her; father camus sped his youths to fame and putney from his grey and ancient courts:-- "keep," they said, "the old traditions, and we know you will not shame us when you try the stormy tideway in your zephyrs and your shorts. "for it's toil and tribulation till your roughnesses are polished, and it's bitterness and sorrow till the work of oars is done; but it's high delight and triumph when your faults are all abolished, with yourself and seven brothers firmly welded into one." so they stood the weary trial and the people poured to greet them, filled a cup with praise and welcome--it was theirs to take and quaff; and they ranged their ships alongside, and the umpire came to meet them, and they stripped themselves and waited till his pistol sent them off. with a dash and spurt and rally; with a swing and drive and rattle, both the boats went flashing faster as they cleft the swelling stream; and the old familiar places, scenes of many a sacred battle, just were seen for half a moment and went by them in a dream. but at last the flag has fallen and the splendid fight is finished, and the victory is blazoned on the record-roll of fame. they are spent and worn and broken, but their soul is undiminished; there are winners now and losers, but their glory is the same! _chorus_. oh get hold of it and shove it! it is labour, but you love it; let your stroke be long and mighty; keep your body on the swing; while your pulses dance a measure full of pride and full of pleasure, and the boat flies free and joyous like a swallow on the wing. the last cock-pheasant splendour, whom lately on your glowing flight athwart the chill and cheerless winter-skies i marked and welcomed with a futile right, and then a futile left, and strained my eyes to see you so magnificently large, sinking to rest beyond the fir-wood's marge-- not mine, not mine the fault: despise me not in that i missed you; for the sun was down, and the dim light was all against the shot; and i had booked a bet of half-a-crown. my deadly fire is apt to be upset by many causes--always by a bet. or had i overdone it with the sloes, snared by their home-picked brand of ardent gin designed to warm a shivering sportsman's toes and light a fire his reckless head within? or did my silly loader put me off with aimless chatter in regard to golf? you too, i think, displayed a lack of nerve; you did not quite-now did you?-play the game; for when you saw me you were seen to swerve, doubtless in order to disturb my aim. no, no, you must not ask me to forgive a swerve because you basely planned to live. at any rate i missed you, and you went, the last day's absolutely final bird, scathless, and left me very ill content; and someone (was it i?) pronounced a word, a word which rather forcible than nice is, a little word which does not rhyme with isis. farewell! i may behold you once again when next november's gales have stripped the leaf. then, while your upward flight you grandly strain, may i be there to add you to my sheaf; and may they praise your tallness, saying "this was such a bird as men are proud to miss!" in memoriam francis cowley burnand, - editor of "punch," - hail and farewell, dear brother of the pen, maker of sunshine for the minds of men, lord of bright cheer and master of our hearts-- what plaint is fit when such a friend departs? not with mere ceremonial words of woe come we to mourn--you would not have it so; but with our memories stored with joyous fun, your constant largesse till your life was done, with quips, that flashed through frequent twists and bends, caught from the common intercourse of friends; and gay allusions gayer for the zest of one who hurt no friend and spared no jest. what arts were yours that taught you to indite what all men thought, but only you could write! that wrung from gloom itself a fleeting smile; rippled with laughter but refrained from guile; led you to prick some bladder of conceit or trip intrusive folly's blundering feet, while wisdom at your call came down to earth, unbent awhile and gave a hand to mirth! you too had pondered mid your jesting strife the deeper issues of our mortal life; guided to god by faith no doubt could dim, you fought your fight and left the rest to him, content to set your heart on things above and rule your days by laughter and by love. rest in our memories! you are guarded there by those who knew you as you lived and were. there mid our happy thoughts you take your stand, a sun-girt shade, and light that shadow-land. eidola by frederic manning [greek: skias eidôlon] aeschylus london john murray, albemarle street, w. by frederic manning poems. _s._ _d._ net scenes and portraits. _s._ net the vigil of brunhild. _s._ _d._ net london: john murray all rights reserved to the countess of ancaster contents page the choosers sacrifice relieved reaction the old calvary the guns the sign a shell the face wind bois de mametz the trenches leaves transport [greek: autarkeia] epigram, r. b. now grotesque desire blue and gold ganhardine's song the soul's answer winter the faun the cup paroles sans musique danae worship to a girl eros athanatos demeter mourning the lost angel the mocking song the mother meditation the honey gatherer crocus song the image seller simaetha to the unknown goddess hurleywayne to sÀÏ the shepherds' carol of bethlehem past the beloved eidola the choosers o ye! fragile, tremulous haunters of the deep glades, whose fingers part the leaves of beech and aspen ere ye slip thro', shall i see ye again? men have said unto me: these are but flying lights and shadows, light on the beech-boles, clouds shadowing the corn-fields, the wind in the flame of birches in autumn, wind shadowing the clear pools. but ye cried, laughing, down the wind: _men are but shadows, but a vain breath!_ so here cometh unto me that cry from the rejoicing air: men are but shadows! and prone about me i see them, hushed and sleeping in the hut, made solemn and holy by the night, in the dead light o' the moon: shadowy, swathed in their blankets, as sleep, in hewn sepulchral caves, egypt's and asia's kings. while between them are the footsteps of glittering presences, who say: lo, one to be a sword upon my thigh! and the sleepers stir restlessly and murmur as between them pass the bright-mailed choosers of the dead. shall i see ye again, o flying feet o' the forest-haunters, while i couch silent, in a wet brake o' blossom, dark ivy wreathing your whiteness; ere i am torn from the scabbard: (lo, one to be a sword upon my thigh!) knowing no longer that earth lieth in the dews, shining and sacred? sacrifice love suffereth all things. and we, out of the travail and pain of our striving, bring unto thee the perfect prayer: for the heart of no man uttereth love, suffering even for love's sake. for us no splendid apparel of pageantry, burnished breast-plates, scarlet banners and trumpets sounding exultantly. but the mean things of the earth hast thou chosen, decked them with suffering, made them beautiful with the passion for rightness, strong with the pride of love. yea, tho' our praise of thee slayeth us, yet love shall exalt us beside thee triumphant, dying, that these live: and the earth again be beautiful with orchards, yellow with wheatfields, and the lips of others praise thee, tho' our lips be stopped with earth, and songless. but we shall have brought thee their praises, brought unto thee the perfect prayer: for the lips of no man uttereth love, suffering even for love's sake. o god of sorrows, whose feet come softly thro' the dews, stoop thou unto us, for we die so thou livest, our hearts the cups of thy vintage: and the lips of no man uttereth love, suffering even for love's sake. relieved for s. j. kimm we are weary and silent, there is only the rhythm of marching feet; tho' we move tranced, we keep it as clock-work toys. but each man is alone in this multitude; we know not the world in which we move, seeing not the dawn, earth pale and shadowy, level lands of tenuous grays and greens; for our eye-balls have been seared with fire. only we have our secret thoughts, our sense floats out from us, delicately apprehensive, to the very fringes of our being, where light drowns. reaction what make you here, aphrodite, lady of the golden cymbals, would you dance to awaken earth again as of old on ida? here are no threshing-floors.... men call you delicate, a lover of softness: making thine images of ivory, stained with sanguine; strewing frail petals of roses before you; bringing you soft stuffs of sea-dyes, vermilion and saffron sandals, floating wimples of filmy webs, that veil you, as clear water the glittering limbs of a nymph beloved of pan. but you come among us, with sleepy eyelids, and a sleep-soft smile, ere we have scraped our boots of the mud that is half human.... you come, tho' we are killing the lice in our shirts, to fill our eyes with the wine of your vision, tho' we are weary, and our hearts emptied of the old jests. _satia te sanguine_ you come among men; laughing at the ramp of the strange beasts roaring our songs in estaminets, with our hands hungry for life again. you are come curious of our crude intoxications, the savage pleasures and the gross lusts, being weary of the veiled lights, the whispers, the languid colours, and rare spiced meats that of old delighted you in paphos. you would couch with us in the golden straw of these great gothic barns, with curious curved beams arching, as in shadowy aisles; while through the broken mud-wall light rays, like the golden dust on danae poured. and we turn from the harshness of swords, hungering for you.... and know not that your breasts, carven delicately of ivory and gold, the lips, red and subtile, are born of the bitter sea-foam and bright blood. the old calvary to the rev. d. l. prosser it is propped in a corner of the yard, where vines wreathe it with leaves and delicate tendrils; a mutilated trunk, worn, and gray with weather stains; lichens cling to its flesh as a leprosy. but for a moment i stood in adoration, reverent, as the sun-rays struck between the glistening leaves; lighting the frail, lean form, the shrunken flanks, that knew more suffering than held the agonies of laocoon. for the memory of many prayers clung to it, tenderly, and glistening, even as the delicate vine to the sacred flesh. the guns menace, hidden, but pulsing in the air of night: then a throbbing thunder, split and seared with the scarlet flashes of innumerable shells, and against it, suddenly, a shell, closer; a purr that changes to a whine like a beast of prey that has missed its kill, and again, closer. but even in the thunder of the guns there is a silence: and the soul groweth still. yea, it is cloaked in stillness: and it is not fear. but the torn and screaming air trembles under the onset of warring angels with terrible and beautiful faces; and the soul is stilled, knowing these awful shapes, that burden the night with oppression, to be but the creatures of its own lusts. the sign we are here in a wood of little beeches: and the leaves are like black lace against a sky of nacre. one bough of clear promise across the moon. it is in this wise that god speaketh unto me. he layeth hands of healing upon my flesh, stilling it in an eternal peace. until my soul reaches out myriad and infinite hands toward him; and is eased of its hunger. and i know that this passes: this implacable fury and torment of men, as a thing insensate and vain: and the stillness hath said unto me, over the tumult of sounds and shaken flame, out of the terrible beauty of wrath, _i alone am eternal._ one bough of clear promise across the moon. a shell here we are all, naked as greeks, killing the lice in our shirts: suddenly the air is torn asunder, ripped as coarse silk, then a dull thud.... we are all squatting. the face out of the smoke of men's wrath, the red mist of anger, suddenly, as a wraith of sleep, a boy's face, white and tense, convulsed with terror and hate, the lips trembling.... then a red smear, falling.... i thrust aside the cloud, as it were tangible, blinded with a mist of blood. the face cometh again as a wraith of sleep: a boy's face delicate and blonde, the very mask of god, broken. wind blow, wind! strip the great trees that are like ebony against a sky of jade, ebony fretted and contorted. blow, hunt the piled clouds that lash the earth with rain; roar among the swayed branches; sing shrilly in the grass, burdening the pines with the music of pain; for mine eyes desire the stars. drown the senseless thunder of the guns, stream on the ways of air hurrying before thee the yellow leaves, and the tawny, and scarlet, till my soul dance with them, dance delightedly as a child or a kitten catching at the gay leaves laughingly, for i would forget, i would forget and laugh again. sing, thou great wind; smite the harp of the wood, for in thee the souls of slain men are singing exultant, now free of the air, feather-footed! yea, they swim therein toward the green twilight, surging naked and beautiful with playing muscles, yea, even the naked souls of men whose beauty is a fierce thing, and slayeth us like the terrible majesty of the gods; blow, thou great wind, scatter the yellowing leaves. bois de mametz for h. l. men have marred thee, o mother: autumn hath now no tawny and gilded leaves; nor murmuring among sleepy boughs; but stark and writhen as a woman ravished, with twisted tortured limbs, are mametz' woods. hath not thy child, persephone, tall men, yea, even all the children of the earth, bringing her tribute? but the reapers sing not in thy wheatfields: tall sheaves wait ungarnered, though swallows are shrilling in the skies. we are reaped, who were thy reapers, and slain our songs; we are torn as iason, beloved of thee, mother: heavy the clay upon our lips, the gray rats fear us not, but pass quickly, sated, over prone trunks, rent limbs, dead faces, that are ashen under the moon. love, who begat us, shall love slay us utterly? shall we not mingle with earth, as with sleep, dream into grasses, leafage, flowers, such being our very flesh; and shudder in the glitter of thin shivering poplars, that tremble like slim girls shaken at a caress, bowed in a clear, keen wind? lo, in us the glory of a new being, a wonder, a terror, an exultation, even in the filth of our shambles, loosened as lightnings upon us, devouring us; till we be but a shaken wrath of flames, a many-tongued music of thunder, beyond the thunder of guns. and we fail beneath it, sink into our ashes, cower as dogs; while the glory of many shaken flames drowns in the gray of thy dawns, that reveal unto us earth wasted and riven with iron and fire. desolate! thou hast turned from us.... even so thou art lovely, as a woman grown old in sorrows, with patient kindly eyes, from whom hath passed the shadow of desire; and her ears keep the whispers of many lovers, as things heard in sleep. but thou heed'st not our prayers, our strivings, the moans of our anguish, our mute agonies; though thy loins bare us in travail, though thou art the bride of our desiring, yea, and the child of our desire, in triple deity; knowing things past, and things to come, when both meet on the instant, rounding to a who this intense keen edge of flame consuming our poor dust. sit'st thou thus wisely silent, with subtile and inviolate eyes, knowing us but the shadow of thy substance, as transitory as the leaves? wiselier even.... knowing us from the matter of our lives: not the sweet leaves the wind stirs, but the wind, whose passage the leaves shadoweth. there are no leaves now in thy woods, mametz. the trenches endless lanes sunken in the clay, bays, and traverses, fringed with wasted herbage, seed-pods of blue scabious, and some lingering blooms; and the sky, seen as from a well, brilliant with frosty stars. we stumble, cursing, on the slippery duck-boards, goaded like the damned by some invisible wrath, a will stronger than weariness, stronger than animal fear, implacable and monotonous. here a shaft, slanting, and below a dusty and flickering light from one feeble candle and prone figures sleeping uneasily, murmuring, and men who cannot sleep, with faces impassive as masks, bright, feverish eyes, and drawn lips, sad, pitiless, terrible faces, each an incarnate curse. here in a bay, a helmeted sentry silent and motionless, watching while two sleep, and he sees before him with indifferent eyes the blasted and torn land peopled with stiff prone forms, stupidly rigid, as tho' they had not been men. dead are the lips where love laughed or sang, the hands of youth eager to lay hold of life, eyes that have laughed to eyes, and these were begotten, o love, and lived lightly, and burnt with the lust of a man's first strength: ere they were rent, almost at unawares, savagely; and strewn in bloody fragments, to be the carrion of rats and crows. and the sentry moves not, searching night for menace with weary eyes. leaves a frail and tenuous mist lingers on baffled and intricate branches; little gilt leaves are still, for quietness holds every bough; pools in the muddy road slumber, reflecting indifferent stars; steeped in the loveliness of moonlight is earth, and the valleys, brimmed up with quiet shadow, with a mist of sleep. but afar on the horizon rise great pulses of light, the hammering of guns, wrestling, locked in conflict like brute, stone gods of old struggling confusedly; then overhead purrs a shell, and our heavies answer, with sudden clapping bruits of sound, loosening our shells that stream whining and whimpering precipitately, hounding through air athirst for blood. and the little gilt leaves flicker in falling, like waifs and flakes of flame. transport the moon swims in milkiness, the road glimmers curving down into the wooded valley and with a clashing and creaking of tackle and axles the train of limbers passes me, and the mules splash me with mud, thrusting me from the road into puddles, straining at the tackle with a bitter patience, passing me.... and into a patch of moonlight, with beautiful curved necks and manes, heads reined back, and nostrils dilated, impatient of restraint, pass two gray stallions, such as oenetia bred; beautiful as the horses of hippolytus carven on some antique frieze. and my heart rejoices seeing their strength in play, the mere animal life of them, lusting, as a thing passionate and proud. then again the limbers and grotesque mules. [greek: autarkeia] i am alone: even ranked with multitudes: and they alone, each man. so are we free. for some few friends of me, some earth of mine, some shrines, some dreams i dream, some hopes that emerge from the rude stone of life vaguely, and tend toward form in me: the progeny of dreams i father; even this england which is mine whereof no man has seen the loveliness as with mine eyes: and even too, my god whom none have known as i: for these i fight, for mine own self, that thus in giving self prodigally, as a mere breath in the air, i may possess myself, and spend me so mingling with earth, and dreams, and god: and being in them the master of all these in me, perfected thus. fight for your own dreams, you. epigram, r. b. earth held thee not, whom now the gray seas hold, by the blue cyclades, and even the sea palls but the mortal, for men's hearts enfold, inviolate, the untamed youth of thee. now i praise ye for the noble and prodigal virtues, that are spendthrift of all, giving and taking with a light hand; for this moment only is ours: of old ye were provident, and frugal, with the parsimony of peace. now ye will jeopard your lives for a song, for a mere breath, the shadow of a desire; cloaking your valour with a jest, veiling its holiness, lest wisdom deem ye fools; the vain wisdom of peace. the old and hoary craft, that seeth not the brightness of the sun, that hideth in the earths of foxes, that weigheth love, and delight, and laughter, against minted gold. the wise ... these but traffic in our gems, they are but the merchants of our pleasure miserly! who shall hoard up life as it were but a heap of golden discs? for it hath the lightest of light feet, this quarry of our chase: as it were proteus, flowing from shape to shape under our hands.... who shall spread a net to entoil it or snare it as a bird? ye play with life as with a gamester, full of doubles and shifts, and ye laugh at each turn of the game, your hearts hawking at a chance with a keen-edged zest. ye know not what ye seek, having it always. ye have stolen of my riches; but ye have given me of your dearth the last fragment of your broken bread and gone hungry yourselves: despising the matter of our lives, the faults and incompleteness of the crude earth, from which we are moulding, with cunning and nimble fingers, images of desire. let us laugh and understand each other, for how could i blame you, my friends, when ye are so generous with the fruit of your thefts? yea, this moment is sufficient: and being artists, after our diverse manners, when each white dawn cometh build we the earth anew: repenting not yesterdays now drowned in dark, nor desiring the hastening to-morrows. grotesque these are the damned circles dante trod, terrible in hopelessness, but even skulls have their humour, an eyeless and sardonic mockery: and we, sitting with streaming eyes in the acrid smoke, that murks our foul, damp billet, chant bitterly, with raucous voices as a choir of frogs in hideous irony, our patriotic songs. desire i would sing thy face sitting here in the firelight; mid the senseless noise of guns comes it as a flower between the flames. sea-blue thine eyes, and bright as hawk's are, yet frail thy face as an image in clear water as a pearl lying there, hidden or plain, when light wavers upon it: mobile as thy moods are or faint as a star in the mist's milk: and frail thine hands, delicate, hovering in infinite slow gesture, nigh speech hesitating, poised, fragile: they would not mar gray bloom on a ripe plum. i would sing thy face to forget this.... but thy face sings to me from the slim flames and my praise is silence, and my prayer. blue and gold blue and gold are april days, all the wealth of spring unrolled down the wet, bird-haunted ways blue and gold. in their rapture uncontrolled, from the trees the blackbirds raise songs of triumph, clear and bold: and the distance is blue haze, where the hills the fields enfold, like still seas in sheltered bays blue and gold. ganhardine's song when my lady climbs the stair, from the wet, surf-beaten sands, loosening her cloak of hair, with her slender, foam-white hands, all my soul cries out in me: what fair things god maketh be! praise her white, and red, and gold; praise her lips made sweet with mirth, her grave eyes, that dreaming hold tears, which tremble ere their birth! yet what song shall snare the feet of white dawn upon the wheat? surely earth's swift-changing grace, starry waters, starry skies fallen in some flower-loved place, speak such peace as speak her eyes; there earth's sudden wonders are glassed, as waters glass a star. when my lady climbs the stair, every wandering golden tress streams out, through the living air, like a flame for loveliness, and my soul cries out in me: what fair things god maketh be. the soul's answer my soul said unto me: yea, god is wise with wisdom far too bright for our weak eyes. i answered thus my soul: yea, god is wise! my soul said unto me: yea, god is good and maketh love to be our daily food. i answered thus my soul: yea, god is good! i sent my soul from me that it might tell the damned and make a heaven where was hell, it smiled and said: nay, fear not, all is well! winter to u. a. t. bare are the boughs where love took cover, once in the spring: nor bird to bird, nor lover to lover, whisper or sing. a low moon floodeth the level meadows with frosty light: sheep come softly through mist as shadows, grey in the night. and over pasture and plough and fallow my dreams go, for thy mouth to kiss and thine hands to hallow, thine heart to know. the faun kore, o kore, where art thou fled, now that the spring blows white in the land? shake out the honeyed locks o' thine head; plunder the lilies that lie to thine hand, glistering saffron loved of the bees murmuring in them, till shadows grow long with dew-dropping silence under the trees, ere break the voluptuous thrillings of song from the brown-throated sweet harbourers there raptured and grieving under the stars.... the cup ye mock me, wantons, that i come among you drunken, bedecked with garlands like a white sacrificial bull. laugh then! so cypris laughing shakes one petal down from her rose-braided hair, honeyed with kisses, to perfume the glowing purple that brims up this gold. laugh then, and mock, but kiss me! for what man would come among you sober? wise, i come borne on silenus' ass to praise eros. paroles sans musique for jelly d'arÀnyi ah, the night! the eyes! you are white beneath the plum-blossoms, as an oread beneath the shadow of flowering branches: immobile, among things fugitive and frail. for god hath filled you with the memory of things forgotten by man; and your eyelids close upon lost splendours. yea! they are heavy with the secrets of time; troubled by the strangeness of beauty. but mine heart knoweth the secret of your subtile lips and eyes: the silence wherein throng presently, with maddening cymbals, with bright-tressed torches, the maenads, their cool flesh wreathed with dark vines. ah, the night! the eyes! honey pale are you, pallid as ivory: an amber grape, whose sweetness will be wine on some king's lip! here 'mid these golds and purples, these dusked magnificences, amid strange faces only your face against the plum-blossom know i: remembering bright spear heads in the moonlight by the still tents, the red embers, the strings and flutes of pain.... and again the weariness of desiring. ah, the night! the eyes! danae thou, whom the gray seas bare more fierce than they. o bitter love! have pity on his weeping, smite me with pain; lo, i am all thy prey! sleep thou, my son, as all the world is sleeping; sleep thou, my babe; and sleep, thou bitter sea; and sleep, o grief, within the heart of me. ashen thy fruit, o love, thy crown is pain! sweet were thy words to me, thy soft caresses. child of my heart, o gain beyond all gain. sleep, while i shelter thee with arms and tresses! sleep thou, my babe, and sleep, thou bitter sea; and sleep, o grief, within the heart of me. yea, i am thine, o love. i am thy spoil! sleep thou, my son, sleep softly till the morrow! love, thou hast snared me in thy golden toil, still the loud seas though thou still not my sorrow! sleep thou, my babe; and sleep, thou bitter sea; and sleep, o grief, within the heart of me. worship earth, sea, and skies, for me are in thine eyes, yea, thou for me holdest within thyself eternity. as the dew's sphere encloses all the clear fires hung in the night, the thin moon and the shaken seas delight. and there the rose where seraphs throne them, glows quiring god's name, with music that is sound of joy made flame. god's very grace is perfect in thy face, mirrored such wise that i mine own soul there imparadise. to a girl (miss e. f.) thy face, which love renews ever with loveliness, is known and strange as earth, from night each dawn is new: stirred with such restless beauty as water that wind shadoweth. how may love snare thy soul, or know the ways thereof? subtile as flame it is, and secret as the dews: even thus closely folded love hath thee not, but followeth. from change to change, nor surfeiteth his ecstasy that from so brief a joy desireth new delight, as tho' the sweet life in thee were fugitive and bodiless. nay, love, in thee all change immortal is; nor dies, being the soul of thee that pastures on brief joy: and this earth's shows mere seeming in thy clear love's eternity. eros athanatos as a rose bends in rain your face is bowed into mine arms, spilling its golden drops there: and the fragrance of wet roses is in my nostrils, and the long bright tendrils of your hair upon me. under my hand you tremble as a reed when wind ruffles the water; such great joy floweth beneath my fingers, and the rain passes, and the wind strews the ripples with crimson petals bright as blood upon their polished silver. but my delight of you fragrant and humid in mine arms, of a white body convulsive, shaken with the soul's passion; lips fierce, eager, passes not, but as a song, as a breath passes, to hide it in a silence, a sleep, among cherishing dews, being music: nor the mere lute, nor the singer, but the shaped passion of a god embodied in us, beyond us, eternal, exultant. demeter mourning i have seen her in sorrow, as one blind with grief, across the furrows on soiled feet pass, as the cold gray dawn came with cold wind, gray as fine steel and keen with bitter sleet, beneath the white moon waning in the skies: and i grew holy gazing in her eyes. then her voice came: ah! but thou wert too fair to seek among the dim realms of the dead love: and what hands will tremble in thine hair or lips faint on thy lips? the clear stars shed all night their dews on me: and the wind's breath pierced; and my heart grew hungry too for death. o flower! o clear pool mirroring the trees, whose sight was all my soul! o golden one, whose hair was like the corn, and rippling seas of new-sprung grasses where the light winds run! o thou, whose breath was music, and whose mirth ran like bright water o'er the thirsting earth. surely now where the frail, dim shadows dwell thou hast sown all the marvel of earth's flowers and lit with wonder all the ways of hell and winged the feet of their slow-footed hours, while i sit lonely by the water-springs on the bare earth where not one linnet sings! the dead leaves fluttered round her, and she sate there by the well-side filmed with silver frost, like some old woman, stricken in her fate, with no more heart to wail what she hath lost: and silence grew about her, as though grief stilled the rude winds, and every withered leaf. the lost angel thy love is as clear rivers to a thirsty land, even as the rivers of earth bringing the wonder of boughs, the rivers of thy love have filled up the channels of time. earth is a lure unto mine eyes. lo! now i love the fragile fleeting days, warm lips of women. delights that slip away as fish through water. o, god, thou knowest what is in my heart. soiled am i now with dust, and frustrate glories wane, and are tarnished on my darkened brows; yea, all my love is for the joys that perish. how may mine eyes behold my naked soul no more arrayed in wings of my desire? the cold rains smite me, and the winds of sorrow have driven me down the bitter ways of time. o, god, thou knowest what is in my heart. how shall i come again into my peace, so heavy is the darkness on eyes and feet? one sayeth: lo, now, god's lost angel crowned with broken hopes, and clothed with grief, and mute, sitting with his despair through the long starless night, i, god's lost angel. even thus i grow starry amid the solitudes, yea, crowned with my despair, throned even in my fall, o, god, thou knowest what is in my heart. the mocking song surely now in the spring-time shall i waken my singing and song shall blossom out of my lips, glowing, as gloweth the golden crocus of zeus. for the soft white flakes of the winter have covered me over with a deep stillness not to be told, and my heart hath gathered honey of many dreams. now may they blossom as flames, tawny and eager, shaking out their bright hair on the wind. the soft wind that streameth through the long green, rippling grasses. yea, like a bee, my heart hath fed on the honey of flowers and is made drunken, and full of strength, full of the blood-red wine that is fierce and exultant. but ye have turned your faces from song and from dreaming, ye stirred in the winter and wakened, your grain was garnered and threshed, yet a hunger filled you. but the breasts of earth had filled me, mine eyes had garnered many-coloured may, and sweet, red apples, through every sense had i drunk up her strength, and was sated. what have ye, o wise ones? the corn ye reaped ye shall sow, ye shall watch for rains and tempests; only i hearing the hail on the roofs shall be gladdened. ye, being mockers, said: what profiteth him his singing? ye stored not the sweetness in your hearts, ye are bent double with the burden of the past, fearful of time. ye go forth into the furrows, but who shall come to the reaping? lo, now the golden grain falleth to earth! though ye be rich in this wise, yet are ye desolate. i have gleaned in the hedgerows and wild glades of the forest, and that sweetness sufficeth to me: for sweet it is to feel the rain upon face and hair. surely ye have this day: but the wise sweetness in my heart is the honey of all days which ye have not. so shall my soul mock you, when dying, lo! ye are empty. even so when i hungered ye gave me bread, with hard words ye gave it me. so give i this song unto you with hard words in mockery. the mother she hath such quiet eyes, that feed on all earth's wonders! she will sit here in the orchard, and the bewildering beauty of blossoming boughs lulls her as day grows late and level sunlight streameth through the tree-stems lying as pale gold on the green fallows, and gilding the fleeces of the slow-feeding sheep in the pastures. while in her there stirs, a dream, a delight, a wonder her being knew not, yet now remembers, wistfully, as a thing long lost, sunken in dim, green, lucid sea-caves; and her desire goeth out from her, toward god, through the twilight, lost, too, in the waters of unfathomable silence. but the child, gazing upward, sees the glory of the apple-blossom suddenly scattered, as a bird flies through the branches; and he reaches toward the soft, white fluttering petals that light upon his face, and laughs; and she stoops over him quickly with sudden, hot, passionate kisses, smiling for all her tears. meditation even tho' i descend into the darkness of deep valleys, yet have mine eyes beheld the light, and my heart treasureth it. one, seeing thy face, loseth it not in dreams. it shall abide with him through all the days; and his heart treasureth it. earth dieth in the darkness, but when dawn cometh slowly the trees and hills grow into the light.... the heart of darkness cherisheth the dawn. who shall forget thee having seen thy face? i have dreamed in my sleep of thee, as a man dreameth of a maiden. yea! the silence and darkness held thee as a dream. lo! i have seen thee. how shall i forget? thy beauty is treasured up in my heart. the honey gatherer i would drink of the honeyed wine that is heavy with poppies until my trembling eyelids close, and only the murmur of life i should know: as the murmur of seas to one sleeping. glide now the soft, slim feet of white dreams that are lovely and fugitive to whom thy sorrow is alien, my beloved! sweetly their feet stir the young grasses, they lie coiled in clear dark waters, or couched in the thickets, their whiteness dappled with shadow, so might i forget again the sword of thy beauty and the desire that looked out from thine eyes, until mine heart leapt forth to meet it, and was seared in the flame. life was as a net about me, and mine hands might not rend it, but i lay in fear among the toils, and afar mine ears strained to catch the footsteps of the hunter. honey and poppies! until desire is drowned within me, until sleep hath builded a world that is gateless, a world of beautiful luminous waters through which the white dreams slip and swim, pearled with fine spray, their bright hair floating, to whom love and desire and sorrow are foolishness and thy beauty a shadow, that the wind breaketh. and thy body but dust for the wind's pasture and thy sorrow but a murmur of waters.... there are they, the exultant, the swan-throated; through the night cometh the sound of their trumpets, until mine heart is drunken with their wine. honey and poppies! until sleep is heavy upon me as a garment, until the winged joys come. but even then, o my beloved! is desire and a grieving; even in the deep waters my soul remembereth how it hath been troubled by thy hands. crocus song for m. c. the first flame, the first spear of the spring, a thing perfected of the dews and fire, saffron in hoar-frost, brightened as with wine: thou blossoming in the heart of me! ah, golden is she whose love hath led me through the world a thing of dews and fire, of wine and saffron! gray willows veiling my beloved bend above her, as though you would love her, now clear water shadoweth her whiteness. ere brown bees go abroad murmuring, one saffron crocus hath made glad desire, to follow on swift feet slim feet of thine; love wakening for joy of thee, beholden as golden petals of one flower unfurled, brimmed up with dews and fire, with wine and saffron. clear waters shadowing her whiteness flow beside her, as tho' you would hide her, jealous that mine eyes have my beloved. the image seller i would bring them again unto you, the gods with broad and placid brows; and for you have i wrought their images of carven ivory and gold; that your lips may be shaped to praise them, and your praises be laughter and all delights of the body, dancing and exultation, a dance of torches in scarlet sandals, with burnished targes: a dance of boys by the wine-press naked, with must-stained purple thighs: of young girls by the river in saffron vesture dancing to smitten strings and reed flutes. praise then mine images: helios; artemis, with a leash of straining hounds: and the foam-born. turning from love to sleep, drowsy and smiling, with the fluttering of doves and dreams about her and, softer than silk, hephaistos' golden net. lo, bacchus and his painted beasts! praise ye mine images! a dryad whom clinging ivy holds while laughs the swarthy centaur pursuing; and a troop of small pans delicate and deformed. yet your lips praise not, crying: we too would be deathless as these are, we, the hunted! but dance and adore them, praise my sweet grave gods of the blue, and the earth-born! praise their strong grace and swiftness! for in these gods mine hands have wrought, in these alone are ye deathless. simaetha for d. s. d. thou art wine, simaetha! when mine eyes drink thee my blood flames with the golden joy thou art, bewildering me, until thy loveliness is veiled in its own light: nor know i then pure brows, and placid lips and eyes, and hair with wind and sunlight glorious: but all are mingled in one flame. o thou, in me, art shrined, as none hath seen thee, as gods live whom time shall not consume; nor rusts thy gold ever, so hath my soul enclosed thee round with its divine air. yea, thy very life, which flows through all the guises of thy moods, escaping as they die, and laughs and weeps and builds again its beauty, have i set beyond the jeopards of rough time: yea! all thine ivory, imperilled loveliness, and winey sanguine where the cheek's curve takes light as a bloom upon it, not to pass so there be god. thy praise hath made speech song and song from lip to lip flies, and black ships bear it from sea to sea; and on some quay where rise tall masts, and gay booths flank the ways a tumbler sings it; and an alien air trembles with thee, while strange men wonder, dumb to see thee pass: thou being all my song. to the unknown goddess gross, sensual faces herded; and then you with magical wide eyes came. eyes that kept the mirth of dews at dawn in them, and slept to the tumult of the street. they held the blue, sweet, flowering spaces under pines; and knew cropped lawns, where naked dryads dancing leapt to the clash of golden cymbals, while there crept furtively on white bellies through the dew, to glut on grace, ambiguous fauns, whose eyes burned glittering with desire: until the horn of the moon turned ashen; and through the still trees the lithe shapes feed: and dawn brimmed up the skies with winey gold, and walked upon the corn; and murmuring through the vines came gleaming bees. hurleywayne for m. s. such cool peace as fills green solitudes with trembling light at eve, fresh after summer thunder: and thin leaves stir gleaming, and grow still; then the green light alone moves, pulsing in pooled air, that shakes no more with sound. quiet brims full; then break as dropping rain hurrying elfin feet, a silvery foam of sound blown as white spray, sparkling with great bright bubbles: no sound to sense, bright foam upon blue pools of quiet tossed: and a sight of waven manes that gleam shaken in the twilight under luminous leaves; and challenging fairy horns that invite to the chace gay, light o' heart. and the galloping host, winding their horns, rush by as wind in the grass, shimmering; and the horns from afar ring out, farther and farther away. to sÀÏ you chase the blue butterflies, the shining dew is shaken by your feet, that are white in the young grasses; swift, you hesitate, poised; and they elude you; fluttering in the windless gold. sàï is small, but a little child, with little sorrows; yet her tears shine with laughter, her face comes and goes between the wet leaves, as a face in sleep comes and goes between green shadows, as moving lights hide and shine in the marshes. i shall not look at her, lest she should hide from mine eyes in the shadow. i bring her pale honey in a comb, apples sweet and smelling; and leave them beside me; then comes she softly. there is a bee in the willow-weed, from flower to flower it climbs, and i watch it till the honey and apples are eaten. sàï is quite close to me; now she has gone she has forgotten me. sàï is small, but a little child. the shepherds' carol of bethlehem a golden star hangs in the night, heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow! and all the fields are clad in white: i saw three shepherds out in the snow. what maketh mary's face so pale? heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow! it is the hour of her travail: i saw three shepherds out in the snow. she lies between an ass and beast, heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow! three kings come riding from the east: i saw three shepherds out in the snow. caspar, melchior, balthazar, heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow! they have ridden out of the lands afar: i saw three shepherds out in the snow. in ermine furs and cramasie, heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow! a duffle cloak will shelter me: i saw three shepherds out in the snow. the kings have stooped to mary's hem, heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow! but her eyes travel away from them: i saw three shepherds out in the snow. what gifts have we to bring the lord? heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow! neither a sceptre, nor a sword: i saw three shepherds out in the snow. we bring no gifts but milk and cheese: heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow! and a fleece of wool for mary's knees: i saw three shepherds out in the snow. nor myrrh, nor frankincense, nor gold: heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow! but a fleece to shield him from the cold: i saw three shepherds out in the snow. down miry ways, tho' storms be wild, heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow! a warm soft fleece for a naked child: i saw three shepherds out in the snow. now mary turns her face to sleep: heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow! while we go back to tend our sheep: i saw three shepherds out in the snow. the sparks fly from the crackling thorn, heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow! our god was in a stable born: i saw three shepherds out in the snow. tho' three wise kings rode from the east, heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow! he was born between an ass and beast: i saw three shepherds out in the snow. i saw no trail of starry light, heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow! i heard a child wail in the night: i saw three shepherds out in the snow! past we played in this garden, long ago, long ago! wind stirs the young grasses; petals drift from the apple-boughs, like snow, that covers up everything, everything! the beloved (to the countess of kintore) love, when they told me you were dead, i replied not; i smiled, and they thought me mad. they wept anointing thy body, they swathed thee in linen bands and laid thee in the earth. their hands touched thee as a thing sacred, they mourned for thee with shaken hearts. it was dawn, my beloved, and they came in, into my room, where i lay close to sleep smiling, and they told me you were dead. i smiled hearing the swallows coming and going under the eaves, and they told me you were dead. the earth dreamed in dews, the sheep were in the pastures, and they told me you were dead. o my beloved, these knew thee not. certain of these poems have appeared in _the spectator_, _poetry_, _the forum_, _the quest_, and _the windsor magazine_. my thanks are due to the editors of these periodicals for permission to reprint them. printed by hazell, watson and viney, ld., london and aylesbury, england. songs of heroic days by thomas o'hagan author of a gate of flowers in dreamland songs of the settlement in the heart of the meadow and others toronto: william briggs copyright, canada, by thomas o'hagan to the brave canadian hearts that beat and battle for the cause of freedom and the safety of the empire. preface nearly all these poems have appeared during the past year in the columns of the _globe_ and the _mail_ and _empire_ of toronto, and the _free press_ of detroit, michigan. when the author read from his poems last winter before the women's press club of toronto one of its members suggested that an engrossed and illuminated copy of the poem, "i take off my hat to albert," be presented to his majesty, king albert of belgium. this was done through the kind offices and courtesy of mr. goor, the belgian consul-general at ottawa. his majesty's gracious letter of acceptance, which the reader will find on another page, is indeed a royal foreword to these poetic blossoms of a piteous though heroic time. thomas o'hagan january th, . contents letter from the king of belgium translation i take off my hat to albert the kaiser's favorite poems louvain the kaiser's bhoys mothers in the trenches the christ-child god's new year's gift trouble in the louvre "bobs" of kandahar song of the zeppelin "sock it to 'em" langemarck the bugle call his mission achilles' tomb the chrism of kings tipperary gather the harvest the kaiser's "place in the sun" letter from the king of belgium [illustration: letter from the king of belgium] translation la panne, august th, . office of the secretary to the king and queen (of belgium). sir: the very delicate words you have found to express to the king your friendly feelings have greatly touched his majesty. the sovereign, who has much admired the beautiful illumination adorning the verses composed in his honor, commands me to thank you sincerely and to say that he will be glad to keep this valuable souvenir. i have the honor to be sir your obedient servant, j. ingenbleek, _secretary._ to dr. thomas o'hagan, ottawa. i take off my hat to albert _albert, king of belgium, is the hero of the hour; he's the greatest king in europe, he's a royal arch and tower; he is bigger in the trenches than the kaiser on his throne, and the whole world loves him for the sorrows he has known: so i take off my hat to albert._ _defiance was his answer to the teuton at his gate, then he buckled on his armor and pledged his soul to fate; he stood between his people and the biggest essen gun, for he feared not shot nor shrapnel as his little army won: so i take off my hat to albert._ _king of belgium, duke of brabant, count of flanders, all in one; little kingdom of the belgae starr'd with honor in the sun! you have won a place in history, of your deeds the world will sing, but the glory of your nation is your dust-stained, fearless king: so i take off my hat to albert._ _for m. goor._ the kaiser's favorite poems what are the kaiser's favorite poems? well, now, you tax me hard: i know the kaiser's favorite drink but do not know his bard; i'm sure it is not schiller who reigns in german homes. nor yet olympian goethe, who writes the kaiser's poems. perhaps that heinrich heine has touched the kaiser's soul; or arndt with his trumpet call like a new conscription roll; or, walther von der vogelweide with his nest in mythic domes, is the author and creator of the kaiser's favorite poems. if i saw the kaiser's library i'd know well what he reads-- the color of his fancy and the prompter of his deeds: i'd learn the depth and wisdom of his theories and his gnomes, if i got but just a glance or two at the kaiser's favorite poems. then let us go to essen, where the kaiser's books are bound; they are full of "steel" engravings-- all "best sellers" there are found; for the prussian soul and spirit speaks in rhythm thro' those tomes, and these without a question, are the kaiser's favorite poems. _for rt. hon. david lloyd-george._ louvain a shrine, where saints and scholars met and held aloft the torch of truth, lies smouldering 'neath fair brabant's skies, a ruined heap--war's prize in sooth! the pilates of teutonic blood that fired the brand and flung the bomb now wash their hands of evil deed, while all the world stands ghast and dumb. is this your culture, sons of kant, and ye who kneel 'round goethe's throne? to carry in your knapsacks death? to feel for man nor ruth nor moan? what 'vails it now your mighty guns if god be mightier in the sky? what 'vail your cities, walls and towers if half your progress be a lie? the smoking altars, ruined arch of ancient church and gothic fane have felt the death stings of your shells, and speak in pity thro' louvain. wheel back your guns, your howitzers melt, forget your "world-power's" cursed plan and sign in peace and not in blood dread sinai's pact 'twixt god and man. _for his eminence cardinal merrier._ the kaiser's bhoys o, the kaiser's bhoys are marching, "nach paris" they are going, but they've sthopped to rest a minit at the marne and at the meuse; and the gordons and the ministers are thryin' to entertain them, for they've every kind of "record" that the teutons want to choose; they have battle cries that sounded for centuries in the highlands, they have war cries fierce and stirring as the breath of munster gales; they are shoutin' to the heavens, and they're shoutin' to the kaiser, "_faugh-a-ballagh!_" sons of odin, or we'll tie you up like bales. o, the kaiser's bhoys are dramin' of a naval base at calais, but they wakin' ivery mornin' full of sorrow and of gloom; for the little belgian sojers cut the dykes and flood their trenches, and they find their dugouts only jist a bathtub or a tomb. but they're makin' progress backward, "_nach berlin_" they are going, with their "_landsturms_" and their "_land-wehrs_," keepin' sthep in dim grey line; and they'll know far more of britain and her brood of lions snarlin', when they find themselves "_su hause_" jist beyant "_die wacht am rhein_." _for john e. redmond, m.p._ mothers through the vigils deep of the sable night a mother sits in grief alone, for her sons have gone to the battle front and left on the hearth a crushing stone. beyond the stars that burn at night she sees god's arm in pity reach; it counsels patience, love and faith, heroic hearts and souls to teach. the blue is spann'd and the tide goes out. and the stars rain down a kindlier cheer; and the mother turns from this throne of grief to pierce the years with a joyous tear; for duty born of a mother's heart fills all the rounds of our common day-- yea, sheds its joy in the darkest night, and fills with light each hidden way. _for miss ina coolbrith._ in the trenches all day the guns belched fire and death and filled the hours with gloom; the fateful music smote the sky in tremulous bars of doom; but as the evening stars came forth a truce to death and strife, there rose from hearts of patriot love a tender song of life. a song of home and fireside swelled on the evening air, and men forgot their battle line, its carnage and dark care; the soldier dropp'd his rifle and joined the choral song, as high above the tide of war it swept and pulsed along. that night while sleeping where the stars look down upon the meuse, where teuton valor coped with frank, where rained most deadly dews, a soldier youth, in khaki clad, rock'd where the maples grow, smiled in his dream and saw again the blue st. lawrence flow. _for miss julia o'sullivan._ the christ-child across the waste, across the snow, o the pity! o the pity! past sentinel of friend and foe o the pity! o the pity! comes the christ-child clad in white through the storm-clouds of the night. bearing in his lily hands gift of peace to warring lands, o the pity! o the pity! "_adeste fideles!_" sing the choirs o the pity! o the pity! lurid flame the battle fires o the pity! o the pity! shepherds hear the heavenly song, mid the strife and piteous wrong; peace on earth but not of men, peace that knows not crime nor sin. o the pity! o the pity! lay your sceptres at his feet, o the pity! o the pity! christ, the babe of bethlehem, greet, o the pity! o the pity! legions stretched in battle line, saw the star and knew the sign, yet forgot that christ was born prince of peace, on christmas morn, o the pity! o the pity! christmas, . for mrs. george mcintyre. god's new year's gift what shall the coming year bring forth, o lord, who rulest the land? for the navies of the sea and air are but stubble in thy hand. the battalions in the field go forth; they arm in mighty line; do they kneel to know thy holy will? have they asked from thee a sign? the kings invoke thy holy name, in their carnage and their strife; but the purple gift it was thine to give recks not of pity nor life: for they're drunk with the wine of lustful power, and seared with the sins of earth; and their prayers and preachments now mock thy name, and make of thy laws but mirth. january , . _for duncan campbell scott._ trouble in the louvre when the german troops were marching with the uhlans far ahead, the objective point being paris, as the berlin wireless said, there was trouble in the louvre, 'mong the paintings on the walls, there were shoutings 'cross the centuries, there were loud artistic calls; "mona lisa" ceased her smiling and "the banker and his wife" turned to millet's "women gleaning"--begged protection for their life; while "the gypsy girl" of franz hals, fearful of impending fate, roused "the shepherds in arcadia" with "the hun is at the gate!" then the panic spread on all sides till the battle of the marne solved all danger of the looting, removed all need to warn; straight "the lace maker" from flemish bruges in the joyous choral led smiled at "charles first of england" who had lost his crown and head; for fear had left the louvre when the teutons turned in flight, so they scanned the sky no longer for dread zeppelins in the night. and the paintings born of centuries touched by genius into life still are hanging in the louvre 'mid war's clash and clang and strife. _for edgar guest._ "bobs" of kandahar "the body of 'bobs' then lay in state until five o'clock, when it was interred in a crypt near-by those containing the bodies of nelson and wellington."--_press despatch_. who is he that cometh to join our mighty dead? is it "bobs" of kandahar the empire's armies led? give him place, o nation great! within your storied walls; within our heart his name shall rest, his ashes in st. paul's. soldier of the empire, bobs of kandahar! lay him near the hero of glorious trafalgar! death has ta'en the shining sword he aye in duty drew; lay him near the iron duke of fateful waterloo! soldier of the empire, well thy work was done, fit thy sun had setting within sound and roar of gun; thy soul had vision of the years fraught with danger's woe, and counsell'd arméd wisdom against a subtle foe; now thy task has ended, the splendor of thy sun, sheds its setting glory on the greater life begun, from where the maple stands in pride to india's torrid star, now, mourn an empire's people for "bobs" of kandahar! _for lady aileen mary roberts._ song of the zeppelin i cleave the air through the murky night, high o'er the forests and sleeping towns; below me drifts the shimmering light-- a glorious fresco on vale and downs; my sea hath no billows nor rocky shores, and only the winds disturb my soul; i care not for those who slumber in death, for my bomb is bloody and death my goal-- and all for the vaterland! where the currents cross and the cruisers speed i sail towards the north in a piteous sky; i hear the night wind's surging note as it mingles its requiem with the widow's cry. above me there streams a light from heaven, but i bow my head and veil my eyes as i plough the fields with my fateful keel and sow the highways with tears and sighs-- and all for the vaterland! and hate is the banner i unfurl so wide that its blood-dripp'd folds may catch the breeze; that e'en from the balcony of heaven on high may be seen this banner on all the seas. no triumph of arms is my flight by night, it is only a part of a murderous raid: dropping a bomb on an innocent child or a crowing babe in its cradle laid-- and all for the vaterland! _for thomas walsh._ "sock it to 'em" "a canadian lieutenant writes his mother from the front that what he most needs for the winter is good warm socks."--_press despatch_. yes, wilhelm, sure you'll get it, the storm is o'er your head; it is bursting in the trenches and you're just as good as dead. you put your foot on belgium and defied your fate and doom, and now the whole world hates you and the cry is "sock it to 'em!" true, your taubchens still are sailing, but your battleships are not; they are coop'd up in a corner save the submerg'd ones that fought. you are saving time and fuel, but you're sad and filled with gloom, for the very winds are whispering "blow hard and sock it to 'em." you have sought more spacious realm in the free and genial sun: has your sceptre widened any with the salvo of each gun? your "world-power" seems to narrow, and your hope lies in a tomb, while dark fate weaves your chaplet and whispers "sock it to 'em!" _for theodore botrel._ langemarck a glory lights the skies of flanders where the blood-stained fields lie bare, where the clouds of war have gathered, built their parapets in the air; halted stands the teuton army, checked its onslaught at a sign; forward roll the warlike forces, sons of canada in line. let them taste of northern courage where the lordly maple grows; let them face the heroes nurtured where the stars have wed the snows; we are sons of sires undaunted, children of the hills and plains; ours a courage born of duty, pluck and dash of many strains. tell it to our children's children how canadians saved the day; write it with the pen of history, sing it as a fireside lay; how at langemarck in flanders, though the odds were eight to one, our canadians stood unbroken, sword to sword, and gun to gun. _for sir wilfrid laurier._ the bugle call do you hear the call of our mother, from over the sea, from over the sea? the call to her children, in every land; to her sons on afric's far-stretch'd veldt; to her dark-skinned children on india's shore, whose souls are nourish'd on aryan lore; to her sons of the northland where frosty stars glitter and shine like a helmet of mars; do you hear the call of our mother? do you hear the call of our mother from over the sea, from over the sea? the call to australia's legions strong, that move with the might and stealth of a wave; to the men of the camp and men of the field, whose courage has taught them never to yield; to the men whose counsel has saved the state, and thwarted the plans of impending fate; do you hear the call of our mother? do you hear the call of our mother from over the sea, from over the sea? to the little cot on the wind-swept hill; to the lordly mansion in the city street; to her sons who toil in the forest deep or bind the sheaves where the reapers reap; to her children scattered far east and west; to her sons who joy in her freedom blest; do you hear the call of our mother? _for major-general sir sam hughes._ his mission "a german will teach irish at the university of illinois, beginning in february, when dr. kuno e. meyer of the university of berlin will become visiting professor of the celtic language and literature."--_press despatch_. go back, dear kuno, to the poles and alsatians, and teach them the language your nation has robbed; piece out their dreams of new glory and freedom; bring joy to the hearts where the children have sobbed. we love the old celtic tongue, vibrant with music, as it speaks to our hearts thro' the chords of long years, but we don't want your lessons, though laden with "_kultur_," from a land where alsatians and poles are in tears. go back, herr professor, your mission is ended, for, though your gifts are many, you are "_ausgespielt_"; go back and receive your "kreuz von eisen," for we don't like the way that you're "_ausgebild't_." the stars that burn with the true light of freedom, in this giant new world, with its endless day, have nothing in common with your satellite planets, and care not to shine on your eagle's prey. _for dr. douglas hyde._ achilles' tomb achilles awoke in his ancient tomb hard by the coast of troy; he rattled his armor now full of dust and rubbed his eyes like a boy, as he gazed on the ships of the allied fleet, ploughing the seas from afar, bent on their course to the dardanelles 'neath the light of victory's star. "why, i've been asleep," achilles said, "on the windy plains of troy; three thousand years have turned to dust with their maddening mirth and joy; yet it seems but a day since ilium fell, since sinon spun out his tale, and the greeks returned from tenedos with a light and prosperous gale. "three thousand years is a long, long time, but i'll doze for a thousand more; for i'm sick of the bluff of the teuton hosts and the gas from each army corps. so lay me down in my ancient tomb, where the phrygian winds sweep by, and i'll dream of the days when heroes fought, 'round the lofty walls of troy." _for very rev. w. r. harris, d.d._ the chrism of kings in the morn of the world, at the daybreak of time, when kingdoms were few and empires unknown, god searched for a ruler to sceptre the land, and gather the harvest from the seed he had sown. he found a young shepherd boy watching his flock where the mountains looked down on deep meadows of green; he hailed the young shepherd boy king of the land and anointed his brow with a chrism unseen. he placed in his frail hands the sceptre of power, and taught his young heart all the wisdom of love; he gave him the vision of prophet and priest, and dowered him with counsel and light from above. but alas! came a day when the shepherd forgot and heaped on his realm all the woes that war brings, and bartering his purple for the greed of his heart he lost both the sceptre and chrism of kings. _for miss katherine brégy._ tipperary (new version.) i'm not going to tipperary for i've better work to do, i am dreaming of a new device to catch each german crew; and when we've chased them thro' the deep, _ach gott!_ what fun there'll be rounding up the teuton "subs" in the blue and vasty sea. so, good-bye, tipperary! farewell, slieve-na-mon! i leave you for a season to chase the murderous hun; von tirpitz knows their hiding-place and i'll find out, too, so, good-bye, tipperary, till we've caught each pirate crew. then i'll go to tipperary with its hills of emerald green, where the skies are full of splendor and each peasant girl a queen; where the men know naught but honor and where duty is their goal; where the shadows from the mountains are but sunlight to the soul. so, good-bye, tipperary, till we've rounded up each crew, then i'll turn my face to greet you for to you i'll e'er be true; so i'm off to chase the pirates and the ocean aisles to sweep, _ach himmel_, tipperary! there'll be fun upon the deep. _for rev. j. b. bollard._ gather the harvest gather the harvest though reaped in death, under the pale, pale moon; for the lilies that joyed in the breath of morn shall know not the ardor of noon: so, the souls that grow strong, in patriot love, shall be garnered on death's dark field, ere the noontide rays have touched the vale and burnished with gold life's shield. gather the harvest though reaped in death, where the sword has struck for right, and cleft a way for freedom's path, through the dark and tremulous night: for the golden grain on the altar flames and lights each pilgrim throng, as they meet in joy 'round that altar bright where justice shall right each wrong. _for miss helen merrill._ the kaiser's "place in the sun" the kaiser is seeking "a place in the sun" but i fear he'll have to wait, till another eclipse has dulled its face and the allies have woven his fate: for the "spots" on the sun are all occupied with a race descended from mars; so there's no place in the heavens for _schrecklich_ wilhelm, not even among the stars. what boots it, wilhelm, that your guns are big, and your zeppelins soar by night, since against you are leagued the earth and stars and you're sure to lose in the fight. you have drenched the world with heroic blood, and stained the record of man, but you'll presently get your "place in the sun," yes, the hottest since time began, _for t. j. murphy._ [illustration: _poems of the great war_ _ /net_ _national relief fund_] poems of the great war _duty._ _give gladly, you rich--'tis no more than you owe-- for the weal of your country, your wealth's overflow! even i that am poor am performing my part; i am giving my brain, i am giving my heart._ _william watson_ poems of the great war published on behalf of the prince of wales's national relief fund fourth edition london chatto & windus note this collection of war poems, the net profits from which will be given to the prince of wales's fund, represents the free offering of english poets to the cause of national relief. most of the poems have appeared recently in the press. mr. robert bridges' opening contribution, mr. henry newbolt's, mr. maurice hewlett's, mr. r. e. vernède's, mr. binyon's, were all printed in the _times_ during the few days immediately following the declaration of war, as also was the sonnet by mr. william watson. sir owen seaman's poem came out originally in _punch_, "the hour" in the _daily telegraph_, "the united front" in the _daily mail_. "we willed it not" is reprinted from the _sphere_, "duty" and "commandeered" from the _westminster gazette_, and the poems by mr. gilbert and mr. cecil chesterton from the _new witness_. the _new weekly_ published the verses by mr. john freeman, and the _daily chronicle_ those by mr. harold begbie. the two hymns which close the collection are reprinted, by special permission of their authors, from volumes previously published. the publishers desire also to record their thanks to mr. william nicholson for the design which appears on the cover. contents page "wake up, england" _robert bridges_ the vigil _henry newbolt_ to the troubler of the world _william watson_ to england: to strike quickly _maurice hewlett_ the fourth of august _laurence binyon_ the united front _alfred noyes_ england to the sea _r. e. vernède_ the hour _j. b. fagan_ the wife of flanders _g. k. chesterton_ the stars in their courses _john freeman_ commandeered _l. g. moberly_ the man who keeps his head _harold begbie_ france _cecil chesterton_ we willed it not _john drinkwater_ pro patria _owen seaman_ hymn before action _rudyard kipling_ hymn in war time _robert bridges_ "wake up, england" thou careless, awake! thou peacemaker, fight! stand, england, for honour, and god guard the right! thy mirth lay aside, thy cavil and play: the foe is upon thee, and grave is the day. the monarch ambition hath harnessed his slaves; but the folk of the ocean are free as the waves. for peace thou art armed thy freedom to hold: thy courage as iron, thy good-faith as gold. through fire, air, and water thy trial must be: but they that love life best die gladly for thee. the love of their mothers is strong to command; the fame of their fathers is might to their hand. much suffering shall cleanse thee; but thou through the flood shalt win to salvation, to beauty through blood. * * * * * up, careless, awake! ye peacemakers, fight! england stands for honour: god defend the right! robert bridges, _poet laureate_ the vigil england! where the sacred flame burns before the inmost shrine, where the lips that love thy name consecrate their hopes and thine, where the banners of thy dead weave their shadows overhead, watch beside thine arms to-night, pray that god defend the right. think that when to-morrow comes war shall claim command of all, thou must hear the roll of drums, thou must hear the trumpet's call. now before they silence ruth, commune with the voice of truth; england! on thy knees to-night pray that god defend the right. single-hearted, unafraid, hither all thy heroes came, on this altar's steps were laid gordon's life and outram's fame. england! if thy will be yet by their great example set, here beside thine arms to-night pray that god defend the right. so shalt thou when morning comes rise to conquer or to fall, joyful hear the rolling drums, joyful hear the trumpet's call. then let memory tell thy heart; "_england! what thou wert, thou art!_" gird thee with thine ancient might, forth! and god defend the right! henry newbolt to the troubler of the world at last we know you, war-lord. you, that flung the gauntlet down, fling down the mask you wore, publish your heart, and let its pent hate pour, you that had god for ever on your tongue. we are old in war, and if in guile we are young, young also is the spirit that evermore burns in our bosom ev'n as heretofore, nor are these thews unbraced, these nerves unstrung. we do not with god's name make wanton play; we are not on such easy terms with heaven; but in earth's hearing we can verily say, "our hands are pure; for peace, for peace we have striven"; and not by earth shall he be soon forgiven who lit the fire accurst that flames to-day. william watson to england: to strike quickly fight, since thou must; strike quick and fierce, so when this tyrant for too long hath shook the blood out of his ears he may have learned the price of wrong. let him learn this, that the due grief of his own vice he cannot ban by outrage of a highway thief; let him remember the corsican, whom england only durst not dread by sea or shore, but faced alone, nor stayed for pity of her dead until the despot's day was done. strike, england, quickly, make an end of him who seeks a deal with thee. if he would bargain for thy friend, what would he trade for liberty? maurice hewlett the fourth of august now in thy splendour go before us, spirit of england, ardent-eyed! enkindle this dear earth that bore us, in the hour of peril purified. the cares we hugged drop out of vision, our hearts with deeper thoughts dilate. we step from days of sour division into the grandeur of our fate. for us the glorious dead have striven; they battled that we might be free. we to that living cause are given, we arm for men that are to be. among the nations nobliest chartered, england recalls her heritage. with her is that which is not bartered, which force can neither quell nor cage. for her immortal stars are burning, with her, the hope that's never done, the seed that's in the spring's returning, the very flower that seeks the sun. we fight the fraud that feeds desire on lies, in a lust to enslave or kill, the barren creed of blood and iron, vampire of europe's wasted will. endure, o earth! and thou, awaken, purged by this dreadful winnowing-fan, o wronged, untameable, unshaken soul of divinely suffering man! laurence binyon the united front i. thus only should it come, if come it must; not with a riot of flags or a mob-born cry, but with a noble faith, a conscience high and pure and proud as heaven, wherein we trust, we who have fought for peace, have dared the thrust of calumny for peace, and watched her die, her scutcheons rent from sky to outraged sky by felon hands, and trampled into the dust. we fought for peace, and we have seen the law cancelled, not once, nor twice, by felon hands, but shattered, again, again, and yet again. we fought for peace. now, in god's name, we draw the sword, not with a riot of flags and bands, but silence, and a mustering of men. ii. they challenge truth. an empire makes reply. one faith, one flag, one honour, and one might. from sea to sea, from height to war-worn height, the old word rings out--to conquer, or to die. and we shall conquer. though their eagles fly through heaven, around this ancient isle unite powers that were never vanquished in the fight, the unconquerable powers that cannot lie. but they who challenge truth, law, justice, all the bases on which god and man stand sure throughout all ages, fools!--they thought us torn so far with discord that the blow might fall unanswered; and, while all those powers endure, this is our answer: unity and scorn. iii. we trust not in the multitude of an host. nations that greatly builded, greatly stand. in those dark hours, the splendour of a hand has moved behind the darkness, till that coast where hate and faction seemed to triumph most reveals itself--a buckler and a brand, our rough-hewn work, shining o'er sea and land, but shaped to nobler ends than man could boast. it is god's answer. though, for many a year, this land forgot the faith that made her great, now, as her fleets cast off the north sea foam, casting aside all faction and all fear, thrice-armed in all the majesty of her fate, britain remembers, and her sword strikes home. alfred noyes england to the sea hearken, o mother, hearken to thy daughter! fain would i tell thee what men tell to me, saying that henceforth no more on any water shall i be first or great or loved or free, but that these others--so the tale is spoken-- who have not known thee all these centuries by fire and sword shall yet turn england broken back from thy breast and beaten from thy seas, me--whom thou barest where thy waves should guard me, me--whom thou suckled'st on thy milk of foam, me--whom thy kisses shaped what while they marred me, to whom thy storms are sweet and ring of home. "behold," they cry, "she is grown soft and strengthless, all her proud memories changed to fear and fret." say, thou, who hast watched through ages that are lengthless, whom have i feared, and when did i forget? what sons of mine have shunned thy whorls and races? have i not reared for thee time and again and bid go forth to share thy fierce embraces sea-ducks, sea-wolves, sea-rovers, and sea-men? names that thou knowest--great hearts that thou holdest, rocking them, rocking them in an endless wake-- captains the world can match not with its boldest, hawke, howard, grenville, frobisher, drake? nelson--the greatest of them all--the master who swept across thee like a shooting star, and, while the earth stood veiled before disaster, caught death and slew him--there--at trafalgar? mother, they knew me then as thou didst know me; then i cried, peace, and every flag was furled: but i am old, it seems, and they would show me that never more my peace shall bind the world. wherefore, o sea, i, standing thus before thee, stretch forth my hands unto thy surge and say: "when they come forth who seek this empire o'er thee, and i go forth to meet them--on that day "god grant to us the old armada weather, the winds that rip, the heavens that stoop and lour-- not till the sea and england sink together, shall they be masters! let them boast that hour!" r. e. vernÈde the hour we've shut the gates by dover straits, and north, where the tides run free, cheek by jowl, our watchdogs prowl, grey hulks in a greyer sea. and the prayer that england prays to-night-- o lord of our destiny!-- as the foam of our plunging prows, is white; we have stood for peace, and we war for right, god give us victory! now slack, now strung, from the mainmast flung, the flag throbs fast in the breeze; strained o'er the foam, like the hearts at home that beat for their sons on the seas. for mothers and wives are praying to-night-- o lord of our destiny!-- but we've no time, for our lips are tight, our fists are clenched, and we're stripped to fight. god give us victory! the west winds blow in the face of the foe-- old drake is beating his drum-- they drank to "the day," for "the hour" we pray. the day and the hour have come. the sea-strewn empire prays to-night-- o lord of our destiny!-- thou didst give the seas into britain's might, for the freedom of thy seas we smite. god give us victory! james bernard fagan the wife of flanders low and brown barns, thatched and repatched and tattered, where i had seven sons until to-day-- a little hill of hay your spur has scattered.... this is not paris. you have lost the way. you, staring at your sword to find it brittle, surprised at the surprise that was your plan, who shaking and breaking barriers not a little, find never more the death-door of sedan. must i for more than carnage call you claimant, paying you a penny for each son you slay? man, the whole globe in gold were no repayment for what you have lost. and how shall i repay? what is the price of that red spark that caught me from a kind farm that never had a name? what is the price of that dead man they brought me? for other dead men do not look the same. how should i pay for one poor graven steeple whereon you shattered what you shall not know? how should i pay you, miserable people, how should i pay you everything you owe? unhappy, can i give you back your honour? though i forgave, would any man forget? while all the great green land has trampled on her the treason and terror of the night we met. not any more in vengeance or in pardon, one old wife bargains for a bean that's hers. you have no word to break: no heart to harden. ride on and prosper. you have lost your spurs. g. k. chesterton the stars in their courses and now, while the dark vast earth shakes and rocks in this wild dreamlike snare of mortal shocks, how look (i muse) those cold and solitary stars on these magnificent, cruel wars?-- venus, that brushes with her shining lips (surely!) the wakeful edge of the world and mocks with hers its all ungentle wantonness?-- or the large moon (pricked by the spars of ships creeping and creeping in their restlessness), the moon pouring strange light on things more strange, looks she unheedfully on seas and lands trembling with change and fear of counterchange? o, not earth trembles, but the stars, the stars! the sky is shaken and the cool air is quivering. i cannot look up to the crowded height and see the fair stars trembling in their light, for thinking of the starlike spirits of men crowding the earth and with great passion quivering:-- stars quenched in anger and hate, stars sick with pity. i cannot look up to the naked skies because a sorrow on dark midnight lies, death, on the living world of sense; because on my own land a shadow lies that may not rise; because from bare grey hillside and rich city streams of uncomprehending sadness pour, thwarting the eager spirit's pure intelligence.... how look (i muse) those cold and solitary stars on these magnificent, cruel wars? stars trembled in broad heaven, faint with pity. an hour to dawn i looked. beside the trees wet mist shaped other trees that branching rose, covering the woods and putting out the stars. there was no murmur on the seas, no wind blew--only the wandering air that grows with dawn, then murmurs, sighs, and dies. the mist climbed slowly, putting out the stars, and the earth trembled when the stars were gone; and moving strangely everywhere upon the trembling earth, thickened the watery mist. and for a time the holy things are veiled. england's wise thoughts are swords; her quiet hours are trodden underfoot like wayside flowers, and every english heart is england's wholly. in starless night a serious passion streams the heaven with light. a common beating is in the air-- the heart of england throbbing everywhere. and all her roads are nerves of noble thought, and all her people's brain is but her brain; and all her history (less her shame) is part of her requickened consciousness. her courage rises clean again; her children's inspiration is her name, her name! even in victory there hides defeat; the spirit's murdered though the body survives, except the cause for which a people strives burn with no covetous, foul heat; fights she against herself who infamously draws the sword against man's secret spiritual laws. but thou, england, because a bitter heel hath sought to bruise the brain, the sensitive will, the conscience of the world, for this, england, art risen, and shalt fight purely through long profoundest night, making their quarrel thine who are grieved like thee; and (if to thee the stars yield victory) tempering their hate of the great foe, that hurled vainly her strength against the conscience of the world, though all their dead be countless as the stars, and all the living bitter as the sea. i looked again, or dreamed i looked, and saw the stars again and all their peace again. the moving mist had gone, and shining still the moon went high and pale above the hill. not now those lights were trembling in the vast ways of the nervy heaven, nor trembled earth: profound and calm they gazed as the soft-shod hours passed. and with less fear (not with less awe, remembering, england, all the blood and pain), how look, i cried, ye stern and solitary stars on these disastrous wars! john freeman commandeered last year he drew the harvest home along the winding upland lane; the children twisted marigolds and clover flowers, to deck his mane. last year--he drew the harvest home! to-day--with puzzled, patient face, with ears a-droop, and weary feet, he marches to the sound of drums, and draws the gun along the street. to-day--he draws the guns of war! l. g. moberly the man who keeps his head there's a man who fights for england, and he'll keep her still atop, he will guard her from dishonour in the market and the shop, he will save her homes from terror on the fields of daily bread, he's the man who sticks to business, he's the man who keeps his head. let the foe who strikes at england hear her wheels of commerce turn, let the ships that war with england see her factory furnace burn; for the foe most fears the cannon, and his heart most quails with dread when behind the man in khaki is the man who keeps his head. brand him traitor and assassin who with miser's coward mood has his gold locked up in secret and his larders stored with food, who has cast adrift his workers, who lies sweating in his bed, and who snarls to hear the laughter of the man who keeps his head. let the poor man teach the rich man, for the poor man's constant strife is from day to day to seek work, day by day to war with life, and the poor man's home hangs ever by a frail and brittle thread, and the poor man's often hungry, but the poor man keeps his head. when the ships come back from slaughter, and the troops march home from war; when the havoc strewn behind us threats the road that lies before, every hero shall be welcomed, every orphan shall be fed, by the man who stuck to business, by the man who kept his head. harold begbie france because for once the sword broke in her hand, the words she spoke seemed perished for a space; all wrong was brazen, and in every land the tyrants walked abroad with naked face. the waters turned to blood, as rose the star of evil fate denying all release. the rulers smote the feeble crying "war!" the usurers robbed the naked crying "peace!" and her own feet were caught in nets of gold, and her own soul profaned by sects that squirm, and little men climbed her high seats and sold her honour to the vulture and the worm. and she seemed broken and they thought her dead, the over-men, so brave against the weak. has your last word of sophistry been said, o cult of slaves? then it is hers to speak. clear the slow mists from her half-darkened eyes, as slow mists parted over valmy fell, and once again her hands in high surprise take hold upon the battlements of hell. cecil chesterton we willed it not we willed it not. we have not lived in hate, loving too well the shires of england thrown from sea to sea to covet your estate, or wish one flight of fortune from your throne. we had grown proud because the nations stood hoping together against the calumny that, tortured of its old barbarian blood, barbarian still the heart of man should be. builders there are who name you overlord, building with us the citadels of light, who hold as we this chartered sin abhorred, and cry you risen cæsar of the night. beethoven speaks with milton on this day, and shakespeare's word with goethe's beats the sky, in witness of the birthright you betray, in witness of the vision you deny. we love the hearth, the quiet hills, the song, the friendly gossip come from every land; and very peace were now a nameless wrong,-- you thrust this bitter quarrel to our hand. for this your pride the tragic armies go, and the grim navies watch along the seas; you trade in death, you mock at life, you throw to god the tumult of your blasphemies. you rob us of our love-right. it is said. in treason to the world you are enthroned. we rise, and, by the yet ungathered dead, not lightly shall the treason be atoned. john drinkwater pro patria england, in this great fight to which you go because, where honour calls you, go you must, be glad, whatever comes, at least to know you have your quarrel just. peace was your care; before the nations' bar her cause you pleaded and her ends you sought; but not for her sake, being what you are, could you be bribed and bought. others may spurn the pledge of land to land, may with the brute sword stain a gallant past; but by the seal to which _you_ set your hand, thank god, you still stand fast! forth, then, to front that peril of the deep with smiling lips and in your eyes the light, stedfast and confident, of those who keep their storied scutcheon bright. and we, whose burden is to watch and wait-- high-hearted ever, strong in faith and prayer, we ask what offering we may consecrate, what humble service share. to steel our souls against the lust of ease; to find our welfare in the general good; to hold together, merging all degrees in one wide brotherhood;-- to teach that he who saves himself is lost; to bear in silence though our hearts may bleed; to spend ourselves, and never count the cost, for others' greater need;-- to go our quiet ways, subdued and sane; to hush all vulgar clamour of the street; with level calm to face alike the strain of triumph or defeat;-- this be our part, for so we serve you best, so best confirm their prowess and their pride, your warrior sons, to whom in this high test our fortunes we confide. owen seaman hymn before action the earth is full of anger, the seas are dark with wrath, the nations in their harness go up against our path: ere yet we loose the legions-- ere yet we draw the blade, jehovah of the thunders, lord god of battles, aid! high lust and froward bearing, proud heart, rebellious brow-- deaf ear and soul uncaring, we seek thy mercy now! the sinner that forswore thee, the fool that passed thee by, our times are known before thee-- lord, grant us strength to die! from panic, pride, and terror, revenge that knows no rein, light haste and lawless error, protect us yet again, cloak thou our undeserving, make firm the shuddering breath, in silence and unswerving to taste thy lesser death! ah! mary, pierced with sorrow, remember, reach and save the soul that comes to-morrow before the god that gave; since each was born of woman, for each at utter need-- true comrade and true foeman-- madonna, intercede! e'en now their vanguard gathers, e'en now we face the fray-- as thou didst help our fathers, help thou our host to-day! fulfilled of signs and wonders, in life, in death made clear-- jehovah of the thunders, lord god of battles, hear! rudyard kipling "yattendon hymnal no. " tune: tallis's "canon," original setting. rejoice, o land, in god thy might. his will obey, him serve aright. for thee the saints uplift their voice. fear not, o land, in god rejoice. glad shalt thou be, with blessing crown'd. with joy and peace thou shalt abound. yea, love with thee shall make his home, until thou see god's kingdom come. he shall forgive thy sins untold. remember thou his love of old. walk in his way, his word adore, and keep his truth for evermore. robert bridges, _poet laureate_ printed by billing and sons, ltd. guildford a suggestion those who cannot fight for their country can help in quieter ways. one way is to collect money for the prince of wales' national relief fund. every purchaser of this book is, in a real sense, a subscriber to the fund, but his duty does not end there. let him make it his business to see that at least twelve of his friends buy the book too. that would be really _doing something_! the guards came through and other poems by the same author songs of action songs of the road the white company micah clarke the refugees rodney stone uncle bernac the adventures of sherlock holmes memoirs of sherlock holmes his last bow: some reminiscences of sherlock holmes the adventures of brigadier gerard the sign of four sir nigel captain of the polestar round the red lamp the stark munro letters the tragedy of the "korosko" a duet, with an occasional chorus the green flag, and other stories the adventures of gerard the hound of the baskervilles the return of sherlock holmes through the magic door round the fire stories the last galley the lost world the valley of fear danger! and other stories london: john murray the guards came through and other poems by arthur conan doyle author of "songs of action," "songs of the road" london john murray, albemarle street, w. all rights reserved preface i must apologize for the size of this booklet, which can only be justified on the grounds that there is some demand for the contents as recitations. i hope presently to combine whatever is worth preserving in my three volumes of verse, so as to make a single collection. arthur conan doyle. contents page the guards came through victrix those others haig is moving the guns in sussex ypres grousing the volunteer the night patrol the wreck on loch mcgarry the bigot the athabasca trail ragtime! christmas in wartime lindisfaire a parable fate the guards came through men of the twenty-first, up by the chalk pit wood, weak from our wounds and our thirst, wanting our sleep and our food after a day and a night. god! shall i ever forget? beaten and broke in the fight, but sticking it, sticking it yet, trying to hold the line, fainting and spent and done; always the thud and the whine, always the yell of the hun. northumberland, lancaster, york, durham and somerset, fighting alone, worn to the bone, but sticking it, sticking it yet. never a message of hope, never a word of cheer, fronting hill 's shell-swept slope, with the dull, dead plain in our rear; always the shriek of the shell, always the roar of the burst, always the tortures of hell, as waiting and wincing we cursed our luck, the guns, and the boche. when our corporal shouted "stand to!" and i hear some one cry, "clear the front for the guards!"-- and the guards came through. our throats they were parched and hot, but, lord! if you'd heard the cheer, irish, welsh and scot, coldstream and grenadier-- two brigades, if you please, dressing as straight as a hem. we, we were down on our knees, praying for us and for them, praying with tear-wet cheek, praying with outstretched hand. lord! i could speak for a week, but how could you understand? how could your cheeks be wet? such feelin's don't come to you; but how can me or my mates forget how the guards came through? "five yards left extend!" it passed from rank to rank, and line after line, with never a bend, and a touch of the london swank. a trifle of swank and dash, cool as a home parade, twinkle, glitter and flash, flinching never a shade, with the shrapnel right in their face, doing their hyde park stunt, swinging along at an easy pace, arms at the trail, eyes front. man! it was great to see! man! it was great to do! it's a cot, and a hospital ward for me, but i'll tell them in blighty wherever i be, how the guards came through. victrix how was it then with england? her faith was true to her plighted word, her strong hand closed on her blunted sword, her heart rose high to the foeman's hate, she walked with god on the hills of fate-- and all was well with england. how was it then with england? her soul was wrung with loss and pain, her face was grey with her heart's-blood drain, but her falcon eyes were hard and bright, austere and cold as an ice-cave's light-- and all was well with england. how was it then with england? little she said to foe or friend, true, heart true, to the uttermost end, her passion cry was the scathe she wrought, in flame and steel she voiced her thought-- and all was well with england. how was it then with england? with drooping sword and bended head, she turned apart and mourned her dead, sad sky above, sad earth beneath, she walked with god in the vale of death-- ah, woe the day for england! how is it now with england? she sees upon her mist-girt path dim drifting shapes of fear and wrath. hold high the heart! bend low the knee! she has been guided, and will be-- and all is well with england. those others where are those others?--the men who stood in the first wild spate of the german flood, and paid full price with their heart's best blood for the saving of you and me: french's contemptibles, haggard and lean, allenby's lads of the cavalry screen, gunners who fell in battery l, and guardsmen of landrecies? where are those others who fought and fell, outmanned, outgunned and scant of shell, on the deadly curve of the ypres hell, barring the coast to the last? where are our laddies who died out there, from poelcapelle to festubert, when the days grew short and the poplars bare in the cold november blast? for us their toil and for us their pain, the sordid ditch in the sodden plain, the flemish fog and the driving rain, the cold that cramped and froze; the weary night, the chill bleak day, when earth was dark and sky was grey, and the ragged weeds in the dripping clay were all god's world to those. where are those others in this glad time, when the standards wave and the joy-bells chime, and london stands with outstretched hands waving her children in? athwart our joy still comes the thought of the dear dead boys, whose lives have bought all that sweet victory has brought to us who lived to win. to each his dreams, and mine to me, but as the shadows fall i see that ever-glorious company-- the men who bide out there. rifleman, highlander, fusilier, airman and sapper and grenadier, with flaunting banner and wave and cheer, they flow through the darkening air. and yours are there, and so are mine, rank upon rank and line on line, with smiling lips and eyes that shine, and bearing proud and high. past they go with their measured tread, these are the victors, these--the dead! ah, sink the knee and bare the head as the hallowed host goes by! haig is moving august haig is moving! three plain words are all that matter, mid the gossip and the chatter, hopes in speeches, fears in papers, pessimistic froth and vapours-- haig is moving! haig is moving! we can turn from german scheming, from humanitarian dreaming, from assertions, contradictions, twisted facts and solemn fictions-- haig is moving! haig is moving! all the weary idle phrases, empty blamings, empty praises, here's an end to their recital, there is only one thing vital-- haig is moving! haig is moving! he is moving, he is gaining, and the whole hushed world is straining, straining, yearning, for the vision of the doom and the decision-- haig is moving! the guns in sussex light green of grass and richer green of bush slope upwards to the darkest green of fir. how still! how deathly still! and yet the hush shivers and trembles with some subtle stir, some far-off throbbing like a muffled drum, beaten in broken rhythm oversea, to play the last funereal march of some who die to-day that europe may be free. the deep-blue heaven, curving from the green, spans with its shimmering arch the flowery zone; in all god's earth there is no gentler scene, and yet i hear that awesome monotone. above the circling midge's piping shrill, and the long droning of the questing bee, above all sultry summer sounds, it still mutters its ceaseless menaces to me. and as i listen, all the garden fair darkens to plains of misery and death, and, looking past the roses, i see there those sordid furrows with the rising breath of all things foul and black. my heart is hot within me as i view it, and i cry, "better the misery of these men's lot than all the peace that comes to such as i!" and strange that in the pauses of the sound i hear the children's laughter as they roam, and then their mother calls, and all around rise up the gentle murmurs of a home. but still i gaze afar, and at the sight my whole soul softens to its heart-felt prayer, "spirit of justice, thou for whom they fight, ah, turn in mercy to our lads out there! "the froward peoples have deserved thy wrath, and on them is the judgment as of old, but if they wandered from the hallowed path yet is their retribution manifold. behold all europe writhing on the rack, the sins of fathers grinding down the sons! how long, o lord?" he sends no answer back, but still i hear the mutter of the guns. ypres september, push on, my lord of würtemberg, across the flemish fen! see where the lure of ypres calls you! there's just one ragged british line of plumer's weary men; it's true they held you off before, but venture it again, come, try your luck, whatever fate befalls you! you've been some little time, my lord. perhaps you scarce remember the far-off early days of that resistance. was it in october last? or was it in november? and now the leaves are turning and you stand in mid-september still staring at the belfry in the distance. can you recall the fateful day--a day of drifting skies, when you started on the famous calais onset? can it be the war-lord blundered when he urged the enterprise? for surely it's a weary while since first before your eyes that old belfry rose against the sunset. you held council at your quarters when the budding alexanders and the pickel-haubed cæsars gave their reasons. was there one amongst that bristle-headed circle of commanders ever ventured the opinion that a little town of flanders would hold you pounded here through all the seasons? you all clasped hands upon it. you would break the british line, you would smash a road to westward with your host, the howitzers should thunder and the uhlan lances shine till calais heard the blaring of the distant "wacht am rhein," as you topped the grassy uplands of the coast. said the graf von feuer-essen, "it's a fact beyond discussion, that man to man we can outfight the foe. there is valour in the french, there is patience in the russian, but blend all war-like virtues and you get the lordly prussian," and the bristle-headed murmured, "_das ist so._" "and the british," cried another, "they are mercenary cattle, without one noble impulse of the soul, degenerate and drunken; if the dollars chink and rattle, 'tis the only sort of music that will call them to the battle." and all the bristle-headed cried, "_ja wohl!_" and so next day your battle rolled across the menin plain, where capper's men stood lonely to your wrath. you broke him, and you broke him, but you broke him all in vain, for he and his contemptibles kept closing up again, and the khaki bar was still across your path. and on the day when gheluvelt lay smoking in the sun, when von deimling stormed so hotly in the van, you smiled as haig reeled backwards and you thought him on the run, but, alas for dreams that vanish, for before the day was done it was you, my lord of würtemberg, that ran. a dreary day was that--but another came, more dreary, when the guard from arras led your fierce attacks, spruce and splendid in the morning were the potsdam grenadiere, but not so spruce that evening when they staggered spent and weary, with those cursed british storming at their backs. you knew--your spies had told you--that the ranks were scant and thin, that the guns were short of shell and very few, by all bernhardi's maxims you were surely bound to win, there's the open town before you. haste, my lord, and enter in, or the war-lord may have telegrams for you. then came the rainy winter, when the price was ever dearer, every time you neared the prize of which you dreamed, each day the belfry faced you but you never brought it nearer, each night you saw it clearly but you never saw it clearer. ah, what a weary time it must have seemed! at last there came the easter when you loosed the coward gases, surely you have got the rascals now! you could see them spent and choking as you watched them thro' your glasses, yes, they choke, but never waver, and again the moment passes without one leaf of laurel for your brow. then at hooge you had them helpless, for their guns were one to ten, and you blasted trench and traverse at your will, you had them dead and buried, but they still sprang up again. "_donnerwetter!_" cried your lordship, "_donnerwetter!_" cried your men, for their very ghosts were guarding ypres still. active, guards, reserve--men of every corps and name that the bugles of the war-lord muster in, each in turn you tried them, but the story was the same; play it how you would, my lord, you never won the game, no, never in a twelvemonth did you win. a year, my lord of würtemberg--a year, or nearly so, since first you faced the british _vis-à-vis_! your learned commandanten are the men who ought to know, but to ordinary mortals it would seem a trifle slow, if you really mean to travel to the sea. if you cannot _straf_ the british, since they _strafen_ you so well, you can safely smash the town that lies so near, so it's down with arch and buttress, down with belfry and with bell, and it's _hoch_ the seven-seven that can drop the petrol shell on the shrines that pious hands have loved to rear! fair ypres was a relic of the soul of other days, a poet's dream, a wanderer's delight, we will keep it as a symbol of your brute teutonic ways that millions yet unborn may come and curse you as they gaze at this token of your impotence and spite. for shame, my lord of würtemberg! across the flemish fen see where the little army calls you. it's just the old familiar line of fifty thousand men, they've beat you once or twice, my lord, but venture it again, come, try your luck, whatever fate befalls you. grousing "the army swore terribly in flanders." uncle toby. what do the soldiers say? "dam! dam! dam! i don't mind cold, i don't mind heat, over the top for a sunday treat, with fritz i'll always take my spell, but i want my grub, and where in hell is the jam?" what does the officer say? "dam! dam! dam! mud and misery, flies and stench, piggin' it here in a beastly trench, but what i mean, by jove, you see, i like my men and they don't mind me, so, on the whole, i'd rather be where i am." what does the enemy say? "kolossal verdam! they told me, when the war began, the british tommy always ran, and so he does, just as they said, but, _donnerwetter!_ it's straight ahead, like a ram." what does the public say? "dam! dam! dam! they tax me here, they tax me there, bread is dear and the cupboard bare, i'm bound to grouse, but if it's the way to win the war, why then i'll pay like a lamb." the volunteer ( - ) the dreams are passed and gone, old man, that came to you and me, of a six days' stunt on an east coast front, and the hun with his back to the sea. lord, how we worked and swotted sore to be fit when the day should come! four years, my lad, and five months more, since first we followed the drum. though "follow the drum" is a bit too grand, for we ran to no such frills; it was just the whistles of nature's band that heartened us up the hills. that and the toot of the corporal's flute, until he could blow no more, and the lilt of "sussex by the sea," the marching song of the corps. those hills! my word, you would soon get fit, be you ever so stale and slack, if you pad it with rifle and marching kit to rotherfield hill and back! drills in hall, and drills outdoors, and drills of every type, till we wore our boots with forming fours, and our coats with "shoulder hipe!" no glory ours, no swank, no pay, one dull eventless grind; find yourself, and nothing a day were the terms that the old boys signed. just drill and march and drill again, and swot at the old parade, but they got two hundred thousand men. not bad for the old brigade! a good two hundred thousand came, on the chance of that east coast fight; they may have been old and stiff and lame, but, by george, their hearts were right! discipline! my! "eyes right!" they cried, as we passed the drill hall door, and left it at that--so we marched cock-eyed from three to half-past four. and solid! why, after a real wet bout in a hole in the flanders mud, it would puzzle the boche to fetch us out, for we couldn't get out if we would! some think we could have stood war's test, some say that we could not, but a chap can only do his best, and offer all he's got. fall out, the guard! the old home guard! pile arms! right turn! dismiss! no grousing, even if it's hard to break our ranks like this. we can't show much in the way of fun for four and a half years gone; if we'd had our chance--just one! just one!-- carry on, old sport, carry on! the night patrol september behind me on the darkened pier they crowd and chatter, man and maid, a coon-song gently strikes the ear, a flapper giggles in the shade. there where the in-turned lantern gleams it shines on khaki and on brass; across its yellow slanting beams the arm-locked lovers slowly pass. out in the darkness one far light throbs like a pulse, and fades away-- some signal on the guarded wight, from helen's point to bembridge bay. an eastern wind blows chill and raw, cheerless and black the waters lie, and as i gaze athwart the haze, i see the night patrol go by. creeping shadows blur the gloom, thicken and darken, pass and fade; again and yet again they loom, one ruby spark above each shade-- twelve ships in all! they glide so near, one hears the wave the fore-foot curled, and yet to those upon the pier they seem some other sterner world. the coon-song whimpers to a wail, the treble laughter sinks and dies, the lovers cluster on the rail, with whispered words and straining eyes. one hush of awe, and then once more the vision fades for them and me, and there is laughter on the shore, and silent duty on the sea. the wreck on loch mcgarry if you should search all scotland round, the mainland, skerries, and the islands, a grimmer spot could not be found than loch mcgarry in the highlands. pent in by frowning mountains high, it stretches silent as the tomb, turbid and thick its waters lie, no eye can pierce their yellow gloom. 'twas here that on a summer day four tourists hired a crazy wherry. no warning voices bade them stay, as they pushed out on loch mcgarry. mcfarlane, chairman of the board, a grim hard-fisted son of lucre, his thoughts were ever on his hoard, and life a money-game, like euchre. bob ainslie, late of london town, a spruce young butterfly of fashion, a wrinkle in his dressing-gown would rouse an apoplectic passion. john waters, john the self-absorbed, with thoughts for ever inward bent, complacent, self-contained, self-orbed, wrapped in eternal self-content. lastly coquettish mrs. wild, chattering, rowdy, empty-headed; at sight of her the whole world smiled, except the wretch whom she had wedded. such were the four who sailed that day, to the highlands each a stranger; sunlit and calm the wide loch lay, with not a hint of coming danger. drifting they watched the heather hue, the waters and the cliffs that bound them; the air was still, the sky was blue, deceitful peace lay all around them. mcfarlane pondered on the stocks, john waters on his own perfection, bob ainslie's thoughts were on his socks, and mrs. wild's on her complexion. when sudden--oh, that dreadful scream! that cry from panic fear begotten! the boat is gaping in each seam, the worn-out planks are old and rotten. with two small oars they work and strain, a long mile from the nearer shore they cease--their efforts are in vain; she's sinking fast, and all is o'er. the yellow water, thick as pap, is crawling, crawling to the thwarts, and as they mark its upward lap, so fear goes crawling up their hearts. slowly, slowly, thick as pap, the creeping yellow waters rise; like drowning mice within a trap, they stare around with frantic eyes. ah, how clearly they could see every sin and shame and error! how they vowed that saints they'd be, if delivered from this terror! how they squirmed and how they squealed! how they shouted for assistance! how they fruitlessly appealed to the shepherds in the distance! how they sobbed and how they moaned, as the waters kept encroaching! how they wept and stormed and groaned, as they saw their fate approaching! and they vowed each good resolve should be permanent as granite, never, never, to dissolve, firm and lasting like our planet. see them sit, aghast and shrinking! surely it could not be true! "oh, have mercy! oh, we're sinking! oh, good lord, what _shall_ we do!" ah, it's coming! now she founders! see the crazy wherry reel! downward to the rocks she flounders-- just one foot beneath her keel! in the shallow, turbid water lay the saving reef below. oh, the waste of high emotion! oh, the useless fear and woe! late that day four sopping tourists to their quarters made their way, and the brushes of futurists scarce could paint their disarray. and with half-amused compassion they were viewed from the hotel, from the pulp-clad beau of fashion, to the saturated belle. but a change was in their features, and that change has come to tarry, for they all are altered creatures since the wreck of loch mcgarry. now mcfarlane never utters any talk of bills or bullion, but continually mutters texts from cyril or tertullian. as to ainslie, he's not caring how the new-cut collar lies, and has been detected wearing dinner-jackets with white ties. waters, who had never thought in his life of others' needs, has most generously bought a nursing-home for invalids. and the lady--ah, the lady! she has turned from paths of sin, and her husband's face so shady now is brightened by a grin. so misfortunes of to-day are the blessings of to-morrow, and the wisest cannot say what is joy and what is sorrow. if your soul is arable you can start this seed within it, and my tiny parable may just help you to begin it. the bigot the foolish roman fondly thought that gods must be the same to all, each alien idol might be brought within their broad pantheon hall. the vision of a jealous jove was far above their feeble ken; they had no lord who gave them love, but scowled upon all other men. but in our dispensation bright, what noble progress have we made! we know that we are in the light, and outer races in the shade. our kindly creed ensures us this-- that turk and infidel and jew are safely banished from the bliss that's guaranteed to me and you. the roman mother understood that, if the babe upon her breast untimely died, the gods were good, and the child's welfare manifest. with tender guides the soul would go and there, in some elysian bower, the tiny bud plucked here below would ripen to the perfect flower. poor simpleton! our faith makes plain that, if no blest baptismal word has cleared the babe, it bears the stain which faithless adam had incurred. how philosophical an aim! how wise and well-conceived a plan which holds the new-born babe to blame for all the sins of early man! nay, speak not of its tender grace, but hearken to our dogma wise: guilt lies behind that dimpled face, and sin looks out from gentle eyes. quick, quick, the water and the bowl! quick with the words that lift the load! oh, hasten, ere that tiny soul shall pay the debt old adam owed! the roman thought the souls that erred would linger in some nether gloom, but somewhere, sometime, would be spared to find some peace beyond the tomb. in those dark halls, enshadowed, vast, they flitted ever, sad and thin, mourning the unforgotten past until they shed the taint of sin. and pluto brooded over all within that land of night and fear, enthroned in some dark judgment hall, a god himself, reserved, austere. how thin and colourless and tame! compare our nobler scheme with it, the howling souls, the leaping flame, and all the tortures of the pit! foolish half-hearted roman hell! to us is left the higher thought of that eternal torture cell whereto the sinner shall be brought. out with the thought that god could share our weak relenting pity sense, or ever condescend to spare the wretch who gave him just offence! 'tis just ten thousand years ago since the vile sinner left his clay, and yet no pity can he know, for as he lies in hell to-day so when ten thousand years have run still shall he lie in endless night. o god of love! o holy one! have we not read thy ways aright? the godly man in heaven shall dwell, and live in joy before the throne, though somewhere down in nether hell his wife or children writhe and groan. from his bright empyrean height he sees the reek from that abyss-- what pagan ever dreamed a sight so holy and sublime as this! poor foolish folk! had they begun to weigh the myths that they professed, one hour of reason and each one would surely stand a fraud confessed. pretending to believe each deed of theseus or of hercules, with fairy tales of ganymede, and gods of rocks and gods of trees! no, no, had they our purer light they would have learned some saner tale of balaam's ass, or samson's might, or prophet jonah and his whale, of talking serpents and their ways, through which our foolish parents strayed, and how there passed three nights and days before the sun or moon was made! · · · · o bigotry, you crowning sin! all evil that a man can do has earthly bounds, nor can begin to match the mischief done by you-- you, who would force the source of love to play your small sectarian part, and mould the mercy from above to fit your own contracted heart. the athabasca trail my life is gliding downwards; it speeds swifter to the day when it shoots the last dark cañon to the plains of far-away, but while its stream is running through the years that are to be, the mighty voice of canada will ever call to me. i shall hear the roar of rivers where the rapids foam and tear, i shall smell the virgin upland with its balsam-laden air, and shall dream that i am riding down the winding woody vale with the packer and the packhorse on the athabasca trail. i have passed the warden cities at the eastern water-gate where the hero and the martyr laid the corner stone of state, the habitant, _coureur-des-bois_, and hardy voyageur-- where lives a breed more strong at need to venture or endure? i have seen the gorge of erie where the roaring waters run, i have crossed the inland ocean, lying golden in the sun, but the last and best and sweetest is the ride by hill and dale with the packer and the packhorse on the athabasca trail. i'll dream again of fields of grain that stretch from sky to sky and the little prairie hamlets where the cars go roaring by, wooden hamlets as i saw them--noble cities still to be, to girdle stately canada with gems from sea to sea. mother of a mighty manhood, land of glamour and of hope, from the eastward sea-swept islands to the sunny western slope, ever more my heart is with you, ever more till life shall fail i'll be out with pack and packer on the athabasca trail. ragtime! ["during the catastrophe the band of the _titanic_ played negro melodies and ragtime until the last moment, when they broke into a hymn."--daily paper.] ragtime! ragtime! keep it going still! let them hear the ragtime! play it with a will! women in the lifeboats, men upon the wreck, take heart to hear the ragtime lilting down the deck. ragtime! ragtime! yet another tune! now the "darkey dandy," now "the yellow coon!" brace against the bulwarks if the stand's askew, find your footing as you can, but keep the music true! there's glowing hell beneath us where the shattered boilers roar, the ship is listing and awash, the boats will hold no more! there's nothing more that you can do, and nothing you can mend, only keep the ragtime playing to the end. don't forget the time, boys! eyes upon the score! never heed the wavelets sobbing down the floor! play it as you played it when with eager feet a hundred pair of dancers were stamping to the beat. stamping to the ragtime down the lamp-lit deck, with shine of glossy linen and with gleam of snowy neck, they've other thoughts to think to-night, and other things to do, but the tinkle of the ragtime may help to see them through. shut off, shut off the ragtime! the lights are falling low! the deck is buckling under us! she's sinking by the bow! one hymn of hope from dying hands on dying ears to fall-- gently the music fades away--and so, god rest us all! christmas in wartime cheer oh, comrades, we can bide the blast and face the gloom until it shall grow lighter. what though one christmas should be overcast, if duty done makes all the others brighter. the last lap we seldom were quick off the mark, and sprinting was never our game; but when it's insistence and hold-for-the-distance, we've never been beat at that same. the first lap was all to the hun, at the second we still saw his back; but we knew how to wait and to spurt down the straight, till we left him dead-beat on the track. he's a bluffer for all he is worth, but he's winded and done to the core, so the last lap is here, with the tape very near, and the old colours well to the fore. not merry! no--the words would grate, with gaps at every table-side, but chastened, thankful, calm, sedate, be your victorious christmas-tide. lindisfaire horses go down the dingy lane, but never a horse comes up again. the greasy yard where the red hides lie marks the place where the horses die. wheat was sinking year by year, i bought things cheap, i sold them dear; rent was heavy and taxes high, and a weary-hearted man was i. in lindisfaire i walked my grounds, i hadn't the heart to ride to hounds; and as i walked in black despair, i saw my old bay hunter there. he tried to nuzzle against my cheek, he looked the grief he could not speak; but no caress came back again, for harder times make harder men. my thoughts were set on stable rent, on money saved and money spent, on weekly bills for forage lost, and all the old bay hunter cost. for though a flier in the past, his days of service long were past, his gait was stiff, his eyes were dim, and i could find no use for him. i turned away with heart of gloom, and sent for will, my father's groom, the old, old groom, whose worn-out face was like the fortune of our race. i gave my order sharp and hard, "go, ride him to the knacker's yard; he'll fetch two pounds, it may be three; sell him, and bring the price to me." i saw the old groom wince away, he looked the thoughts he dared not say; then from his fob he slowly drew a leather pouch of faded hue. "master," said he, "my means are small, this purse of leather holds them all; but i have neither kith nor kin, i'll pay your price for prince's skin. "my brother rents the nether farm, and he will hold him safe from harm in the great field where he may graze, and see the finish of his days." with dimming eyes i saw him stand, two pounds were in his shaking hand; i gave a curse to drown the sob, and thrust the purse within his fob. "may god do this and more to me if we should ever part, we three, master and horse and faithful friend, we'll share together to the end!" you'll think i'm playing it on you, i give my word the thing is true; i hadn't hardly made the vow, before i heard a view-halloo. and, looking round, whom should i see, but bookie johnson hailing me; johnson, the man who bilked the folks when ethelrida won the oaks. he drew a wad from out his vest, "here are a thousand of the best; luck's turned a bit with me of late, and, as you see, i'm getting straight." that's all. my luck was turning too; if you have nothing else to do, run down some day to lindisfaire, you'll find the old bay hunter there. a parable high-brow house was furnished well with many a goblet fair; so when they brought the holy grail, there was never a space to spare. simple cottage was clear and clean, with room to store at will; so there they laid the holy grail, and there you'll find it still. fate i know not how i know, and yet i know. i do not plan to go, and yet i go. there is some dim force propelling, gently guiding and compelling, and a faint voice ever telling "this is so." the path is rough and black-- dark as night-- and there lies a fairer track in the light. yet i may not shirk or shrink, for i feel the hands that link as they guide me on the brink of the height. bigots blame me in their wrath. let them blame! praise or blame, the fated path is the same. if i droop upon my mission, there is still that saving vision, iridescent and elysian, tipped in flame. it was granted me to stand by my dead. i have felt the vanished hand on my head, on my brow the vanished lips, and i know that death's eclipse is a floating veil that slips, or is shed. when i heard thy well-known voice, son of mine, should i silently rejoice, or incline to strike harder as a fighter, that the heavy might be lighter, and the gloomy might be brighter at the sign? great guide, i ask you still, "wherefore i?" but if it be thy will that i try, trace my pathway among men, show me how to strike, and when, take me to the fight--and then, oh, be nigh! printed by hazell, watson & viney, ld., london and aylesbury, england. by arthur conan doyle songs of action seventh impression. _punch._--"dr. conan doyle has well named his verse 'songs of action.' it pulsates with life and movement, whether the scenes be laid on sea or land, on ship or horseback." _the daily telegraph._--"there is spirit and animation, the rush and glow of young blood about his poems--always a pulsating sense of life." _the yorkshire post._--"dr. conan doyle writes a good song and a good ballad. he has the requisite amount of pathos, and his humour is spontaneous." songs of the road _the morning post._--"a troop of rollicking tales, of fervid exhortations and straightforward arguments ... sound sentiments, hearty humour.... the creator of sherlock holmes is able to construct vivid and pungent verse." _the spectator._--"he can tell a good story as well in verse as in prose: and the fetters of rhyme in no way weaken the merits of the swift tale ... humour as well as spirit." _the observer._--"the strong vitality of the author pervades his poetry. it is a tonic to meet his frank optimism." john murray, albemarle street, london, w. recent poetry by rear-admiral ronald a. hopwood, c.b. the new navy, and other poems the secret of the ships _s._ _d._ net the old way, and other poems _s._ _d._ net _ th impression_ the poets in picardy by e. de stein. nd impression. _s._ _d._ net psychologies by sir ronald ross, k.c.b. _s._ _d._ net the man who saw, and other poems by sir william watson. _s._ _d._ net poems new and old by sir henry newbolt. _s._ _d._ net by lieut. joseph lee with illustrations by the author. _s._ _d._ net each ballads of battle _ th impression_ work-a-day warriors by j. griffyth fairfax mesopotamia _s._ _d._ net the horns of taurus _s._ _d._ net the temple of janus _s._ net by ronald campbell macfie, ll.d. odes and other poems _s._ net war _s._ _d._ net john murray, albemarle street, london, w. transcriber's note: spelling and punctuation inconsistencies, mainly quotes that had not been closed, have been harmonized. italic text has been marked with _underscores_. on patrol on patrol by klaxon author of 'h. m. s. ----' william blackwood and sons edinburgh and london _to d. v. b._ they watch us leaving harbour for the greatest game of all, and wonder if we're coming back across the greedy sea; they never know the fighting thrill or high adventure's call-- i rather think the women folk are better men than we. but i suspect they say of us as out to sea we go, in all our panoply of pride from orkney to the nore: "it keeps them quiet, we suppose--they like the work, we know-- and soon perhaps they'll tire and play some safer game than war." contents. page to---- old women chin up "... that have no doubts" sky signs an entente a battle-prayer submarines the battle-fleet destroyers an administrative victory a nightmare released regulus a north sea note something wrong we the sailor's view stonewall jackson wet ships that blinkin' cat after the war low visibility hang on to fritz to the scottish regiments privileged "our annual" mascots a hymn of disgust a trinity in the morning in forty west a ring axiom the quartermaster in the barred zone who cares? the unchanging sex looking aft a maxim the crisis a sea chanty a.d. overdue to---- to----. he went to sea on the long patrol, away to the east from the corton shoal, but now he's overdue. he signalled me as he bore away (a flickering lamp through leaping spray, and darkness then till judgment day), "so long! good luck to you!" he's waiting out on the long patrol, till the names are called at the muster-roll of seamen overdue. far above him, in wind and rain, another is on patrol again-- the gap is closed in the naval chain where all the links are new. over his head the seas are white, and the wind is blowing a gale to-night, as if the storm-king knew, and roared a ballad of sleet and snow to the man that lies on the sand below, a trumpet-song for the winds to blow to seamen overdue. was it sudden or slow--the death that came? roaring water or sheets of flame? the end with none to view? no man can tell us the way he died, but over the clouds valkyries ride to open the gates and hold them wide for seamen overdue. but whether the end was swift or slow, by the hand of god, or a german blow, my messmate overdue-- you went to death--and the whisper ran as over the gates the horns began, _splendour of god! we have found a man_-- good-bye! good luck to you! old women old women. faint against the twilight, dim against the evening, fading into darkness against the lapping sea, she sailed away from harbour, from safety into danger, the ship that took him from me--my sailor boy from me. he went away to join her, from me that loved and bore him, loved him ere i bore him, that was all the world to me. "no time for leave, mother, must be back this evening, time for our patrol again, across the winter sea." six times over, since he went to join her, came he to see me, to run back again. "four hours' leave, mother--still got the steam up, going on patrol to-night--the old east lane." "seven times lucky, and perhaps we'll have a battle, then i'll bring a medal back and give it you to keep." and his name is in the paper, with close upon a hundred, who lie there beside him, many fathom deep. and beside him in the paper, somebody is writing, --god! but how i hate him--a liar and a fool,-- "where is the british navy--is it staying in the harbours? has the nelson spirit in the fleet begun to cool?" chin up chin up. are the prices high and taxes stiff, is the prospect sad and dark? have you seen your capital dwindle down as low as the german mark? do you feel your troubles around you rise in an endless dreary wall? well--thank your god you were born in time for the greatest war of all. it will be all right in a thousand years--you won't be bankrupt then. this isn't the time of stocks and shares, it's just the age of men. the one that sticks it out will win--so don't lie down and bawl, but thank your god you've helped to win the noblest war of all. away to the east in flanders' mud, through dante's dream of hell, the troops are working hard for peace with bayonet, bomb, and shell, with poison gas and roaring guns beneath a smoking pall; yes--thank your god your kin are there--the finest troops of all. you may be stripped of all you have--it may be all you say, but you'll have your life and eyesight left, so stow your talk of pay. you won't be dead in a bed of lime with those that heard the call; so thank your god you've an easy job in the greatest war of all. it isn't the money that's going to count when the flanders' men return, and a shake of your hand from flanders' men is a thing you've got to earn. just think how cold it's going to be in the nation's judgment hall; so damn your troubles and find your soul in the greatest war of all! "... that have no doubts" "... that have no doubts." --rudyard kipling. _the last resort of kings are we, but the voice of peoples too_-- ask the guns of valmy ridge-- lost at the beresina bridge, when the russian guns were roaring death and the guard was charging through. _ultima ratio regis, we--but he who has may hold,_ se curantes dei curant, hear the gunners that strain and pant, as when before the rising gale the great armada rolled. _guns of fifty--sixty tons that roared at jutland fight_, clatter and clang of hoisting shell; see the flame where the salvo fell amidst the flash of german guns against the wall of white. _the sons of english carronade or spanish culverin_-- the danish windows shivered and broke when over the sea the children spoke, and groaning turrets rocked again as we went out and in. _we have no passions to call our own, we work for serf or lord,_ load us well and sponge us clean-- be your woman a slave or queen-- and we will clear the road for you who hold us by the sword. _we come into our own again and wake to life anew_-- put your paper and pens away, for the whole of the world is ours to-day, and we shall do the talking now to smooth the way for you. _howitzer gun or seventy-five, the game is ours to play,_ and hills may quiver and mountains shake, but the line in front shall bend or break. what is it to us if the world is mad? for we are the kings to-day. sky signs sky signs. when all the guns are sponged and cleaned, and fuzes go to store, when all the wireless stations cry--"come home, you ships of war"-- "come home again and leave patrol, no matter where you be." we'll see the lights of england shine, flashing again on the steaming line, as out of the dark the long grey hulls come rolling in from sea. the long-forgotten lights will shine and gild the clouds ahead, over the dark horizon-line, across the dreaming dead that went to sea with the dark behind and the spin of a coin before. mark the gleam of orfordness, showing a road we used to guess, from the shetland isles to dover cliffs--the shaded lane of war. up the channel with gleaming ports will homing squadrons go, and see the english coast alight with headlands all aglow with thirty thousand candle-power flung up from far gris-nez. portland bill and the needles' light-- tompions back in the guns to-night-- for english lights are meeting french across the soldiers' way. when we come back to england then, with all the warring done, and paint and polish come up the side to rule on tube and gun, we'll know before the anchor's down, the tidings won't be new. lizard along to the isle of wight, every lamp was burning bright, northern lights or trinity house--we had the news from you! an entente an entente. as we were running the channel along, with a rising wind abeam, steering home from an escort trip as fast as she could steam, i'd just come up, relieving bill, to look for fritz again, when i turns to the skipper an', "sir," i says, "i 'ears an aeroplane." an' sure enough, from out o' the clouds astern, we seed 'im come, an' down the wind the engine sang with a reg'lar oarin' 'um. the skipper 'e puts 'is glasses down, an' smilin' says to me, "we needn't be pointin' guns at 'im--'e's one o' the r.f.c. we don't expect to meet the boche, or any o' his machines, from here to france an' back again--except for submarines." an' 'e looks again at the 'plane above, an' says, "i do believe it's a fightin' bus--good luck to them--an' lots of london leave." an' jolly good luck, says i, says i, to you that's overhead; an' may you never go dry, go dry, or want for a decent bed. with yer gaudy patch, says i, says i, of red an' white an' blue-- oh, may the bullets go by, go by, an' not be findin' you. astonishing luck, says i, says i, to you an' yer aeroplane; an' if it's yer joss to die, to die, when you go back again-- may the enemy say as you drop below, an' you start your final dive: "three of us left to see him go, an' it must be nice for him to know, that wasn't afraid o' five." a battle-prayer a battle-prayer. submarines. when the breaking wavelets pass all sparkling to the sky, when beyond their crests we see the slender masts go by, when the glimpses alternate in bubbles white and green, and funnels grey against the sky show clear and fair between, when the word is passed along--"stern and beam and bow"-- "action stations fore and aft--all torpedoes now!" when the hissing tubes are still, as if with bated breath they waited for the word to loose the silver bolts of death, when the watch beneath the sea shall crown the great desire, and hear the coughing rush of air that greets the word to fire, we'll ask for no advantage, lord--but only we would pray that they may meet this boat of ours upon their outward way. the battle-fleet. the moment we have waited long is closing on us fast, when, cutting short the turret-gong, we'll hear the cordite's battle-song that hails the day at last. the clashing rams come driving forth to meet the waiting shell, and far away to east and north our targets steam to meet thy wrath, and dare the gates of hell. we do not ask thee, lord, to-day to stay the sinking sun-- but hear thy steel-clad servants pray, and keep, o lord, thy mists away until thy work is done. destroyers. through the dark night and the fury of battle pass the destroyers in showers of spray. as the wolf-pack to the flank of the cattle, we shall close in on them--shadows of grey. in from ahead, through shell-flashes red, we shall come down to them, after the day. whistle and crash of salvo and volley round us and into us while we attack. light on our target they'll flash in their folly, splitting our ears with the shrapnel-crack. fire as they will, we'll come to them still, roar as they may at us--back--go back! white though the sea to the shell-flashes foaming, we shall be there at the death of the hun. only we pray for a star in the gloaming (light for torpedoes and none for a gun). lord--of thy grace make it a race, over the sea with the night to run. an administrative victory an administrative victory. a tale is told of a captain bold of e-boat seventy-two; she steered to eastward--pitched and rolled, and poulson swore at her, damp and cold, as e-boat captains do. and off the mouth of the german bight, with borkum on the bow, she saw the smoke of a german fleet--mind your fingers--seventy feet! we're in for business now.... (for enemy ships are hard to find-- you have to take them quick; so copy the eastern vulture's rule, that waits for days for an army mule-- always ready to click.) out to the west from helgoland the big grey cruiser steered, and the glinting rays of a rising sun flashed on funnel and mast and gun, and--admiral schultz's beard. down the wind the e-boat came and passed the searching screen; nobody guessed the boat was there, till they heard the wallop and saw the flare-- where the pride of the fleet had been. 'twixt white and green of dancing waves the racing tracks were seen, and poulson watching them get there, cried--_hold the crockery-- starboard side!_ _for the kick of a magazine!_ the escort ran and the cruisers ran at the thought of an english snare; scattered and spread to left and right, to the friendly arms of the german bight, and left the ocean bare. then the coffee was spilt, the e-boat rolled to a deuce of a shaking bang; to the sound of the hammer of aser-thor, victory-song of naval war, the hull of the e-boat rang. and poulson swinging the eye-piece round, lifted eyebrows high, for far aloft, when the smoke had cleared, he saw the flash of a golden beard against the empty sky. "admiral over! _surface_, lads! he's flying a belted sword; pipe the side or stern or bow, stand to attention smartly now-- wherever he comes aboard." the admiral landed cabré-wise and high the fountains burst-- (what is the meaning of cabré-wise? to men of the air it signifies-- his after-end was first). they piped the side, and still they stood to watch him struggle and heave, as he fought the slope of the rounded deck (for none could pull at an admiral's neck without the admiral's leave). they took him below, and sat him down on the edge of the captain's bed,-- treatment vile for a foemen caught, they gave him a bottle of navy port-- fiery, dark, and red. they landed him at a naval base, with s. two-twenty d. _supplied_--_a large and bearded hun: grosse admirals, angry, one-- for draft to admiraltee._ and grosse-admiral schultz von schmidt, graf von hansa-zoom, faded away to donnington hall, to an english park with a guarded wall --to an elegant private room. and there he paced the carpet up, and paced the carpet down, "alte himmel!"--the prisoners cried--"some one's trod on the german pride, and dared the hansa frown!" the admiral called for a fountain pen and reference sheets[ ] galore, and silence fell on the smoking-room--for grosse-admiral hansa-zoom was throwing a gage of war. "_can i believe your lordships mean to stand so idly by-- when a young lieutenant of twenty-four, pleading the need of naval war, shall make an admiral fly?_ _never shall i believe it true that i should have to fall on an icy sea with an awful spank, by the act of one of a junior rank, i--schultz, of donnington hall._" their lordships read--and bells were heard that woke the echoing past; and scouts and messengers jumped and fled--till all was still as a world of dead beneath the wireless mast. my lords in solemn conclave drew behind a bolted door, threshing it out in full debate--"is it a case for an acting rate? or use of martial law?" at four o'clock in the afternoon, with tea-cups clattering past, along the echoing portland floor the whisper passed from door to door-- "_they've settled it all at last!_" and i have the word of a lady fair in room two thousand b-- (a perfect peach, i beg to state), who typed the letter in triplicate and passed it on to me. "_we find the enemy admiral's note is based on service law-- that disrespect to a flag afloat has sullied the fame of poulson's boat despite the needs of war._ _but he erred unknowing--so we shall mask his breach of service pomp,-- we'll make him an admiral, d.s.b.[ ]--acting--payless--biscuit free, in lieu of lodging and comp._ _we'll rate him at once as an a.i.o.[ ] with a k.r.a. and an i.,[ ] we'll make him a deputy c.p.o.,[ ] with rank of admiral, whether or no, and a beautiful flag to fly._" and now when poulson sails to war in e-boat seventy-two, the boatswains pipe and the bugles blare, "_stand to attention-- forward there_! _the admiral's passing you!_" that is the tale as told to me by a friend from beatty's fleet, when over a glass (or even two), he swore to me that the tale was true, in a tavern in regent street. [ ] a letter-form which enables the sender to address his seniors more abruptly than he would dare to do without its assistance. [ ] d.s.b. = duty steam boat. [ ] a.i.o. = admiralty interim order. [ ] k.r.a.i. = king's regulations and admiralty instructions. [ ] c.p.o. = chief petty officer. a nightmare a nightmare. the council of democracy around the table drew (the table was a beauty--it was polished--it was new, twenty feet from side to side and half a mile in length, built of rosewood and mahogany of double extra strength. the c in c had gone to jail to answer to the charge of saying what he thought about democracy at large. so the council of democracy had taken on the job, after voting the removal of his autocratic nob. and the table was erected in a calm secluded spot, well away from any trenches, lest a voter should be shot). and the chairman raised a hammer and he hit the board a whack, no one paid the least attention, so he put the hammer back. then he read the lengthy minutes of the gathering before, to the ever-growing murmur of the democratic snore. and he put before the meeting all the questions of the day, such as "shorter hours for delegates, and seven times the pay." with a minor matter for the end--"what shall the council do about this fellow mackensen? they say he's coming through with a hundred thousand hirelings of the hohenzollern line, and breaking all the union rules by working after nine." at this a group of delegates departed for the door, to consult with their constituents the conduct of the war. the remainder started voting on the delegation pay, and agreed with unanimity to seven quid a day. they decided that unless the germans travelled very fast, there'd be time for all the speeches--so they took the matter last. but just as mr blithers to the chairman had addressed his opinion--he departed for the country of the blest, (both in body and in spirit to the heavens he departed, and the council looked dispirited, though hardly broken-hearted). all the delegates were wondering from whence the shell had come; one arose to ask a question--bang!!--he went to kingdom come. "mr chairman," cried a delegate. "a point of order! i don't believe the huns are coming--it's an autocratic lie. i shall move the army question do be left upon the table, and i'm going home to england just as fast as i am able." then he gathered up his papers, and was pushing back his chair, when a heavy high explosive sent him sailing in the air. the chairman beat his hammer on the table all the while, yelling oaths and calling "order" in a democratic style. but the delegates were started on the question of the war, (so as not to waste the speeches that they'd written out before). and the council of democracy--a thousand fluent tongues-- let the germans have it hearty from its democratic lungs. through the bursting of the shrapnel they were constant to the end,-- kept referring to each other as "my honourable friend." and in groups of ten and twenty they were blasted into space by the disrespectful cannon of an autocratic race, till the gathering had dwindled to an incoherent few, who were still explaining volubly what england ought to do, when the cannon ceased abruptly and they heard the germans cheer, and a sergeant entered roaring, "himmel, ach! was schmutz ist hier! mask your faces, pig-dogs, quickly--all the room is full of gas. vorwärts, carl der kindermörder--use your bayonet, saxon ass!" faithful to the last, the chairman, spying strangers all around, told them they were out of order; hardly seemed to touch the ground. told them of his best intentions, how with love of them he burned, shouted as the bayonet caught him, "ow! the council is adjourned!" released released. we are drifting back from the end of hell to the home we long for so,-- back from the land of fear and hate that jeers at wounded men; maimed and crippled are we to-day, but free from curse or blow-- that we knew too well in the land of cain, the guarded prisoners' den. we drift away to the homes we left a thousand years ago, and there we wait in the truce of god for the hand of death to fall, waiting aside in hovel or hall--where only neighbours know-- the broken men that the war has left to shun the gaze of all. is it nothing to you that pass us by--hurrying on your way, whispering low of peace and rest to the tune of a german song? only but for the grace of god you might be where we lay-- with festering wounds in a truck for beasts, the butt of a laughing throng. peace and rest? the peace will come when god shall stay his hand, and change the heart of the german race that mocks at wounded men. the rest you seek? what need of that? you fight for a christian land, and all eternity waits for you--what need of rest till then? we are broken and down in the fight of the world for an end to heathen lust, but the sword we dropped when the darkness came is yours to handle yet. if you sheathe the sword for a greed of gold or suffer the steel to rust, the curse of the captive men be yours--the day when you forget--! regulus regulus. (written after reading the story of that name in 'a diversity of creatures' by kipling.) out to the wharf where the long ship lay with her beak to the open sea, he went by the way of the merchantmen that trade to the ports of spain; clamouring folk beside him ran with sorrowing voice or wailing plea: "hero--pride of the roman state! turn again at the harbour-gate, back and away from tyrian hate with us to rome again." out on the wharf he walked from those--that wailed and wept to see him go; and hand in his she walked with him--her royal head on high. and the crowd was still as she turned and spoke--her hand in his and her eyes aglow: "here where the tide and tiber foam, i turn from you to an empty home. but alone of women of wailing rome i have no tears to dry; "pass to the sea and the death beyond to the home of the gods you left for earth; of all the women of rome to-night, no pride shall equal mine. a god, the man that leaves me now--but ah! a lover that thought me worth-- the whispered word of a husband true--i thank the gods that i hold from you the right that fair eurydice knew--the love of a man divine." a north sea note a north sea note. the wind that whispered softly over kiel across the bay, died away as the dark closed down, till the dockyard glare showed the ending of the day in the fortress-town. in the silence of the night as the big ships swung to the buoys as the flood-tide made, came a clamour from the wind like a shield that is rung by a foemen's blade. far above the masts where the wireless showed, traced out against a star-lit sky, a voice called down from the whist-hound's road where the clouds went by-- listen down below--in the high sea fleet, for a signal that was shouted up to me by the sailors that i left on the old, old beat, far out in the cold north sea. they shouted up to me as the glass went down, and they ducked to the north-west spray, "will you take a message to the fortress-town, and the fleet that is lying in the bay? "say that we are waiting in the waters of the north, and we'll wait till the seas run dry-- or the high sea fleet from the bight comes forth, and the twelve-inch shells go by. "we have waited very long, but we haven't any doubt they are longing for the day we'll meet. but tell 'em as you pass that the sooner they are out, all the better for the english fleet. "for when we see 'em sinking--(they'll be fighting to the last, and for those that are lost we'll grieve,) we will cheer for a signal at the flagship's mast-- on arrival at the base--long leave!" something wrong something wrong. "the german fleet is coming," the sunday papers say, "and the shell will soon be humming when they fix upon the day." all the sunday experts write, working very late at night-- "they are coming--they'll be on you any day." though it's very cheery reading, and we hear it ev'ry week; yet the hun is still unheeding, and is just as far to seek. and it seems so unavailing they should write and tell us so-- if the hun is shortly sailing, couldn't _some one_ let him know? we are ready, and we're waiting, and we know they're going to fight; and we're just as good at hating as the brainy ones that write. but they talk of information they have gathered unbeknown-- that "the mighty german nation is a mass of skin and bone." and they take their affidavy that a fight is due at sea: _dammit--tell the german navy_, what's the use of telling me? we we. all our fighting brothers are away across the foam, hats off to the englishman! here's a chance for englishmen living safe at home, make a lot of money while you can! we are fighting for the right and the honour of the race with the bulldog grip they know; who's the silly novice there putting on the pace? you'll be taken for a yank--go slow! all the nations know us as the finest of the earth; three cheers for the lads in blue! an' we're drawing extra wages that are more than we are worth-- but a half-day's work will do. the shades of england's fighting men are watching us with pride as we live for england's fame; to save us for posterity was why they went and died-- oh! the war is a real fine game! let the war go rolling on alone for awhile, let the line stand fast in the west; let 'em learn to use the bayonet in the grand old style, while the bulldog boys have a rest. what's the good of hurrying? british pluck'll win; we can stand to the strain all right. what about another rise? send the notice in-- just to show how the bulldogs fight. chorus! all together--we're the finest race of all, so beware of the english blade; now the fighting men are gone--why, however many fall, all the more for the lads that stayed. the sailor's view the sailor's view. ( ). too proud to fight? i'm not so sure--our skipper now and then has lectured to us on patrol on foreign ships and men, and other nation's submarines, when cruising round the bight; and 'seems to me--when they begin--the yankee chaps can fight. why, if i was in the army (which i ain't--and no regrets) and had my pick of generals--from london's latest pets, to hannibal and wellington--to follow whom i chose, i wouldn't think about it long--i'd give the job to those who fought across a continent for three long years and more (i bet the neutral papers didn't say in 'sixty-four of jackson, sherman, lee and grant--"the yanks can only shout"-- that lot was somewhere near the front when pluck was handed out); but what the skipper said was this; "there's only been but one successful submarine attack before this war begun, and it wasn't on a liner on the easy german plan, but on a well-found man-of-war, and dixon was the man who showed us how to do the trick, a tip for me and you, and i'd like to keep the standard up of dixon and his crew, for they hadn't got a submarine that cost a hundred thou', but a leaky little biscuit-box, and stuck upon her bow a spar torpedo like a mine, and they and dixon knew that if they sank the enemy they'd sink the _david_ too. she'd drowned a crew or two before--they dredged her up again, and manned and pushed her off to sea.--my oath, it's pretty plain they had some guts to give away, that tried another trip in a craft they knew was rather more a coffin than a ship; and they carried out a good attack, and did it very well. as a model for the future, why, it beats the books to hell, a tradition for the u.s.a., and, yes--for england too; for they were men with english names, and kin to me and you, and i'd like to claim an ancestor with dixon when he died at the bottom of the river at the _housatonic's_ side." stonewall jackson stonewall jackson. over the low virginian farms the smoke of the ev'ning rose and flowed, the scent of cedar hung in the air--the scent of burning sap, and up the valley the murmur died, the sound of feet on a dusty road-- a clatter and ring of horse and guns that led to ashby's gap. and the blue ridge called to the shenandoah stream, as the massanutton hills grew black-- "look your last, shenandoah--where the bayonets gleam, on your man who is never coming back. "ah! manassas, look again on the glimmer of the steel that you lit with the red fires' glow, when the grey men roared at an all-night meal, look again as the grey men go. "he is looking back at us with a hand across his eyes, look your last, shenandoah, as he rides to a death beyond the gap where the dust-clouds rise, o'er the road that the greenwood hides. "he will send a message back as the dark clouds lower, and you'll hear it in the sighing of the breeze, _let us pass across the river (can you hear me, shenandoah?) to a rest in the shadow of the trees_." wet ships wet ships. "... and will remain on your patrol till the th december...."--(_extract from orders._) the north-east wind came armed and shod from the ice-locked baltic shore, the seas rose up in the track he made, and the rollers raced before; he sprang on the wilhelmshaven ships that reeled across the tide. "do you cross the sea to-night with me?" the cold north-easter cried-- along the lines of anchored craft the admiral's answer flashed, and loud the proud north-easter laughed as the second anchors splashed. "by god! you're right--you german men, with a three-day gale to blow, it is better to wait by your harbour gate than follow where i go!" over the bight to the open sea the great wind sang as he sheered: "i rule--i rule the northern waste--i speak, and the seas are cleared; you nations all whose harbours ring the edge of my northern sea, at peace or war, when you hear my voice you shall know no lord but me." then into the wind in a cloud of foam and sheets of rattling spray, head to the bleak and breaking seas in dingy black and grey, taking it every lurch and roll in tons of icy green came out to her two-year-old patrol--an english submarine. the voice of the wind rose up and howled through squalls of driving white: "you'll know my power, you english craft, before you make the bight; i rule--i rule this northern sea, that i raise and break to foam. whom do you call your overlord that dares me in my home?" over the crest of a lifting sea in bursting shells of spray, she showed the flash of her rounded side as over to port she lay, clanging her answer up the blast that made her wireless sing: "_i serve the lord of the seven seas. ha! splendour of god-- the king!!_" twenty feet of her bow came out, dripping and smooth it sprang, over the valley of green below as her stamping engines rang; then down she fell till the waters rose to meet her straining rails-- "i serve my king, who sends me here to meet your winter gales." (rank upon rank the seas swept on and broke to let her through, while high above her reeling bridge their shattered remnants flew); "_if you blow the stars from the sky to-night, your boast in your teeth i'll fling, i am your master--overlord, and--dog of the english king!_" that blinkin' cat that blinkin' cat. (late of h.m.s. _maidstone_.) in the diving-room, where the o.o.d.[ ] his weary vigil keeps, battered and scarred with years of strife behind the door she sleeps, fighting her battles o'er again as ancient warriors may, with bristling fur as she dreams anew of many a noble fray. savage and silent, swift in the onslaught as the great eagle stoops to the victim; guard of the gangway, dreadful--prolific, mother of hundreds, terrier-strafer, messenger-biter. hail to the guard of the _maidstone's_ gangway--skoal! sing of the day the air was full of words like "alabaster," when she ate a piece of the corporal's hand and bit the quartermaster; the day she fought with an airedale dog and drove him back to shore-- for the sake of her sixty little ones, she fought--and had some more. faithful and loyal, guard of the gangway, turning the dogs back-- yelping and howling. biting her masters-- corporals--any one fiercely domestic, easily queen of-- pugnacious obstetrics-- motherly war. hail to the terror and pride of the _maidstone_--skoal!! sing of the day she won the fray with a new "pandora" dog, and the quartermaster shone with pride as he entered in the log: "at p.m. we dowsed our pipes and drew the _nettle's_ fires, at . six births aboard--_that blinkin' cat of ours_!" [ ] o.o.d.--officer of the day. . . our brothers of the landward side are bound by church and stall, by councils oecumenical, by gothic arches tall; but we who know the cold grey sea, the salt and flying spray, we praise the lord in our fathers' way, in the simple faith of the sea we pray, to the god that the winds and waves obey who sailed on galilee. we pray as the flag-lieutenant prayed, at st vincent's cabin door (twenty sail of the line in view-- south-west by south they bore): "o lord of hosts, i praise thee now, and bow before thy might, who has given us fingers and hands to fight, and twenty ships of the line in sight; thou knewest, o lord, and placed them right-- to leeward, on the bow." after the war after the war. that far-off day when peace is signed (and all the papers say-- "a most important by-election starts at kew to-day; we urge our readers one and all to loyally support the independent candidate--count katzenjammerdordt") will change a lot of little things--perhaps we'll get some leave, and hear a yarn of extra pay, which no one will believe; the salvage ships will hurry out, two thousand wrecks to find, the monuments to kultur that the huns have left behind. we'll watch the sweepers put to sea ten million mines to seek, and--patrol flotilla exercise will start within a week; someone big will say to someone: "time for work and time for play, (rub his hands together briskly) we'll commence the work to-day; they have had their fun and fighting, and they must be getting slack, stop all leave and start manoeuvres--for the good old times are back." then destroyers and torpedo-boats and submarines and oilers will receive a little notice headed "maintenance of boilers," "to economise in fuel while the ships are out at sea each pound of steam will count as two, and every knot as three." we'll have the old manoeuvre rules to show us what to do. "i rose within two thousand yards and have torpedoed you," "my counter-claim is obvious--to port you must retire," "i sank you with a maxim gun just as you rose to fire." ships will carry navigation lights--"precautionary measure," "an infringement of this solemn rule incurs my lords' displeasure." yes, the after-war manoeuvres will be fearful to behold, not been held since nineteen--("half a minute, surely you've been told"), hush, you'll get me into trouble ("it was eighteen months ago-- and the whole grand fleet was in it--i was there, i ought to know: _red fleet to start from helgoland and blue from udsire light, to meet in sixty-twenty north and have a morning fight. no ship should cross a line between the jahde and amrum bank, but should a german flag be seen (unless of junior rank),_ _no captain can do very wrong who indicates by guns-- we won't have our manoeuvres spoilt by interfering huns._ perhaps the wording isn't right, perhaps it isn't true, but we've got to have manoeuvres when there's nothing else to do.") and when the censor fades away and leaves the presses clear for all the "truths about the war," by "one who has no fear," and all the "contract scandals," by "a clerk behind the door," the book i want to see in print is "humours of the war," though i fear the other censor (morals, cinemas, and vice) would expurgate the best of them as being hardly nice; still, even with the cream suppressed a volume could be filled with the epigrams of killing and the jokes of being killed, with a preface by the officer we rescued from the wave, when a cloud of steam and lyddite smoke lay o'er the "bluecher's" grave, who, as the bowmen fished him out and passed him aft to dry, read the name upon their ribbons with a twinkle in his eye, and said: "a westo ship, i think--i guess my luck is in, i'm sick of german substitutes--now for some plymouth gin." and a picture of the sailor in a certain submarine, which was diving through the waters where the sweepers hadn't been, and who heard a muffled bumping noise that passed along the side-- a noise that many men have heard an instant ere they died; and broke the silence following the last appalling thud with "good old ruddy kaiser! there's another bloomin' dud!" there's a story too of jutland, or perhaps another show, when the cruisers and destroyers had a meeting with the foe; and as the range was closing, and they waited for the word, from a sailor at an after-gun the following was heard: "it isn't _that_ that turns me up--'e's not the only one"-- but then the roar of ranging guns--the action had begun-- and for twenty awful minutes there was undiluted hell, with flame and steam and cordite smoke and high-explosive shell. then as the bugle-call rang out, the savage fire to check, the loading numbers wiped their brows and looked around the deck: "as i was saying," came the voice, "before this row began, i think 'e should 've married 'er--if 'e'd bin 'alf a man." low visibility low visibility. _we sailed from the sand-isles, in sea hawk and dragon, over the white water, war-ready all of us. soon came the sea-mist, soft was the wind then, lay there the long-ships, lifting and falling. then cried the captain: "cold is the sea-fog, weary is waiting-time, wet are the byrnies; burnish the breastplates, broadswords and axes! hand we the horns round, hail to the dragon!"_ our gentle pirate ancestors from off the frisian isles kept station where we now patrol so many weary miles: there were no international laws of hall or halleck then, they only knew the simple rule of "death to beaten men." and what they judged a lawful prize was any sail they saw from scarboro' to the sandy isles along the saxon shore. we differ from our ancestors' conception of a prize, and we cruise about like agag 'neath sir samuel evans' eyes; but on one eternal subject we would certainly agree: it's seldom you can see a mile across the northern sea, for as the misty clouds came down and settled wet and cold, the sodden halliards creaked and strained as to the swell they rolled. each yellow-bearded pirate knew beyond the veil of white the prize of all the prizes must be passing out of sight; and drearily they waited while metheglin in a skin was passed along the benches, and the oars came sliding in; then scramasax and battleaxe were polished up anew, and they waited for the fog to lift, the same as me and you; though we're waiting on the bottom at the twenty fathom line, we are burnishing torpedoes to a sunday morning shine. the sailor pauses as he quaffs his tot of navy rum, and listens to a noise that drowns the circulator's hum: "d'y 'ear those blank propellers, bill--_the blinking female dog_-- that's tirpitz in the 'indenburg gone past us in the fog!" hang on hang on. two o' the morn, and a rising sea, i'd like to ease to slow, but we're off on a stunt and pressed for time, so i reckon it's eastward ho! so pick up your skirts and hustle along, old woman, you've got to go-- look-out, you fool. hang on! up she comes on a big grey sea and winks at the misty moon, then down the hill like a falling lift, we're due for a beauty soon; and here it comes--she'll be much too late--yes, damn it, she's out of tune-- look-out, you fool. hang on! you can feel her shake from stem to stern with the crash of her plunging bow, and quiver anew to the thrusting screw, and the booming engines' row; then _rah-rah-rah_ on a rising note--my oath, they're racing now-- look-out, you fool. hang on! the streaky water rushes by as the crest of the sea goes past, and you see her hull from the hydroplanes to the heel of her wireless mast stand out and hang as she leaps the trough to dive at the next one--blast--! look-out, you fool. hang on! in the hollow between she stops for breath, then starts her climb anew-- "i can see your guns and wireless mast, old girl, but i can't see you, and you'd better be quick and lift again--she won't, she's diving through"-- look-out, you fool. hang on! the lord be thanked, it's my relief--cheer up, old sport, it's clean; no, just enough to wash your face--you could hardly call it green; a jolly good sea-boat this one is, at least, for a submarine-- look-out, you fool. hang on! to fritz to fritz. i wish that i could be a hun, to dive about the sea-- i wouldn't go for merchantmen, a man-of-war for me; there are lots of proper targets for attacking, little fritz, but you seem to like the merchantmen, and blowing them to bits. i suppose it must be easy fruit to get an iron cross by strafing sail and cargo ships--but don't you feel the loss of the wonderful excitement when you face a man-of-war, and tearing past you overhead the big propellers roar? when you know that it's a case of "may the fish run good and true," for if they don't it's ten to one it's r.i.p. for you? although perhaps you can't be blamed--your motives may be pure-- you're rather new to submarines--in fact, an amateur; but we'd like to take your job awhile and show you how it's done, and leave you on the long patrol to wait your brother hun. you wouldn't like the job, my lad--the motors turning slow, you wouldn't like the winter-time--storm and wind and snow; you'd find it weary waiting, fritz--unless your faith is strong-- up and down on the long patrol--how long, o lord, how long? we don't patrol for merchant ships, there's none but neutrals there, up and down on the old patrol, you can hear the e-boat's prayer: "give us a ten-knot breeze, o lord, with a clear and blazing sky, and help our eyes at the periscope as the high sea fleet goes by." to the scottish regiments to the scottish regiments. _land of sorrow--war and weeping, granite rock and falling snow, where romance is never sleeping, where the fires of freedom glow._ where the spark has never died, be the cause however lost, be the breath however humble that would fan it to a flame; from the shieling, from the castle, did they ever count the cost ere they went to meet a rebel's death and perished for a name? while england learnt the roman tongue and paid her tax to gaul, the caledonian tribute clashed along the roman wall-- from east to west the sentinels looked out towards the north-- "_amboglanna has sent for aid, for the heather is bright with targe and blade away to the silvery forth._" when the scottish host looked down and scorned to charge the foe that filed around the fatal hill and crossed the stream below, when the flowers of the forest fell and withered in the fight-- "_shoulder to shoulder around the king, hear the claymore whistle and sing our funeral song to-night._" the english knew it at prestonpans--the wall against their backs, when down the slope the clansmen came with the long lochaber axe, the dew on the grass and the morning mist and a roar of charging men,-- _pipers playing on either flank-- "steady the volleys, the leading rank!" the fires were blazing then._ and the spark has gone to flanders, as the prussian butchers know, for they learnt at loos and hulluch from the caledonian sword the prayer of anglo-saxon priests a thousand years ago-- "from the fury of the northern men, deliver us, o lord." privileged privileged. they called across to peter at the changing of the guard, at the red-gold doors that the angels keep,-- "send us help to the portal, for they press upon us hard, they are straining at the gate, many deep." then peter rose and went to the wicket by the wall, where the starlight flashed upon the crowd; and he saw a mighty wave from the greatest gale of all break beneath him with a roar, swelling loud-- "_let us in! let us in! we have left a load of sin on the battlefield that flashes far below. from the trenches or the sea there's a pass for such as we, for we died with our faces to the foe. "we haven't any creed, for we never felt the need, and our morals are as ragged as can be; but we finished in a way that has cleared us of the clay, and we're coming to you clean, as you can see."_ then peter looked below him with a smile upon his lips, and he answered, "ye are fighters, as i know by your badges of the air, of the trenches, and the ships, and the wounds that on your bodies glisten so." and he looked upon the wounds, that were many and were grim, and his glance was all-embracing--unafraid; and he looked to meet the eyes that were smiling up to him, all a-level as a new-forged blade. "ye are savage men and rough--from the fo'c'sle and the tent; ye have put high heaven to alarm; but i see it written clear by the road ye went, that ye held by the fifteenth psalm." and they shouted in return, "_'tis a thing we've never read, but you passed our friends inside that won to the end of the road we tread long ago when the mons men died._" "_let us in! let us in! we have fallen for the right, and the crown that we listed to win, that we earned by the somme or the waters of the bight; you're a fighting man yourself--let us in!_" then peter gave a sign and the gates flung wide to the sound of a bugle-call: "pass the fighting men to the ranks inside, who came from the earth or the cold grey tide, with their heads held high and a soldiers stride, to a friend in the judgment hall." "our annual" "our annual." up the well-remembered fairway, past the buoys and forts we drifted-- saw the houses, roads, and churches as they were a year ago. far astern were wars and battles, all the dreary clouds were lifted, as we turned the elbow ledges--felt the engines ease to "slow." rusty side and dingy paintwork, stripped for war and cleared for battle-- saw the harbour-tugs around us--smelt the english fields again,-- english fields and english hedges--sheep and horses, english cattle, like a screen unrolled before us, through the mist of english rain. slowly through the basin entrance--twenty thousand tons a-crawling with a thousand men aboard her, all a-weary of the war-- warped her round and laid alongside with the cobble-stones a-calling-- "there's a special train awaiting, just for you to come ashore." out again as fell the evening, down the harbour in the gloaming with the sailors on the fo'c'sle looking wistfully a-lee-- just another year of waiting--just another year of roaming for the majesty of england--for the freedom of the sea. mascots mascots. when the galleys of phoenicia, through the gates of hercules, steered south and west along the coast to seek the tropic seas, when they rounded cape agulhas, putting out from table bay, they started trading north again, as steamers do to-day. they dealt in gold and ivory and ostrich feathers too, with a little private trading by the officers and crew, till rounding guardafui, steering up for aden town, the tall phoenician captain called the first lieutenant down. "by all the tyrian purple robes that you will never wear, by the temples of zimbabwe, by king solomon i swear, the ship is like a stable, like a carthaginian sty. i am captain here--confound you!--or i'll know the reason why. every sailor in the galley has a monkey or a goat; there are parrots in the eyes of her and serpents in the boat. by the roaring fire of baal, i'll not have it any more: heave them over by the sunset, or i'll hang you at the fore!" "what is that, sir? _not_ as cargo? _not_ a bit of private trade? well, of all the dumbest idiots you're the dumbest ever made, standing there and looking silly: _leave the animals alone_." (sailors with a tropic liver always have a brutal tone.) "by the crescent of astarte, i am not religious--yet-- i would sooner spill the table salt than kill a sailor's pet." a hymn of disgust a hymn of disgust. you wrote a pretty hymn of hate, that won the kaiser's praise, which showed your nasty mental state, and made us laugh for days. i can't compete with such as you in doggerel of mine, but this is certain--_and_ it's true, you bloody-handed swine-- we do not mouth a song of hate, or talk about you--much, we do not mention things like you--it wouldn't be polite; one doesn't talk in drawing-rooms of prussian dirt and such, we only want to kill you off--so roll along and fight. for men like you with filthy minds, you leave a nasty taste, we can't forget your triumphs with the girls you met in france. by your standards of morality, gorillas would be chaste, and you consummate your triumphs with the bayonet and the lance. you give us mental pictures of your officers at play, with naked girls a-dancing on the table as you dine, with their mothers cut to pieces, in the knightly german way, in the corners of the guard-room in a pool of blood and wine. you had better stay in germany, and never go abroad, for wherever you may wander you will find your fame has gone, for you are outcasts from the lists, with rust upon your sword-- the blood of many innocents--of children newly born. you are bestial men and beastly, and we would not ask you home to meet our wives and daughters, for we doubt that you are clean; you will find your fame in front of you wherever you may roam, you--who came through burning belgium with the ladies for a screen. you--who love to hear the screaming of a girl beneath the knife, in the midst of your companions, with their craning, eager necks; when you crown your german mercy, and you take a sobbing life-- you are not exactly gentlemen towards the gentle sex. with your rapings in the market-place and slaughter of the weak, with your gross and leering conduct, and your utter lack of shame,-- when we note in all your doings such a nasty yellow streak, you show surprise at our disgust, and say you're not to blame. we don't want any whinings, and we'd sooner wait for peace till you realise your position, and you know you whine in vain; and you stand within a circle of the cleaner world's police, and we goad you into charging--and we clean the world again. for you should know that never shall you meet us as before, that none will take you by the hand or greet you as a friend; so stay with it, and finish it--who brought about the war-- and when you've paid for all you've done--well, that will be the end. a trinity a trinity. the way of a ship at racing speed in a bit of a rising gale, the way of a horse of the only breed at a droxford post-and-rail, the way of a brand-new aeroplane on a frosty winter dawn. you'll come back to those again; wheel or cloche or slender rein will keep you young and clean and sane, and glad that you were born. the power and drive beneath me now are above the power of kings, it's mine the word that lets her loose and in my ear she sings-- "mark now the way i sport and play with the rising hunted sea, across my grain in cold disdain their ranks are hurled at me; but down my wake is a foam-white lake, the remnant of their line, that broke and died beneath my pride--your foemen, man, and mine." the perfect tapered hull below is a dream of line and curve, an artist's vision in steel and bronze for gods and men to serve. if ever a statue came to life, you quivering slender thing, it ought to be you--my racing girl--as the amazon song you sing. * * * * * down the valley and up the slope we run from scent to view. "steady, you villain--you know too much--i'm not so wild as you; you'll get me cursed if you catch him first--there's at least a mile to go, so swallow your pride and ease your stride, and take your fences slow. your high-pricked ears as the jump appears are comforting things to see; your easy gallop and bending neck are signals flying to me. you wouldn't refuse if it was wire with calthrops down in front, and there we are with a foot to spare--you best of all the hunt!" great sloping shoulders galloping strong, and a yard of floating tail, a fine old irish gentleman, and a hampshire post-and-rail. * * * * * the sun on the fields a mile below is glinting off the grass that slides along like a rolling map as under the clouds i pass. the early shadows of byre and hedge are dwindling dark below as up the stair of the morning air on my idle wheels i go,-- nothing to do but let her alone--she's flying herself to-day; unless i chuck her about a bit--there isn't a bump or sway. so _there's_ a bank at ninety-five--and here's a spin and a spiral dive, and here we are again. and _that's_ a roll and twist around, and that's the sky and there's the ground, and i and the aeroplane are doing a glide, but upside down, and that's a village and that's a town-- and now we're rolling back. and _this_ is the way we climb and stall and sit up and beg on nothing at all, the wires and strainers slack. and now we'll try and be good some more, and open the throttle and hear her roar and steer for london town. for there never a pilot yet was born who flew a machine on a frosty morn but started stunting soon, to feel if his wires were really there, or whether he flew on ice or air, or whether his hands were gloved or bare, or he sat in a free balloon. in the morning in the morning. back from battle, torn and rent, listing bridge and stanchions bent by the angry sea. by thy guiding mercy sent, fruitful was the road we went-- back from battle we. if thou hadst not been, o lord, behind our feeble arm, if thy hand had not been there to slam the lyddite home, when against us men arose and sought to work us harm, we had gone to death, o lord, in spouting rings of foam. heaving sea and cloudy sky saw the battle flashing by as thy foemen ran. by thy grace, that made them fly, we have seen two hundred die since the fight began. if our cause had not been thine, for thy eternal right, if the foe in place of us had fought for thee, o lord! if thou hadst not guided us and drawn us there to fight, we never should have closed with them--thy seas are dark and broad. through the iron rain they fled, bearing home the tale of dead, flying from thy sword. after-hatch to fo'c'sle head, we have turned their decks to red, by thy help, o lord! it was not by our feeble sword that they were overthrown, but thy right hand that dashed them down, the servants of the proud; it was not arm of ours that saved, but thine, o lord, alone, when down the line the guns began, and sang thy praise aloud. sixty miles of running fight, finished at the dawning light, off the zuider zee. thou that helped throughout the night weary hand and aching sight, praise, o lord, to thee. in forty west in forty west. we are coming from the ranch, from the city and the mine, and the word has gone before us to the towns upon the rhine; as the rising of the tide on the old-world side, we are coming to the battle, to the line. from the valleys of virginia, from the rockies in the north, we are coming by battalions, for the word was carried forth: "we have put the pen away, and the sword is out to-day, for the lord has loosed the vintages of wrath." we are singing in the ships as they carry us to fight, as our fathers sang before us by the camp-fires' light; in the wharf-light glare they can hear us over there, when the ships come steaming through the night. right across the deep atlantic where the _lusitania_ passed, with the battle-flag of yankeeland a-floating at the mast, we are coming all the while, over twenty hundred mile, and were staying to the finish, to the last. we are many--we are one--and we're in it overhead, we are coming as an army that has seen its women dead, and the old rebel yell will be loud above the shell when we cross the top together, seeing red. a ring axiom a ring axiom. when the pitiless gong rings out again, and they whip your chair away, when you feel you'd like to take the floor, whatever the crowd should say, when the hammering gloves come back again, and the world goes round your head, when you know your arms are only wax, your hands of useless lead, when you feel you'd give your heart and soul for a chance to clinch and rest, and through your brain the whisper comes, "give in, you've done your best,"-- why, stiffen your knees and brace your back, and take my word as true-- _if the man in front has got you weak, he's just as tired as you_. he can't attack through a gruelling fight and finish as he began; he's done more work than you to-day--you're just as fine a man. so call your last reserve of pluck--he's careless with his chin-- you'll put it across him every time--go in--go in--_go in_! the quartermaster the quartermaster. i mustn't look up from the compass-card, nor look at the seas at all, i must watch the helm and compass-card,--if i heard the trumpet-call of gabriel sounding judgment day to dry the seas again, i must hold her bow to windward now till i'm relieved again-- to the pipe and wail of a tearing gale, carrying starboard ten. i must stare and frown at the compass-card, that chases round the bowl, north and south and back again with every lurching roll. by the feel of the ship beneath i know the way she's going to swing, but i mustn't look up to the booming wind however the halliards sing-- in a breaking sea with the land a-lee, carrying starboard ten. and i stoop to look at the compass-card as closes in the night, for it's hard to see by the shaded glow of half a candle-light; but the spokes are bright, and i note beside in the corner of my eye a shimmer of light on oilskin wet that shows the owner nigh-- foggy and thick and a windy trick, carrying starboard ten. heave and sway or dive and roll can never disturb me now; though seas may sweep in rivers of foam across the straining bow, i've got my eyes on the compass-card, and though she broke her keel and hit the bottom beneath us now, you'd find me at the wheel-- in davy's realm, still at the helm, carrying starboard ten. in the barred zone in the barred zone. they called us up from england at the breaking of the day, and the wireless whisper caught us from a hundred leagues away-- "sentries at the outer line, all that hold the countersign, listen in the north sea--news for you to-day." all across the waters, at the paling of the morn, the wireless whispered softly ere the summer day was born-- "be you near or ranging far, by the varne or weser bar, the fleet is out and steaming to the eastward and the dawn." far and away to the north and west, in the dancing glare of the sunlit ocean, just a haze, a shimmer of smoke-cloud, grew and broadened many a mile; low and long and faint and spreading, banner and van of a world in motion, creeping out to the north and west, it hung in the skies alone awhile. then from over the brooding haze the roar of murmuring engines swelled, and the men of the air looked down to us, a mile below their feet; down the wind they passed above, their course to the silver sun-track held, and we looked back to the west again, and saw the english fleet. over the curve of the rounded sea, in ordered lines as the ranks of rome, over the far horizon steamed a power that held us dumb,-- miles of racing lines of steel that flattened the sea to a field of foam, rolling deep to the wash they made, we saw, to the threat of a german blade, the shield of england come. who cares? who cares? the sentries at the castle gate, we hold the outer wall, that echoes to the roar of hate and savage bugle-call-- of those that seek to enter in with steel and eager flame, to leave you with but eyes to weep the day the germans came. though we may catch from out the keep a whining voice of fear, of one who whispers "rest and sleep, and lay aside the spear," we pay no heed to such as he, as soft as we are hard; we take our word from men alone--the men that rule the guard. we hear behind us now and then the voices of the grooms, and bickerings of serving-men come faintly from the rooms; but let them squabble as they please, we will not turn aside, but--curse to think it was for them that fighting men have died. whatever they may say or try, we shall not pay them heed; and though they wail and talk and lie, we hold our simple creed-- no matter what the cravens say, however loud the din, our watch is on the castle gate, and none shall enter in. the unchanging sex the unchanging sex. when the battle-worn horatius, 'midst the cheering roman throng-- all flushed with pride and triumph as they carried him along-- reached the polished porch of marble at the doorway of his home, he felt himself an emperor--the bravest man of rome. the people slapped him on the back and knocked his helm askew, then drifted back along the road to look for something new. then horatius sobered down a bit--as you would do to-day-- and straightened down his tunic in a calm, collected way. he hung his battered helmet up and wiped his sandals dry, and set a parting in his hair--the same as you and i. his lady kissed him carefully and looked him up and down, and gently disengaged his arm to spare her snowy gown. "you _are_ a real disgrace, you know, the worst i've ever seen; now go and put your sword away, i _know_ it isn't clean. and you must change your clothes at once, you're simply wringing wet; you've been doing something mischievous, i hope you lost your bet.... why! you're bleeding on the carpet. who's the brute that hurt you so? did you kill him? _there's a darling!_ serve him right for hitting low." then she hustled lots of water, turning back her pretty sleeves, and she set him on the sofa (having taken off his greaves). and bold horatius purred aloud, the stern horatius smiled, and didn't seem to mind that he was treated like a child. though she didn't call him emperor, or cling to him and cry, yet i rather think he liked it--just the same as you and i. looking aft looking aft. i'm the donkey-man of a dingy tramp they launched in 'eighty-one, rickety, old, and leaky too--but some o' the rivets are shining new beneath our after-gun. an' she an' meself are off to sea from out o' the breaker's hands, an' we laugh to find such an altered game, for devil a thing we found the same when we came off the land. we used to carry a freight of trash that younger ships would scorn, but now we're running a decent trade--howitzer-shell and hand-grenade, or best alberta corn. we used to sneak an' smouch along wi' rusty side an' rails, hoot an' bellow of liners proud--"give us the room that we're allowed; get out o' the track--the mails!" we sometimes met--an' took their wash-- the 'aughty ships o' war, an' we dips to them--an' they to us--an' on they went in a tearin' fuss, but now they count us more. for now we're "england's hope and pride"-- the mercantile marine,-- "bring us the goods and food we lack, because we're hungry, merchant jack" (as often i have been). "you're the man to save us now, we look to you to win; wot'd yer like? a rise o' pay? we'll give whatever you like to say, but bring the cargoes in." an' here we are in the danger zone, wi' escorts all around, destroyers a-racing to and fro--"we will show you the way to go, an' guide you safe an' sound." "an' did you cross in a comfy way, or did you have to run? an' is the patch on your hull we see the mark of a bump in 'ninety-three, or the work of a german gun?" "we'll lead you now, and keep beside, an' call to all the fleet, clear the road and sweep us in--he carries a freight we need to win, a golden load of wheat." yes, we're the hope of england now, and rank wi' the navy too; an' all the papers speak us fair--"nothing he will not lightly dare, nothing he fears to do." "be polite to merchant jack, who brings you in the meat, for if he went on a striking lay, you'd have to go on your knees and pray, with never a bone to eat." but you can lay your papers down an' set your fears aside, for we will keep the ocean free--we o' the clean an' open sea-- to break the german pride. we won't go canny or strike for pay, or say we need a rest; but you get on wi' the blinkin' war--an' not so much o' your strikes ashore, or givin' the german best. a maxim a maxim. when the foe is pressing and the shells come down in a stream like maxim fire, when the long grey ranks seem to thicken all the while, and they stamp on the last of the wire, when all along the line comes a whisper on the wind that you hear through the drumming of the guns: "they are through over there and the right is in the air, and there isn't any end to the huns,"-- then keep along a-shooting till you can't shoot more, and hit 'em with a shovel on the head. don't forget a lot of folk have beaten them before, and a hun'll never hurt you if he's dead. if you're in a hole and your hopes begin to fail, if you're in a losing fight, think a bit of jonah in the belly of the whale, _'cause-he-got-out-all-right_. the crisis the crisis. when the spartan heroes tried to hold the broken gate, when--roaring like the rising tide-- the persian horsemen charged and died in foaming waves of hate. when with armour hacked and torn they gripped their shields of brass, and hailed the gods that light the morn with battle-cry of hope forlorn, "we shall not let them pass." while they combed their hair for death before the persian line, they spoke awhile with easy breath, "what think ye the athenian saith in athens as they dine?" "doth he repent that we alone are here to hold the way, that he must reap what he hath sown-- that only valour may atone the fault of yesterday? "is he content that thou and i-- three hundred men in line-- should show him thus how man may try to stay the foemen passing by to athens, where they dine? "ah! now the clashing cymbal rings, the mighty host is nigh; let athens talk of passing things-- but here, three hundred spartan kings shall greet the fame the persian brings to men about to die." a sea chanty a sea chanty. there's a whistle of the wind in the rigging overhead, and the tune is as plain as can be. "hey! down below there--d'you know it's going to blow there, all across the cold north sea?" and along comes the gale from the locker in the north by the storm-king's hand set free, and the wind and the snow and the sleet come forth, let loose to the cold north sea. tumble out the oilskins, the seas are running white, there's a wet watch due for me, for we're heading to the east, and a long wet night as we drive at the cold north sea. see the water foaming as the waves go by like the tide on the sands of dee; hear the gale a-piping in the halliards high to the tune of the cold north sea. see how she's meeting them, plunging all the while, till i'm wet to the sea-boot knee; see how she's beating them--twenty to the mile-- the waves of the cold north sea. right across from helgoland to meet the english coast, lie better than the likes of we,-- men that lived in many ways, but went to join the host that are buried by the cold north sea. rig along the life-lines, double-stay the rails, lest the storm-king call for a fee; for if any man should slip, through the rolling of the ship, he'd be lost in the cold north sea. we are heading to the gale, and the driving of the sleet, and we're far to the east of three. hey! you german sailormen, here's the british fleet waiting in the cold north sea. a.d. a.d. . a long low ship from the orkneys' sailed, with a full gale driving her along, three score sailormen singing as they baled to the tune of a viking song-- _we have a luck-charm carved on the tiller, cut in the fore-room see we thor's hammer; gods will protect us under a shield-burgh, carved in the mast we-- the runes of yggdrasil!_ but the earl called down from the kicking tiller-head, "six hands lay along to me! tumble out the hawsers there, skallagrim the red! for a battle with a berserk sea; sing a song of work, of a well-stayed mast, of clinch and rivet and pine, of a bull's-hide sail we can carry to the last of a well-built ship like mine. never mind the runes on the bending tree or the charms on the tiller that i hold, trust to your hands and the makers of the sea, to the gods of the viking bold! _thor of the hammer-- king of the warriors, we are not thralls here --men of the sea; we are not idle, fight we as seamen, worthy your aid then --men of the sea!"_ overdue overdue. in the evening--in the sunset--when the long day dies, out across the broad atlantic, where the great seas go, when the golden gates are open and the sunlight flies, the fairy islands drift and fade against the crimson glow. in the evening, when the fiery sun was sinking in the west, st brandan and the chosen few went sailing out to sea,-- to the westward--to the sunset--to the golden isle of rest, the haven of the weary men, the land of fairie. is it only in the sunset we may find the golden fleece? is it only to the westward that the fairyland is found? and those who went away from us and passed from war to peace-- are they looking still for fairyland the wide world round? then as i gazed across the dark the morning answer came-- to eastward stretched the golden sea for many a golden mile; the far horizon joined the sky in dancing lines of flame-- and drifting on the seas of dawn, i saw st brandan's isle. printed by william blackwood and sons. poems by elinor jenkins poems by elinor jenkins london: sidgwick & jackson ltd. adam street, adelphi, w.c. _copyright, , by sidgwick & jackson ltd._ _all rights reserved_ _dedication_ to h. s. t. ·viii· _fain had i given precious things and sweet, but having neither frankincense nor gem, only sad flowers--last year's fading yield gathered about that bitter harvest field-- i made a sorry garland out of them, and laid it where immortelles had been meet._ _contents_ page h. s. t.--requiescat the dead comrade the choice the house by the highway night in the suburbs, august, autumn wind the battle of the rivers a legend of ypres ecce homo! april nights rupert brooke. april, the last evening the letter frigga. (up to date) farewells à la mode sunset sursum corda lying in state wind-pedlars dulce et decorum? succory dreams trespassing "what shall be done with all these tears of ours?" in hereford cathedral poppyfields artificial light epitaph on a child left buried abroad veronica moonlight waking feather boats the lovers' walk poems _h. s. t._ _requiescat_ we were bereft ere we were well aware of all our precious fears, and had instead a hopeless safety, a secure despair. we know that fate dealt kindly with our dead, tenderer to that fair face we held so dear than unto many another's best beloved. whate'er befall, we know him far removed from all the weary labours of last year, and even in paying this most bitter price we know the cause worthy the sacrifice. now he is safe from any further ill, nor toils in peril while at ease we sit, yet bides our loss in thinking of him still,-- of sombre eyes, by sudden laughter lit, darkened till all the eternal stars shall wane; and lost the incommunicable lore of cunning fingers ne'er to limn again and restless hands at rest for ever more. _the dead comrade_ "courage, invention, mirth we ill can spare lie lost with him, the greatest loss of all, we grudge to well-won rest his swiftness to devise and dare that never failed the call." thus they all spoke together of the dead who was their comrade many a dark hour through, as one whose work was ended quite, but he that held him dearest said nothing, for well he knew his friend forsook them not in dying. --often above the din he seemed to hear his well known voice beloved, often in mud and darkness lying, felt he was working near, by star-shell light oft with that commonplace familiar kindness knowing not surprise just as in other nights now lost, suddenly glimpsed his face, unchanged the same sleep-burdened eyes, whimsical brows and laughter-lifted lip; and turned again to labours lighter grown, glad of that unforgetful soul's imperishable fellowship that left him not to serve alone. _the choice_ too well they saw the road where they must tread was shrouded in a misty winding sheet, among whose strangling coils their souls might meet death, and delaying not to go, they said farewell to hope, to dear tasks left undone, to well-loved faces and to length of days.-- so came they to the parting of the ways, a year agone, and saw no way but one. others, and they were many, watched them go but turned not from the pleasant path of ease, with hedges full of flowers, and fields of sheep. their hearts waxed gross, battening on braver woe and their eyes heavy.--god, for such as these no trump avails but thine to break their sleep! _the house by the highway_ all night, from the quiet street comes the sound, without pause or break of the marching legions' feet to listeners lying awake. their faces may none descry; night folds them close like a pall; but the feet of them passing by tramp on the hearts of all. what comforting makes them strong? what trust and what fears have they that march without music or song to death at the end of the way? what faith in our victory? what hopes that beguile and bless? what heaven-sent hilarity? what mirth and what weariness? what valour from vanished years in the heart of youth confined? what wellsprings of unshed tears for the loves they leave behind? no sleep, my soul to befriend; no voice, neither answering light! but darkness that knows no end and feet going by in the night. _night in the suburbs, august, _ the misty night broods o'er this peopled place, chimneys and trees stand black against the sky, one goes belated by with echoing pace and careless whistle, shrilling loud and high. and ere his steps into the stillness merge some labouring giant of our later day passes with hollow roar of distant surge and clouds of steam as white as ocean spray. in turn the lighted windows, twinkling fair, darken, till all these earthborn stars are down; stained dusky red by the great city's glare the waning moon hangs low o'er london town. e'en now that moon in her own silver guise looks down on some stretched on a stricken plain, yet she shows red unto their blood-dimmed eyes that never shall behold the sun again. we, weary of the idle watch we keep, turn from the window to our sure repose and pass into the pleasant realms of sleep, or snug and drowsy muse upon their woes. and whether we that sleep or they that wake,-- we that have laboured light and slumber well or they that bled and battled for our sake-- have the best portion scarce seems hard to tell. soon shall the sun behold them, where they lie, yet his fierce rays may never warm them more; no further need have they to strive or cry, they have found rest that laboured long and sore; while we take up again in street and mart the burden and the business of the day: and which of these two is the better part god only knows, whose face is turned away. _autumn wind_ a month ago they marched to fight away 'twixt the woodland and the sown, i walked that lonely road to-night and yet i could not feel alone. the voice of the wind called shrill and high like a bugle band of ghosts, and the restless leaves that shuffled by seemed the tread of the phantom hosts. mayhap when the shadows gather round and the low skies lower with rain, the dead that rot upon outland ground march down the road again. _the battle of the rivers_ for fifteen hundred valiant men and tried, these waters were as lethe's, dark and deep and bitter as the bitterest tears we weep; their high hearts rose above the swollen tide, fain of the foe upon the further side, though in death's draught their lips they needs must steep. since their own lives their valour might not keep, our tall young men drank of that cup and died. now are their faces hidden from the sky, under the trampled turf where last they trod; yet unforsaken sleeps that sad array; the living hearts of all their mothers lie buried with them, and beat below the sod, as their poor pulse could stir the senseless clay. _a legend of ypres_ before the throne the spirits of the slain with a loud voice importunately cried, "oh, lord of hosts, whose name be glorified, scarce may the line one onslaught more sustain wanting our help. let it not be in vain, not all in vain, oh god, that we have died." and smiling on them our good lord replied, "begone then, foolish ones, and fight again." our eyes were holden, that we saw them not; disheartened foes beheld--our prisoners said-- behind us massed, a mighty host indeed, where no host was. on comrades unforgot we thought, and knew that all those valiant dead forwent their rest to save us at our need. _ecce homo!_ he hung upon a wayside calvary, from whence no more the carven christ looks down with wide, blank eyes beneath the thorny crown, on the devout and careless, passing by. the cross had shaken with his agony, his blood had stained the dancing grasses brown, but when we found him, though the weary frown, that waited on death's long delayed mercy, still bent his brow, yet he was dead and cold, with drooping head and patient eyes astare, that would not shut. as we stood turned to ice the sun remembered golgotha of old, and made a halo of his yellow hair in mockery of that fruitless sacrifice. _april nights_ when the night watches slowly downwards creep, and heavy darkness lays her leaden wings on aged eyes that ache but cannot weep, for burning time hath dried the water-springs-- yearneth the watcher then with sleepless pain for eager hearts that in the grave lie cold, for all the toil and pride of years made vain, and grieveth sore to be alive, and old. without, the lost wind desolately crying scatters poor spring's frail children rent and torn, and when the moon looks, wearily a-dying, a moment 'thwart her shroud, faint and forlorn, gleams ghostly through the trees her fickle light on barren blossoms, strewn upon the night. _rupert brooke. april, _ young and great hearted, went he forth to dare death on the field of honour; all he sought, was leave to lay life down a thing of naught and spill its hopes and promise on the air. then lest vile foes should vaunt a spoil so rare the sun that loved him gave a kiss death-fraught quenching the heaven-enkindled fire that wrought fair fancies, bodied forth in words more fair, and lit the dreaming beauty of his face with tender mirth and strength-begetting trust,-- impotent strength, and mirth that might not save. therefore we mourn, counting each vanished grace. ne'er was so much, since dust returned to dust, cribbed in the compass of a narrow grave. _the last evening_ round a bright isle, set in a sea of gloom, we sat together, dining, and spoke and laughed even as in better times though each one knew no other might misdoubt the doom that marched moment by moment nigher, whose couriers knocked on every heart like death, and changed all things familiar to our sight into strange shapes and grieving ghosts that wept. the crimson-shaded light shed in the garden roses of red fire that burned and bloomed on the decorous limes. the hungry night that lay in wait without made blind, blue eyes against the silver's shining and waked the affrighted candles with its breath out of their steady sleep, while round the room the shadows crouched and crept. among the legions of beleaguering fears, still we sat on and kept them still at bay, a little while, a little longer yet, and wooed the hurrying moments to forget what we remembered well, --till the hour struck--then desperately we sought and found no further respite--only tears we would not shed, and words we might not say. we needs must know that now the time was come yet still against the strangling foe we fought, and some of us were brave and some borrowed a bubble courage nigh to breaking, and he that went, perforce went speedily and stayed not for leave-taking. but even in going, as he would dispel the bitterness of incomplete good-byes, he paused within the circle of dim light, and turned to us a face, lit seemingly less by the lamp than by his shining eyes. so, in the radiance of his mastered fate, a moment stood our soldier by the gate and laughed his long farewell-- then passed into the silence and the night. _the letter_ she read the words of him that was her own: the dauntless brow that grief itself had steeled quickened with listening ever, not in vain amid brave stories of the stricken field, for strange, sad echoes from a child's heart grown untimely old, that scarce will dance again this side the grave, but nathless keeps a leaven of mirth most bitter sweet. so changed her face, 'twixt pride and sorrowing, as stirs and shadows sun-bleached wheat with winds that walk the stair of heaven and high clouds hovering. _frigga._ (_up to date_) for the last time i kissed the lips of my dearest son, for the last time looked in his face-- my brave, my beautiful one. reaching up to his breast, but lately as low as my knee, i felt with my hands in his heart a shadow i might not see. scarce could i bid him farewell, scarce to bless him find breath, for i felt the shape of the shade and knew 'twas the shadow of death. _farewells à la mode_ the limbs she bore and cherished tenderly, and rocked against her heart, with loving fears, through helpless infancy that all endears, unto the verge of manhood's empery, were fostered for this cruel end, and she kneeling beside him, looks through blinding tears down the long vista of the lonely years, void of all light, drear as eternity. but her young son, who knows not that he dies, gives good-night lightly, on the utmost brink, and, anguish overmastered for her sake, says smiling with stiff lips and death-dimmed eyes, "why, mother, if you kiss me so, i'll think you'll not be here to-morrow, when i wake." _sunset_ dear is young morning's tender-hued attire: to us and ours, 'stead of that promise, came a brief and burning sunset, blood and flame, and, looking on the end of our desire, yet said we, "what if fealty to a name have built our hearts' beloved a funeral pyre? their death hath kindled a fair beacon fire to lighten all this world of fear and shame, and none shall quench it." as the words were said, darkened and failed the strange, unearthly light, and faded all the surging sea of gold, and nought was left of the fierce glories fled but ashen skies slow deepening into night, lit by pale memory's stars that shake for cold. _sursum corda_ oh faint and feeble hearted, comfort ye! nor shame those dead whose death was great indeed, greater than life in death. it doth not need, since we seek strength where healing may not be, faith in fair fables of eternal rest, nor seer's eyes to look beyond the grave. that they endured and dared for us shall save our souls alive:--they met, our tenderest, pain without plaint and death without dismay, bore and beheld sorrows unspeakable, yet shrank not from that double-edged distress, but, eyes set steadfastly where ends the way, they through all perils laughed and laboured well, nor ceased from mercy on the merciless. _lying in state_ if with his fathers he had fallen asleep, far different would have been this drear lyke-wake. lonely and lampless lies he, for whose sake many might well a night-long vigil keep, and, though we have not time nor heart to weep, yet fain would we some slight observance make, e'er sad to-morrow's earliest dawn shall break when he must lie yet darker and more deep. therefore we've laid him 'neath a chestnut tree, that bears a myriad candles all alight, and faintly glimmering through the starry gloom-- no dimmer than a holy vault might be-- it sheds abroad upon the quiet night a gentle radiance and a faint perfume. _wind-pedlars_ purple and grey the vacant moor lies spread and all the storms of heaven sweep and cry among the barrows of forgotten dead, who died as we shall die. there dwelt of yore, upon such desert land, strange merchants of a stranger merchandise, who stole the winds from out god's hollowed hand and loosed them, at a price. thither mayhap the reiving marchman rode and bought a gale to ruffle the red cock that he would set upon his foe's abode, and leave no standing stock. and thither, with hearts tossing to and fro on stormy seas, came foolish maids and fain, and chaffered for a favouring wind to blow their lovers home again. oh were such mighty witches living still, those whistle tempests and light airs obeyed, we have more need the wind should do our will than e'er had love-sick maid. at body's peril and in soul's despite we would give all we had of gold and gem for a west wind, where our beloved fight, to blow the reek from them. but these wind-pedlars with their hard-earned fee mocked and forsaken of the fiend their sire 'spite of all powers of spell and gramarye passed long ago in fire. so to high god let humble prayers be said, from bursting hearts that wait in vain, and he in his good time, when all your dears are dead, may stoop to answer ye. _dulce et decorum?_ we buried of our dead the dearest one-- said each to other, "here then let him lie, and they may find the place, when all is done, from the old may tree standing guard near by." strong limbs whereon the wasted life blood dries, and soft cheeks that a girl might wish her own, a scholar's brow, o'ershadowing valiant eyes, henceforth shall pleasure charnel-worms alone. for we, that loved him, covered up his face, and laid him in the sodden earth away, and left him lying in that lonely place to rot and moulder with the mouldering clay. the hawthorn that above his grave head grew like an old crone toward the raw earth bowed, wept softly over him, the whole night through, and made him of her tears a glimmering shroud. * * * * * oh lord of hosts, no hallowed prayer we bring, here for thy grace is no importuning, no room for those that will not strive nor cry when loving kindness with our dead lies slain: give us our fathers' heathen hearts again, valour to dare, and fortitude to die. _succory_ in a strange burial ground searching strange graves above, by a sure sign i found where lay my love. bluer than summer skies, than summer seas more blue, looked from the dust his eyes whose death i rue. sweet eyes of my sweet slain lost all these weary hours, lo, i beheld again turned into flowers. _dreams trespassing_ of all the spectres feared and then forgot that haunt us sleeping, this is dreadfullest-- still to seek help and find it not through those dim lands that sleep and know not rest; followed for ever by a formless fear that drawing near and nearer hungrily lowers against our dearest dear, and nought can shield them from that jeopardy; to see the unknown horror rearing slow, hang high above them like a craning wave, and in that endless moment know intolerable impotence to save. yet 'whelmed the dream-doom never one dear head, our own hearts woke us with their passionate beat: straightway we found all peril fled and lay, awaiting dawn's deliverance sweet. * * * * * now growing with the strengthening daylight strong doth that ill dream, the sleep-world's confines breaking, walk at our elbow all day long to leave us only at a worse awaking. _"what shall be done with all these tears of ours?"_ the poor proud mother in the sad old tale, that wept her lovely children's loss in vain grew one with her own tears' most bitter rain; the immortal gods that spared not for her wail then made from out her grief's eternal flow a never-failing fountain, at whose brink wayfaring men oft stooped them down to drink and blessed those gods, whose envy wrought her woe. so may these bitter springs with years grow sweet, and welling ever upward full and strong, as when from many a broken heart they burst, stay not for frost nor fail for summer heat, but make fair pools life's desert way along where unborn generations slake their thirst. _in hereford cathedral_ while the noonday prayers were said, for the warriors in our war, and many bowed the head with heavy hearts and sore, each with his voiceless dread, each with his hidden pain, each thinking on his own, the living and the dead,-- then on the pillared stone behind the altar, fell a cross-shaped stain, a shadow strong and dark that all may mark, and know it well, that doth dear won salvation spell. awhile the sad sign stayed, and the shadow-shape, concealed in the hearts of them that prayed, stood for a space revealed. _poppyfields_ a wilderness were better than this place where foregone seasons set a gentle spell decking it with such fair and tender grace an angel might be pleased here to dwell; now all its gay delights are dismal grown in the full glory of the summer time, as from the horror of some evil thing its every grace had flown,-- laid under penance for an unknown crime the garden close lies sick and sorrowing. pale in the sultry splendour of the day each shoot a finger, stiffened wearily, the harsh-leaved rosemary stands stark and grey pointing at that which none may ever see, and darker grows the pansy's brooding face with dark foreboding; and the lily's cup turns loathsome, festering sourly in the sun; in the cypress's embrace the valiant scented bay is swallowed up. the roses all have withered, one by one. beyond the close, smothering the wholesome corn, a flight of scarlet locusts fallen to earth baleful, and blighting all that they adorn, the burnished heralds of a bitterer dearth, coral and flame and blood among the gold, like eastern armies gorgeously dight and raised by gramarye from english sod with banners brave unrolled each silken tent enclosing dusky night, drowsy dream-laden poppies beck and nod. brighter than stains of that imperial hue spilled from the vats of sea-enthronèd tyre, their flaunting ranks grow dull and blow anew from smouldering rubies to fierce coals of fire, as through the thunder-burdened air of noon the slow clouds slowly drift and pass casting soft shifting shadows on the field. alas, and all too soon the wearied eye 'gins ache for shaded grass though the charmed sense would to the glamour yield. now that love's rose has crumbled into dust, and nought is left but sharp envenomed thorns, burning remorse with many a cruel thrust, bitter regret that unavailing mourns, now thought is fear and memory is pain and hope a sickly pulse that will not cease, and fame a gaping grave whereby we weep, nowhere now doth remain a place of refuge for us, or release, save in the shadowy wastes of idle sleep. therefore, scorn not these flowers of phantasy that blow about the ivory gate of dreams, for though they have not truth or constancy yet very fair their idle semblance seems. though short the blest relief they bring to woe, and wakening the worm 'gins gnaw again, yet comely truth is grown a grim death's head. fly the unconquerable foe; go, in an empty dream lost joys regain and down among the poppies meet your dead. _artificial light_ warm and golden and dear in custom and kindness set, we builded against our fear a place wherein to forget darkness that rings us near. here our hearts we deceive and will not understand. whether we laugh or grieve we dwell in a lamp-lit land-- a land of make-believe not too high for our pride whereto we are ever bond nor for our souls too wide-- and all is night beyond where monstrous things abide. still without ceasing we watch on our stronghold keep, lest lamps burn flickeringly, and, while we slumber and sleep, outcast eternity break in a moment through our soul-built barriers slight, look in on us with blue lustreless eyes, whose light life everlasting slew. heavy with endless days, with endless wisdom sad, should those eyes behold our days and our loves wherein we are glad, we might not abide their gaze. our sorrows flee fast away like shadows before the morn, in the light of eternal day pale all our joys forlorn, elf-gold that will not stay; find we, looking again, for all our cherished treasures and all our labours vain, weariness all our pleasures and worthless all our pain. our vanities kissed and curled, ere the swift vision is gone, into the void are hurled; but we ourselves live on, waifs in a blasted world, where light and laughter and love lie dead in the dark together and we brood their dust above, knowing not surely whether 'tis life at our hearts doth move. lost without remedy, we sit under pitiless skies mourning the moment we looked with our finite eyes into infinity! _epitaph_ _on a child left buried abroad_ father, forget not, now that we must go, a little one in alien earth low laid; send some kind angel when thy trumpets blow lest he should wake alone, and be afraid. _veronica_ she lifted up her eyes and looked at me;-- straightway, methought that i was gazing down through lacy lattices of meadow grass, into the face of that low, little flower, that holds all fathomless eternity, inscrutable, immeasurable dusk's heart-breaking blue, and night's first timid star, prisoned and mirrored in a shallow cup, so small a single dewdrop would o'erflow it, so frail no vagrant bee could rest thereon. but unaware of its own loveliness this symbol of all mysteries sad and sweet fixes on heaven the wide unwinking stare of blind, bright eyes, coloured and glorified, by light and hues, it apprehendeth not.-- even so, lovely, senseless and aloof, round-eyed veronica looked up at me. _moonlight_ even as walk on middle earth the shades of the unquiet dead that loathe the graves allotted them from birth and wander without end, uncomforted; so the dead moon, poor restless rover that died by fire, long, long ago, wanders forlorn the steeps of heaven over; with death's despair and life's outwearied woe she journeys, a reluctant lustre giving to this world's throbbing life and strong, and, being dead, envieth all things living, and sheds a passing death her beams along. to that weird corpse-light worse than dark, all fair things for a little die; the spell-bound earth lies, colourless and stark, beneath the wan ghost witch's jealous eye. _waking_ so fair a dream last night my heart had kissed, i sought some token of it, but 'twould give nothing, save formless fancies fugitive, that slipped from words' encirclement away-- as, when hell's shades 'gan quicken with the day, his lost belovèd fled the lutanist. _feather boats_ while the wind low o'er the green pool creeps spoiling with kisses the wood's mirrored beauty, kneel we close down by the margin preparing to launch the frail craft on those perilous deeps. swift the wind takes them, we lean to see over the water gallantly faring forth our fantastical argosy. silver-white galleons beating to seaward, freighted with fancies lighter than foam, bound for far havens and tall towns enchanted-- stir, sleepy breezes, and bring them safe home. cabot sailing for ever and ever to the unknown where the wild ducks nest; morgan mooring to rape the treasure hid in a lily's unsullied breast; nearer, in shore among lowering leaf-bergs franklin, crushed on his fatal quest. so i behold in your eyes re-awaken brave sad tales that the sea wind sings, tales of old mariners, daring hid dangers, ghosts of forgotten adventurings. heart of my heart, in your manhood's hereafter, when you've grown taller, and harder to please, will you turn sometimes your wandering wishes back to the hours when with eyes full of laughter you watched where the day-dreaming willow trees dipped their long fingers to catch at the fishes, mock sails flying on mimic seas? _the lovers' walk_ two lovers walked in a green garden way 'neath towering poplar pillars all arow; the still june midnight close about them lay: they whispered soft and low. though they could feel no wind, they heard it creep high in the poplars, whispering secret schemes; the tall trees stood as sentinels asleep, and listening through their dreams. the full moon's white fire lamp hung round and fair above the highest poplar's shivering crest, the lazy fountain's waters stirred the air and softly sank to rest. unseen the honeysuckle trailed that fills the dim air with its heavy sweet perfume, but the wan fire-eyed wraiths of daffodils stared spectral through the gloom. they felt no footsteps fall beside their own, but long their like had loved the garden well; and never two may walk this walk alone: their presence wakes a spell. when here live lovers loiter to and fro with tender words and lips of kisses fain, then those dead men that walked here long ago meet their lost loves again. the grey dew keeps no traces of their feet, their speech is lighter than the bat's shrill cry, they hover where of yore they used to meet like shadows passing by. though many wander where the moonlight lies yet are they lonely as in life they were, for each ghost looks into his own love's eyes and sees no other there. and when the living lips their farewells frame and the live feet turn to the garden door, the shades depart in darkness as they came and are not any more. did those two guess who loved that night in june that others trod the grass as well as they, and won from them a passing moment's boon to love as in life's day? or did they think in that still haunted place, as those poor phantoms were they soon must be and pluck at other unknown lovers' grace the joys that once were free? perchance their glad hearts thrust such thoughts away; of that night's tryst no more than this they own: that they two, in a grassy garden way once walked an hour alone. printed in great britain by wm. brendon and son, ltd., plymouth. _sidgwick & jackson's list of poetry_ _rupert brooke_ poems (originally issued in ). _eighth impression._ s. d. net. and other poems. with portrait. _ninth impression._ s. d. net. _john drinkwater_ swords and ploughshares. s. d. net. _gerald gould_ poems. _second impression._ s. d. net. my lady's book. s. d. net. _laurence housman_ selected poems. s. d. net. _rose macaulay_ the two blind countries. s. d. net. _john masefield_ the everlasting mercy. _sixteenth impression._ s. d. net. also in leather, s. net and s. net. the widow in the bye street. _fifth impression._ s. d. net. _r. c. phillimore_ poems (with an introduction by john masefield). s. d. net. _max plowman_ first poems. s. d. net. _katharine tynan_ innocencies. s. d. net. new poems. _second impression._ s. d. net. irish poems. s. d. net. flower of youth: poems in war-time. s. d. net. * * * * * poems of to-day. an anthology. _second impression._ s. net. sidgwick & jackson ltd., adam street, adelphi, w.c. provided by the internet archive the young guard by e. w. hornung london: constable and company ltd. _most of these pieces appeared during the war. the usual acknowledgements are tendered to the spectator in three cases and the times in two, as well as to land and water, the cologne post and sundry school magazines._ consecration _children we deemed you all the days we vexed you with our care: but in a universe ablaze, what was your childish share? to rush upon the flames of hell, to quench them with your blood! to be of england's flower that fell ere yet it brake the bud! and we who wither where we grew, and never shed but tears, as children now would follow you through the remaining years; tread' in the steps we thought to guide, as firmly as you trod; and keep the name you glorified clean before matt and god._ lord's leave ( ) no lord's this year: no silken lawn on which a dignified and dainty throng meanders. the schools take guard upon a fierier pitch somewhere in flanders. bigger the cricket here; yet some who tried in vain to earn a colour while at eton have found a place upon an england side that can't be beaten! a demon bowler's bowling with his head-- his heart's as black as skins in carolina! either he breaks, or shoots almost as dead as anne regina; while the deep-field-gun, trained upon your stumps, from concrete grand-stand far beyond the bound'ry, lifts up his ugly mouth and fairly pumps shells from krupp's foundry. but like the time the game is out of joint-- no screen, and too much mud for cricket lover; both legs go slip, and there's sufficient point in extra cover! cricket? 'tis sanscrit to the super-hun-- cheap cross between caligula and cassius, to whom speech, prayer, and warfare are all one-- equally gaseous! playing a game's beyond him and his hordes; theirs but to play the snake or wolf or vulture: better one sporting lesson learnt at lord's than all their kultur.... sinks a torpedoed phoebus from our sight; over the field of play see darkness stealing; only in this one game, against the light there's no appealing. now for their flares... and now at last the stars... only the stars now, in their heavenly million, glisten and blink for pity on our scars from the pavilion. last post ( ) last summer, centuries ago, i watched the postman's lantern glow, as night by night on leaden feet he twinkled down our darkened street. so welcome on his beaten track, the bent man with the bulging sack! but dread of every sleepless couch, a whistling imp with leathern pouch! and now i meet him in the way, and earth is heaven, night is day, for oh! there shines before his lamp an envelope without a stamp! address in pencil; overhead, the censor's triangle in red. indoors and up the stair i bound: one from the boy, still safe, still sound! "still merry in a dubious trench they've taken over from the french; still making light of duty done; still full of tommy, fritz, and fun! still finding war of games the cream, and his platoon a priceless team-- still running it by sportsman's rule, just as he ran his house at school. "still wild about the 'bombing stunt' he makes his hobby at the front. still trustful of his wondrous luck-- prepared to take on old man kluck!'" awed only in the peaceful spells, and only scornful of their shells, his beaming eye yet found delight in ruins lit by flares at night, in clover field and hedgerow green, apart from cover or a screen, in nature spurting spick-and-span for all the devilries of man. he said those weeks of blood and tears were worth his score of radiant years. he said he had not lived before-- our boy who never dreamt of war! he gave us of his own dear glow, last summer, centuries ago. bronzed leaves still cling to every bough. i don't waylay the postman now. doubtless upon his nightly beat he still comes twinkling down our street. i am not there with straining eye-- a whistling imp could tell you why. the old boys ( ) "who is the one with the empty sleeve?" "some sport who was in the swim." "and the one with the ribbon who's home on leave?" "good lord! i remember _him!_ a hulking fool, low down in the school, and no good at games was he-- all fingers and thumbs--and very few chums. (i wish he'd shake hands with me!)" "who is the one with the heavy stick, who seems to walk from the shoulder?" "why, many's the goal you have watched him kick!" "he's looking a lifetime older. who is the one that's so full of fun-- i never beheld a blither-- yet his eyes are fixt as the furrow betwixt?" "he cannot see out of either," "who are the ones that we cannot see, though we feel them as near as near? in chapel one felt them bend the knee, at the match one felt them cheer. in the deep still shade of the colonnade, in the ringing quad's full light, they are laughing here, they are chaffing there, yet never in sound or sight." "oh, those are the ones who never shall leave, as they once were afraid they would! they marched away from the school at eve, but at dawn came back for good, with deathless blooms from uncoffin'd tombs to lay at our founder's shrine. as many are they as ourselves to-day, and their place is yours and mine." "but who are the ones they can help or harm?" "each small boy, never so new, has an elder brother to take his arm, and show him the thing to do-- and the thing to resist with a doubled fist, if he'd be nor knave nor fool-- and the game to play if he'd tread the way of the school behind the school." rudddy young ginger ( ) ruddy young ginger was somewhere in camp, war broke it up in a day, packing cadets of the steadier stamp home with the smallest delay. ginger braves town in his o.t.c. rags-- beards a staff marquis--the limb! saying, "your son, sir, is one of my fags," gets a commission through him. then to his tailor's for khaki _complet_; then to pall mall for a sword; lastly, a wire to his people to say, "left school--joined the line--are you bored?" and it _was_ a bit cool (a term's fees in the pool by a rule of the school). there were those who said "fool!" of young ginger. ruddy young ginger! who gave him that name? tommies who had his own nerve! "into 'im, ginger!" was heard in a game with a neighbouring special reserve. blushing and grinning and looking fifteen, ginger, with howitzer punt, bags his man's wind as succinctly and clean as he hopes to bag huns at the front. death on recruits who fall out by the way, sentries who yawn at their post, yet he sang such a song at the y.m.c.a. that the c.o. turned green as a ghost! less the song than the stance, and the dissolute dance, drew a glance so askance that... they packed him to france, little ginger. next month, to the haunts of fine ladies and lords i ventured, in grosvenor square: the stateliest chambers were hospital wards-- and ruddy young ginger was there. in spite of his hurts he looked never so red, nor ever less shy or sedate, though his hair had been cropped (by machine- gun, he said) and bandages turbaned his pate. he was mostly in holes--but his cheek was intact! i could not but notice, with joy, the loveliest sisters had most to transact with ruddy young ginger--some boy! slaying huns by the tons, with a smile like a nun's-- oh! of all the brave ones, all the sons of our guns-- give me ginger! the ballad of ensign joy this is is the story of ensign joy and the obsolete rank withal that i love for each gentle english boy who jumped to his country's call. by their fire and fun, and the deeds they've done, i would gazette them second to none who faces a gun in gaul!) it is also the story of ermyntrude a less appropriate name for the dearest prig and the prettiest prude! but under it, all the same, the usual consanguineous squad had made her an honest child of god-- and left her to play the game. it was just when the grind of the special reserves, employed upon coast defence, was getting on every ensign's nerves-- sick-keen to be drafted hence-- that they met and played tennis and danced and sang, the lad with the laugh and the schoolboy slang, the girl with the eyes intense. yet it wasn't for him that she languished and sighed, but for all of our dear deemed youth; and it wasn't for her, but her sex, that he cried, if he could but have probed the truth ! did she? she would none of his hot young heart; as khaki escort he's tall and smart, as lover a shade uncouth. he went with his draft. she returned to her craft. he wrote in his merry vein: she read him aloud, and the studio laughed! ermyntrude bore the strain. he was full of gay bloodshed and old man fritz: his flippancy sent her friends into fits. ermyntrude frowned with pain. his tales of the sergeant who swore so hard left ermyntrude cold and prim; the tactless truth of the picture jarred, and some of his jokes were grim. yet, let him but skate upon tender ice, and he had to write to her twice or thrice before she would answer him. yet once she sent him a fairy's box, and her pocket felt the brunt of tinned contraptions and books and socks-- which he hailed as "a sporting stunt!" she slaved at his muffler none the less, and still took pleasure in mur- muring, "yes! for a friend of mine at the front.") one fine morning his name appears-- looking so pretty in print! "wounded!" she warbles in tragedy tears-- and pictures the reddening lint, the drawn damp face and the draggled hair . . . but she found him blooming in grosvenor square, with a punctured shin in a splint. it wasn't a haunt of ermyn- trude's, that grandiose urban pile; like starlight in arctic altitudes was the stately sister's smile. it was just the reverse with ensign joy-- in his golden greeting no least alloy-- in his shining eyes no guile! he showed her the bullet that did the trick-- he showed her the trick, x-ray'd; he showed her a table timed to a tick, and a map that an airman made. he spoke of a shell that caused grievous loss-- but he never mentioned a certain cross for his part in the escapade! she saw it herself in a list next day, and it brought her back to his bed, with a number of beautiful things to say, which were mostly over his head. turned pink as his own pyjamas' stripe, to her mind he ceased to em- body a type-- sank into her heart instead. i wonder that all of you didn't retire!" "my blighters were not that kind." "but it says _you_ 'advanced un- der murderous fire, machine-gun and shell com- bined--'" "oh, that's the regular war office wheeze!" "'advanced'--with that leg!-- 'on his hands and knees'!" "i couldn't leave it behind." he was soon trick-driving an invalid chair, and dancing about on a crutch; the _haute noblesse_ of grosvenor square felt bound to oblige as such; they sent him for many a motor- whirl-- with the wistful, willowy wisp of a girl who never again lost touch. their people were most of them dead and gone. they had only themselves to his pay was enough to marry upon, as every ensign sees. they would muddle along (as in fact they did) with vast supplies of the _tertium quid_ you bracket with bread-and- cheese. please. they gave him some leave after grosvenor square-- and bang went a month on banns; for ermyntrude had a natural _flair_ for the least unusual plans. her heaviest uncle came down well, and entertained, at a fair hotel, the dregs of the coupled clans. a certain number of cheques accrued to keep the wolf from the door: the economical ermyntrude had charge of the dwindling store, when a board reported her bridegroom fit as--some expression she didn't permit . . . and he left for the front once more. his crowd had been climbing the jaws of hell: he found them in death's dog- teeth, with little to show but a good deal to tell in their fissure of smoking heath. there were changes--of course --but the change in him was the ribbon that showed on his tunic trim and the tumult hidden be- neath! for all he had suffered and seen before seemed nought to a husband's care; and the chinese puzzle of mod- ern war for subtlety couldn't compare with the delicate springs of the complex life to be led with a highly sensitised wife in a slightly rarefied air! yet it's good to be back with the old platoon-- "a man in a world of men"! each cheery dog is a henchman boon-- especially sergeant wren! ermyntrude couldn't endure his name-- considered bad language no lien on fame, yet it's good to--hear it again! better to feel the ser- geant's grip, though your fingers ache to the bone! better to take the sergeant's tip than to make up your mind alone. they can do things together, can wren and joy-- the bristly bear and the beard- less boy-- that neither could do on his own. but there's never a word about old man wren in the screeds he scribbles to-day-- though he praises his n.c.o.'s and men in rather a pointed way. and he rubs it in (with a knitted brow) that the war's as good as a pic- nic now, and better than any play! his booby-hutch is "as safe as the throne," and he fares "like the c.-in- chief," but has purchased "a top-hole gramophone by way of comic relief." (and he sighs as he hears the men applaud, while the woodbine spices are wafted abroad with the odour of bully-beef.) he may touch on the latest type of bomb, but ermyntrude needn't blench, for he never says where you hurl it from, and it might be from your trench. he never might lead a stealthy band, or toe the horrors of no man's land, or swim at the sickly stench. . . . her letters came up by ration-cart as the men stood-to before dawn: he followed the chart of her soaring heart with face transfigured yet drawn: it filled him with pride, touched with chivalrous shame. but--it spoilt the war, as a first- class game, for this particular pawn. the sergeant sees it, and damns the cause in a truly terrible flow; but turns and trounces, without a pause, a junior n. c. o. for the crime of agreeing that ensign joy isn't altogether the officer boy that he was four months ago! at length he's dumfounded (the month being may) by a sample of ermyntrude's fun! "you will kindly get leave _over christmas day_, or make haste and finish the but christmas means presents, she bids him beware: "so what do you say to a son and heir? i'm thinking of giving you hun!" what, indeed, does the ensign say? what does he sit and write? what do his heart-strings drone all day? what do they throb all night? what does he add to his piteous prayers?-- "not for my own sake, lord, but --_theirs_, see me safe through ..." they talk--and he writhes --"of our spirit out here, our valour and all the rest! there's my poor, lonely, delicate dear, as brave as the very best! we stand or fall in a cheery crowd, and yet how often we grouse aloud! she faces _that_ with a jest!" he has had no sleep for a day and a night; he has written her half a ream; he has iain him down to wait for the light, and at last come sleep--and a dream. he's hopping on sticks up the studio stair: a telegraph-boy is waiting there, and--that is his darling's scream! he picks her up in a tender storm-- but how does it come to pass that he cannot see his reflected form with hers in the studio glass? "what's wrong with that mir- ror?"' he cries. but only the sergeant's voice replies: "wake up, sir! the gas-- the gas!" is it a part of the dream of dread? what are the men about? each one sticking a haunted head into a spectral clout! funny, the dearth of gibe and joke, when each one looks like a pig in a poke, not omitting the snout! there's your mask, sir! no time to lose!" ugh, what a gallows shape! partly white cap, and partly noose! somebody ties the tape. goggles of sorts, it seems, inset: cock them over the parapet, study the battlescape. ensign joy's in the second line-- and more than a bit cut off; a furlong or so down a green incline the fire-trench curls in the trough. joy cannot see it--it's in the bed of a river of poison that brims instead. he can only hear--a cough! nothing to do for the companies there-- nothing but waiting now, while the gas rolls up on the balmy air, and a small bird cheeps on a bough. all of a sudden the sky seems full of trusses of lighted cotton-wool and the enemy's big bow- wow! the firmament cracks with his airy mines, and an interlacing hail threshes the clover between our lines, as a vile invisible flail. and the trench has become a mighty vice that holds us, in skins of molten ice, for the vapors that fringe the veil. it's coming--in billowy swirls --as smoke from the roof a world on fire. it--comes! and a lad with a heart of oak knows only that heart's de- sire! his masked lips whimper but one dear name-- and so is he lost to inward shame that he thrills at the word: "_re-tire!_" whose is the order, thrice renewed? ensign joy cannot tell : only, that way lies ermyntrude, and the other way this hell! three men leap from the pois- oned fosse, three men plunge from the para- dos, and--their--officer--as well! now, as he flies at their fly- ing heels, he awakes to his deep dis- grace, but the yawning pit of his shame reveals a way of saving his face: he twirls his stick to a shep- herd's crook, to trip and bring one of them back to book, as though he'd been giving chase! he got back gasping-- "they'd too much start!" "i'd've shot 'em instead!" said wren. "that was your job, sir, if you'd the 'eart-- but it wouldn't 've been you, then. i pray my lord i may live to see a firing-party in front o' them three!" (that's what he said to the men.) now, joy and wren, of company b, are a favourite firm of mine; and the way they reinforced a, c, and d was, perhaps, not unduly fine; but it meant a good deal both to wren and joy-- that grim, gaunt man, but that desperate boy!-- and it didn't weaken the line. not a bad effort of yours, my lad," the major deigned to declare. "my sergeant's plan, sir"-- "and that's not bad-- but you've lost that ribbon you wear?" "it--must have been eaten away by the gas!" "well--ribbons are ribbons-- but don't be an ass! it's better to do than dare." dare! he has dared to de- sert his post-- but he daren't acknowledge his sin! he has dared to face wren with a lying boast-- but wren is not taken in. none sings his praises so long and loud-- with look so loving and loyal and proud! but the boy sees under his skin. daily and gaily he wrote to his wife, who had dropped the beati- fied droll and was writing to him on the meaning of life and the bonds between body and soul. her courage was high--though she mentioned its height; she was putting upon her the armour of light-- including her aureole! but never a helm had the lad we know, as he went on his nightly raids with a brace of his blighters, an n. g o. and a bagful of hand-grenades and the way he rattled and harried the hun-- the deeds he did dare, and the risks he would run-- were the gossip of the bri- gades. how he'd stand stockstill as the trunk of a tree, with his face tucked down out of sight, when a flare went up and the other three fell prone in the frightening light. how the german sandbags, that made them quake, were the only cover he cared to take, but he'd eavesdrop there all night. machine-guns, tapping a phrase in morse, grew hot on a random quest, and swarms of bullets buzzed down the course like wasps from a trampled nest. yet, that last night! they had just set off when he pitched on his face with a smothered cough, and a row of holes in his chest. he left a letter. it saved the lives of the three who ran from the gas; a small enclosure alone survives, in middlesex, under glass: only the ribbon that left his breast on the day he turned and ran with the rest, and lied with a lip of brass! but the letters they wrote about the boy, from the brigadier to the men! they would never forget dear mr. joy, not look on his like again. ermyntrude read them with dry, proud eye. there was only one letter that made her cry. it was from sergeant wren: there never was such a fear- less man, or one so beloved as he. he was always up to some daring plan, or some treat for his men and me. there wasn't his match when he went away; but since he got back, there has not been a day but what he has earned a v. c a cynical story? that's not my view. the years since he fell are twain. what were his chances of coming through? which of his friends remain? but ermyntrude's training a splendid boy twenty years younger than en- sign joy. on balance, a british gain! and ermyntrude, did she lose her all or find it, two years ago? o young girl-wives of the boys who fall, with your youth and your babes to show! no heart but bleeds for your widowhood. yet life is with you, and life is good. no bone of _your_ bone lies low! your blessedness came--as it went--in a day. deep dread but heightened your mirth. your idols' feet never turned to clay-- never lit upon common earth. love is the game but is _not_ the goal: you played it together, body and soul, and you had your candle's worth. yes! though the candle light a shrine, and heart cannot count the cost, you are winners yet in its tender shine! would _they_ choose to have lived and lost? there are chills, you see, for the finest hearts; but, once it is only old death that parts, there can never come twinge of frost. and this be our comfort for every boy cut down in his high heyday, or ever the sweets of the morn- ing cloy, or the green leaf wither away; so a sunlit billow curls to a crest, and shouts as it breaks at its loveliest, in a glory of rainbow spray! be it also the making of ermyntrude, and many a hundred more-- compact of foibles and forti- tude-- woo'd, won, and widow'd, in war. god, keep us gallant and unde- filed, worthy of husband, lover, or --child... sweet as themselves at the core! bond and free (the bapaume road, _march_ ) misty and pale the sunlight, brittle and black the trees; roads powdered like sticks of candy for a car to crunch as they freeze... then we overtook a battalion... and it wasn't a roadway then, but cymbals and drums and dulcimers to the beat of the marching men! they were laden and groomed for the trenches, they were shaven and scrubbed and fed; like the scales of a single saurian their helmets rippled ahead; not a sorrowful face beneath them, just the tail of a scornful eye for the car full of favoured mufti that went quacking and quaking by. you gloat and take note in your motoring coat, and the sights come fast and thick: a party of pampered prisoners, toying with shovel and pick; a town where some of the houses are so many heaps of stone, and some of them steel anatomies picked clean to the buckled bone. a road like a pier in a hurricane of mountainous seas of mud, where a few trees, whittled to walking-sticks, rose out of the frozen flood like the masts of the sunken villages that might have been down below-- or blown off the festering face of an earth that god himself wouldn't know! not a yard but was part of a shell-hole--not an inch, to be more precise-- and most of the holes held water, and all the water was ice: they stared at the bleak blue heavens like the glazed blue eyes of the slain, till the snow came, shutting them gently, and sheeting the slaughtered plain. here a pile of derelict rifles, there a couple of horses lay-- like rockerless rocking-horses, as wooden of leg as they, and not much redder of nostril--not anything like so grim as the slinking ghoul of a lean live cat creeping over the crater's rim! and behind and beyond and about us were the long black dogs of war, with pigmies pulling their tails for them, and making the monsters roar as they slithered back on their haunches, as they put out their flaming tongues, and spat a murderous message long leagues from their iron lungs! they were kennelled in every corner, and some were in gay disguise, but all kept twitching their muzzles and baying the silvery skies! a howitzer like a hyena guffawed point-blank at the car-- but only the sixty - pounder leaves an absolute aural scar! (could a giant but crack a cable as a stockman cracks his whip, or tear up a mile of calico with one unthinkable r-r-r-r-rip! could he only squeak a slate-pencil about the size of this gun, you might get some faint idea of its sound, which is those three sounds in one.) but certain noises were absent, we looked for some sights in vain, and i cannot tell you if shrapnel does really descend like rain-- or big stuff burst like a bonfire, or bullets whistle or moan; but the other figures i'll swear to--if some of 'em _are_ my own! livid and moist the twilight, heavy with snow the trees, and a road as of pleated velvet the colour of new cream-cheese... then we overtook a battalion... and i'm hunting still for the word for that gaunt, undaunted, haunted, whitening, frightening herd! they had done their tour of the trenches, they were coated and caked with mud, and some of them wore a bandage, and some of them wore their blood! the gaps in their ranks were many, and none of them looked at me... and i thought of no more vain phrases for the things i was there to see, but i felt like a man in a prison van where the rest of the world goes free. shell-shock in arras all night they crooned high overhead as the skies are over men: i lay and smiled in my cellar bed, and went to sleep again. all day they whistled like a lash that cracked in the trembling town: i stood and listened for the crash of houses thundering down. in, in they came, three nights and days, all night and all day long; it made us learned in their ways and experts on their song. like a noisy clock, or a steamer's screw, their beat debauched the ear, and left it dead to a deafening few that burst who cared how near? we only laughed when the flimsy floor heaved on the shuddering sod: but when some idiot slammed a door-- my god! the big thing ( ) it was a british linesman. his face was like a fist, his sleeve all stripes and chevrons from the elbow to the wrist. said he to an american (with other words of his): "it's a big thing you are doing--do you know how big it is?" "i guess, sir," that american inevitably drawled, "big bill's our proposition an' we're goin' for him bald. you guys may have him rattled, but i figure it's for us to slaughter, quarter, grill or bile, an' masticate the cuss." "i hope your teeth," the linesman said, "are equal to your tongue-- but that's the sort of carrion that's better when it's hung. yet--the big thing you're doing i should like to make you see!" "our stunt," said that young yankee, "is to set the whole world free!" the linesman used a venial verb (and other parts of speech): "that's just the way the papers talk and politicians preach! but apart from gastronomical designs upon the hun-- and the rather taller order--there's a big thing that you've _done_." "why, say! the biggest thing on earth, to any cute onlooker, is old man bull and uncle sam aboard the same blamed hooker! one crew, one port, one speed ahead, steel-true twin-hearts within her: one ding-dong english-singin' race--a race without a winner!" the boy's a boyish mixture--half high-brow and half droll: so brave and naïve and cock-a-hoop--so sure yet pure of soul! behold him bright and beaming as the bride- groom after church-- the linesman looking wistful as a rival in the lurch! "i'd love to be as young as you--" he doesn't even swear-- "love to be joining up anew and spoiling for my share! but when your blood runs cold and old, and brain and bowels squirm, the only thing to ease you is some fresh blood in the firm. "when the war was young, and _we_ were young, we felt the same as you: a few short months of glory--and we didn't care how few! french, british and dominions, it took us all the same-- who knows but what the hun himself enjoyed his dirty game! "we tumbled out of tradesmen's carts, we fell off office stools; fathers forsook their families, boys ran away from schools; mothers untied their apron-strings, lovers un- loosed their arms-- all europe was a wedding and the bells were war's alarms! "the chime had changed--you took a pull--the old wild peal rings on with the clamour and the glamour of a genera- tion gone. their fun--their fire--their hearts' desire--are born again in you!" "_that_ the big thing we're doin'?" "it's as big as man can do!" forerunners * ( ) when i lie dying in my bed, a grief to wife, and child, and friend,-- how i shall grudge you gallant dead your sudden, swift, heroic end! dear hands will minister to me, dear eyes deplore each shallower breath: you had your battle-cries, you three, to cheer and charm you to your death. you did not wane from worse to worst, under coarse drug or futile knife, but in one grand mad moment burst from glorious life to glorious life.... these twenty years ago and more, 'mid purple heather and brown crag, our whole school numbered scarce a score, and three have fallen for the flag. * h. p. p.--f. m. j. w. a. c. st. ninian's, moffat, - ; south africa, - . you two have finished on one side, you who were friend and foe at play; together you have done and died; but that was where you learnt the way. and the third face! i see it now, so delicate and pale and brave. the clear grey eye, the unruffled brow, were ripening for a soldier's grave. ah! gallant three, too young to die! the pity of it all endures. yet, in my own poor passing, i shall lie and long for such as yours. uppingham song ( ) ages ago (as to-day they are reckoned) i was a lone little, blown little fag: panting to heel when authority beckoned, spoiling to write for the _uppingham mag.!_ thirty years on seemed a terrible time then-- thirty years back seems a twelvemonth or so. little i saw myself spinning this rhyme then-- less do i feel that it's ages ago! ages ago that was somebody's study; somebody else had the study next door. o their long walks in the fields dry or muddy! o their long talks in the evenings of yore! still, when they meet, the old evergreen fellows jaw in the jolly old jargon as though both were as slender and sound in the bellows as they were ages and ages ago! o but the ghosts at each turn i could show you!-- ghosts in low collars and little cloth caps-- each of 'em now quite an elderly o.u.-- wiser, no doubt, and as pleasant--perhaps! that's where poor jack lit the slide up with tollies, once when the quad was a foot deep in snow-- when a live bishop was one of the pollies * -- ages and ages and ages ago! things that were decent and things that were rotten, how i remember them year after year! some--it may be--that were better forgotten: some that--it may be--should still draw a tear... more, many more, that are good to remember: yarns that grow richer, the older they grow: deeds that would make a man's ultimate ember glow with the fervour of ages ago! did we play footer in funny long flannels? had we no corps to give zest to our drill? never a gym lined throughout with pine panels? half of your best buildings were quarry-stone still? * præpostors. ah! but it's not for their looks that you love them, not for the craft of the builder below, but for the spirit behind and above them-- but for the spirit of ages ago! eton may rest on her field and her river. harrow has songs that she knows how to sing. winchester slang makes the sensitive shiver. rugby had arnold, but never had thring! repton can put up as good an eleven. marlborough men are the fear of the foe. all that i wish to remark is--thank heaven i was at uppingham ages ago! wooden crosses ( ) "go live the wide world over--but when you come to die, . a quiet english churchyard is the only place to lie! i held it half a lifetime, until through war's mischance i saw the wooden crosses that fret the fields of france. a thrush sings in an oak-tree, and from the old square tower a chime as sweet and mellow salutes the idle hour: stone crosses take no notice--but the little wooden ones are thrilling every minute to the music of the guns! upstanding at attention they face the cannonade, in apple-pie alinement like guardsmen on parade: but tombstones are civilians who loll or sprawl or sway at every crazy angle and stage of slow decay. for them the broken column--in its plot of unkempt grass; the tawdry tinsel garland safeguarded under glass; and the squire's emblazoned virtues, that would overweight a saint, on the vault empaled in iron--scaling red for want of paint! the men who die for england don't need it rubbing in; an automatic stamper and a narrow strip of tin record their date and regiment, their number and their name-- and the squire who dies for england is treated just the same. so stand the still battalions: alert, austere, serene; each with his just allowance of brown earth shot with green; none better than his neighbour in pomp or circumstance-- all beads upon the rosary that turned the fate of france! who says their war is over? while others carry on, the little wooden crosses spell but the dead and gone? not while they deck a sky-line, not while they crown a view, or a living soldier sees them and sets his teeth anew! the tenants of the churchyard where the singing thrushes build were not, perhaps, all paragons of promise well fulfilled: some failed--through love, or liquor--while the parish looked askance. but--you cannot _die_ a failure if you win a cross in france! the brightest gems of valour in the army's diadem are the v.c. and the d.s.o., m.c. and d.c.m. but those who live to wear them will tell you they are dross beside the final honour of a simple wooden cross. provided by the internet archive the ballad of ensign joy by e.w. hornung e. p. dutton & company the ballad of ensign joy [ill ] [ill ] [ill ] is is the story of ````ensign joy ````and the obsolete `````rank withal ````that i love for each gentle english `````boy ````who jumped to his country's `````call. ````by their fire and fun, and the `````deeds they've done, ````i would gazette them second to `````none ````who faces a gun in gaul!) |it is also the story of ermyntrude ````a less appropriate name ````for the dearest prig and the `````prettiest prude! ````but under it, all the same, ````the usual consanguineous squad ````had made her an honest child `````of god-- ````and left her to play the game. |it was just when the grind of `````the special reserves, ````employed upon coast defence, ````was getting on every ensign's `````nerves-- ````sick-keen to be drafted `````hence-- ````that they met and played tennis `````and danced and sang, ````the lad with the laugh and the `````schoolboy slang, ````the girl with the eyes intense. |yet it wasn't for him that she `````languished and sighed, ````but for all of our dear deemed `````youth; ````and it wasn't for her, but her `````sex, that he cried, ````if he could but have probed `````the truth ! ````did she? she would none of his `````hot young heart; ````as khaki escort he's tall and `````smart, ````as lover a shade uncouth. |he went with his draft. she `````returned to her craft. ````he wrote in his merry vein: ````she read him aloud, and the ````studio laughed! ````ermyntrude bore the strain. ````he was full of gay bloodshed and ````old man fritz: ````his flippancy sent her friends `````into fits. ````ermyntrude frowned with `````pain. |his tales of the sergeant who `````swore so hard ````left ermyntrude cold and `````prim; ````the tactless truth of the picture `````jarred, ````and some of his jokes were `````grim. ````yet, let him but skate upon `````tender ice, ````and he had to write to her twice `````or thrice ````before she would answer him. |yet once she sent him a `````fairy's box, ````and her pocket felt the brunt ````of tinned contraptions and `````books and socks-- ````which he hailed as "a sporting `````stunt!" ````she slaved at his muffler none `````the less, ````and still took pleasure in mur- `````muring, "yes! ````for a friend of mine at the ````front.") |one fine morning his name `````appears-- ````looking so pretty in print! ````"wounded!" she warbles in `````tragedy tears-- ````and pictures the reddening `````lint, ````the drawn damp face and the `````draggled hair . . . ````but she found him blooming in ````grosvenor square, ````with a punctured shin in a `````splint. |it wasn't a haunt of ermyn- `````trude's, ````that grandiose urban pile; ````like starlight in arctic altitudes ````was the stately sister's smile. ````it was just the reverse with ````ensign joy-- ````in his golden greeting no least `````alloy-- ````in his shining eyes no guile! |he showed her the bullet that `````did the trick-- ````he showed her the trick, `````x-ray'd; ````he showed her a table timed to `````a tick, ````and a map that an airman `````made. ````he spoke of a shell that caused grievous loss-- ````but he never mentioned a certain `````cross ````for his part in the escapade! |she saw it herself in a list next `````day, ````and it brought her back to his `````bed, ````with a number of beautiful `````things to say, ````which were mostly over his `````head. ````turned pink as his own pyjamas' `````stripe, ````to her mind he ceased to em- `````body a type-- ````sank into her heart instead. |i wonder that all of you `````didn't retire!" ````"my blighters were not that `````kind." ````"but it says _you_ 'advanced un- `````der murderous fire, ````machine-gun and shell com- `````bined--'" ````"oh, that's the regular war ````office wheeze!" ````"'advanced'--with that leg!-- `````'on his hands and knees'!" ````"i couldn't leave it behind." |he was soon trick-driving an `````invalid chair, `````and dancing about on a crutch; ````the _haute noblesse_ of grosvenor ````square ````felt bound to oblige as such; ````they sent him for many a motor- `````whirl-- ````with the wistful, willowy wisp of `````a girl ````who never again lost touch. |their people were most of `````them dead and gone. ````they had only themselves to ````his pay was enough to marry `````upon, ````as every ensign sees. ````they would muddle along (as `````in fact they did) ````with vast supplies of the _tertium `````quid_ ````you bracket with bread-and- `````cheese. `````please. |they gave him some leave `````after grosvenor square-- ````and bang went a month on `````banns; ````for ermyntrude had a natural `````_flair_ ````for the least unusual plans. ````her heaviest uncle came down `````well, ````and entertained, at a fair hotel, ````the dregs of the coupled clans. |a certain number of `````cheques accrued ````to keep the wolf from the `````door: ````the economical ermyntrude ````had charge of the dwindling `````store, ````when a board reported her `````bridegroom fit ````as--some expression she didn't `````permit . . . ````and he left for the front once `````more. |his crowd had been climbing `````the jaws of hell: ````he found them in death's dog- `````teeth, ````with little to show but a good `````deal to tell ````in their fissure of smoking `````heath. ````there were changes--of course `````--but the change in him ````was the ribbon that showed on `````his tunic trim ````and the tumult hidden be- `````neath! |for all he had suffered and `````seen before ````seemed nought to a husband's `````care; ````and the chinese puzzle of mod- `````ern war ````for subtlety couldn't compare ````with the delicate springs of the `````complex life ````to be led with a highly sensitised `````wife ````in a slightly rarefied air! |yet it's good to be back with `````the old platoon-- ````"a man in a world of men"! ````each cheery dog is a henchman `````boon-- ````especially sergeant wren! ````ermyntrude couldn't endure his `````name-- ````considered bad language no lien `````on fame, ````yet it's good to--hear it `````again! |better to feel the ser- `````geant's grip, ````though your fingers ache to `````the bone! ````better to take the sergeant's tip ````than to make up your mind `````alone. ````they can do things together, can ````wren and joy-- ````the bristly bear and the beard- `````less boy-- ````that neither could do on his `````own. |but there's never a word `````about old man wren ````in the screeds he scribbles `````to-day-- ````though he praises his n.c.o.'s `````and men ````in rather a pointed way. ````and he rubs it in (with a knitted `````brow) ````that the war's as good as a pic- `````nic now, ````and better than any play! |his booby-hutch is "as safe `````as the throne," ````and he fares "like the c.-in- ````chief," ````but has purchased "a top-hole `````gramophone ````by way of comic relief." ````(and he sighs as he hears the `````men applaud, ````while the woodbine spices are `````wafted abroad ````with the odour of bully-beef.) |he may touch on the latest `````type of bomb, ````but ermyntrude needn't `````blench, ````for he never says where you hurl `````it from, ````and it might be from your `````trench. ````he never might lead a stealthy `````band, ````or toe the horrors of no man's ````land, ````or swim at the sickly stench. . . . |her letters came up by `````ration-cart ````as the men stood-to before `````dawn: ````he followed the chart of her `````soaring heart ````with face transfigured yet `````drawn: ````it filled him with pride, touched `````with chivalrous shame. ````but--it spoilt the war, as a first- `````class game, ````for this particular pawn. |the sergeant sees it, and `````damns the cause ````in a truly terrible flow; ````but turns and trounces, without `````a pause, ````a junior n. c. o. ````for the crime of agreeing that ````ensign joy ````isn't altogether the officer boy ````that he was four months ago! |at length he's dumfounded `````(the month being may) ````by a sample of ermyntrude's `````fun! ````"you will kindly get leave _over ````christmas day_, ````or make haste and finish the ````but christmas means presents, `````she bids him beware: ````"so what do you say to a son and `````heir? ````i'm thinking of giving you ````hun!" |what, indeed, does the ````ensign say? ````what does he sit and write? ````what do his heart-strings drone all day? ````what do they throb all night? ````what does he add to his piteous `````prayers?-- ````"not for my own sake, lord, but `````--_theirs_, ````see me safe through ..." |they talk--and he writhes `````--"of our spirit out here, ````our valour and all the rest! ````there's my poor, lonely, delicate `````dear, ````as brave as the very best! ````we stand or fall in a cheery `````crowd, ````and yet how often we grouse `````aloud! ````she faces _that_ with a jest!" |he has had no sleep for a day `````and a night; ````he has written her half a `````ream; ````he has iain him down to wait for `````the light, ````and at last come sleep--and a `````dream. ````he's hopping on sticks up the `````studio stair: ````a telegraph-boy is waiting there, ````and--that is his darling's `````scream! |he picks her up in a tender `````storm-- ````but how does it come to pass ````that he cannot see his reflected `````form ````with hers in the studio glass? ````"what's wrong with that mir- `````ror?"' he cries. ````but only the sergeant's voice `````replies: ````"wake up, sir! the gas-- `````the gas!" |is it a part of the dream of `````dread? ````what are the men about? ````each one sticking a haunted `````head ````into a spectral clout! ````funny, the dearth of gibe and `````joke, ````when each one looks like a pig `````in a poke, ````not omitting the snout! |there's your mask, sir! no `````time to lose!" ````ugh, what a gallows shape! ````partly white cap, and partly `````noose! ````somebody ties the tape. ````goggles of sorts, it seems, inset: ````cock them over the parapet, ````study the battlescape. |ensign joy's in the second `````line-- ````and more than a bit cut off; ````a furlong or so down a green `````incline ````the fire-trench curls in the `````trough. ````joy cannot see it--it's in the bed ````of a river of poison that brims `````instead. ````he can only hear--a cough! |nothing to do for the ````companies there-- ````nothing but waiting now, ````while the gas rolls up on the `````balmy air, ````and a small bird cheeps on a `````bough. ````all of a sudden the sky seems full ````of trusses of lighted cotton-wool ````and the enemy's big bow- `````wow! |the firmament cracks with `````his airy mines, ````and an interlacing hail ````threshes the clover between our `````lines, ````as a vile invisible flail. ````and the trench has become a `````mighty vice ````that holds us, in skins of molten `````ice, ````for the vapors that fringe the `````veil. |it's coming--in billowy swirls `````--as smoke ````from the roof a world on fire. ````it--comes! and a lad with a `````heart of oak ````knows only that heart's de- `````sire! ````his masked lips whimper but one `````dear name-- ````and so is he lost to inward shame ````that he thrills at the word: ````"_re-tire!_" |whose is the order, thrice `````renewed? ````ensign joy cannot tell : ````only, that way lies ermyntrude, ````and the other way this hell! ````three men leap from the pois- `````oned fosse, ````three men plunge from the para- `````dos, ````and--their--officer--as well! |now, as he flies at their fly- `````ing heels, ````he awakes to his deep dis- `````grace, ````but the yawning pit of his shame `````reveals ````a way of saving his face: ````he twirls his stick to a shep- `````herd's crook, ````to trip and bring one of them `````back to book, ````as though he'd been giving `````chase! |he got back gasping-- ````"they'd too much start!" ````"i'd've shot 'em instead!" `````said wren. ````"that was your job, sir, if you'd `````the 'eart-- ````but it wouldn't 've been you, `````then. ````i pray my lord i may live to see ````a firing-party in front o' them `````three!" ````(that's what he said to the `````men.) |now, joy and wren, of `````company b, ````are a favourite firm of mine; ````and the way they reinforced a, ````c, and d ````was, perhaps, not unduly fine; ````but it meant a good deal both to ````wren and joy-- ````that grim, gaunt man, but that `````desperate boy!-- ````and it didn't weaken the line. |not a bad effort of yours, `````my lad," ````the major deigned to declare. ````"my sergeant's plan, sir"-- ````"and that's not bad-- ````but you've lost that ribbon `````you wear?" ````"it--must have been eaten away `````by the gas!" ````"well--ribbons are ribbons-- `````but don't be an ass! ````it's better to do than dare." |dare! he has dared to de- `````sert his post-- ````but he daren't acknowledge `````his sin! ````he has dared to face wren with `````a lying boast-- ````but wren is not taken in. ````none sings his praises so long `````and loud-- ````with look so loving and loyal `````and proud! ````but the boy sees under his `````skin. |daily and gaily he wrote to `````his wife, ````who had dropped the beati- `````fied droll ````and was writing to him on the ````meaning of life ````and the bonds between body `````and soul. ````her courage was high--though `````she mentioned its height; ````she was putting upon her the ````armour of light-- ````including her aureole! |but never a helm had the lad `````we know, ````as he went on his nightly raids ````with a brace of his blighters, an ````n. g o. ````and a bagful of hand-grenades ````and the way he rattled and `````harried the hun-- ````the deeds he did dare, and the `````risks he would run-- ````were the gossip of the bri- `````gades. |how he'd stand stockstill as `````the trunk of a tree, ````with his face tucked down `````out of sight, ````when a flare went up and the `````other three ````fell prone in the frightening `````light. ````how the german sandbags, that `````made them quake, ````were the only cover he cared to `````take, ````but he'd eavesdrop there all `````night. |machine-guns, tapping `````a phrase in morse, ````grew hot on a random quest, ````and swarms of bullets buzzed `````down the course ````like wasps from a trampled `````nest. ````yet, that last night! ````they had just set off ````when he pitched on his face with `````a smothered cough, ````and a row of holes in his chest. |he left a letter. it saved `````the lives ````of the three who ran from the ````gas; ````a small enclosure alone survives, ````in middlesex, under glass: ````only the ribbon that left his `````breast ````on the day he turned and ran `````with the rest, ````and lied with a lip of brass! |but the letters they wrote `````about the boy, ````from the brigadier to the `````men! ````they would never forget dear ````mr. joy, ````not look on his like again. ````ermyntrude read them with dry, `````proud eye. ````there was only one letter that `````made her cry. ````it was from sergeant wren: |there never was such a fear- `````less man, ````or one so beloved as he. ````he was always up to some daring `````plan, ````or some treat for his men and `````me. ````there wasn't his match when he `````went away; ````but since he got back, there has `````not been a day ````but what he has earned a ````v. c |a cynical story? that's `````not my view. ````the years since he fell are `````twain. ````what were his chances of coming `````through? ````which of his friends remain? ````but ermyntrude's training a `````splendid boy ````twenty years younger than en- `````sign joy. ````on balance, a british gain! |and ermyntrude, did she `````lose her all ````or find it, two years ago? ````o young girl-wives of the boys `````who fall, ````with your youth and your `````babes to show! ````no heart but bleeds for your `````widowhood. ````yet life is with you, and life is `````good. ````no bone of _your_ bone lies low! |your blessedness came--as `````it went--in a day. ````deep dread but heightened `````your mirth. ````your idols' feet never turned to `````clay-- ````never lit upon common earth. ````love is the game but is _not_ the ````goal: ````you played it together, body and `````soul, ````and you had your candle's `````worth. |yes! though the candle light `````a shrine, ````and heart cannot count the `````cost, ````you are winners yet in its tender `````shine! ````would _they_ choose to have `````lived and lost? ````there are chills, you see, for the `````finest hearts; ````but, once it is only old death `````that parts, ````there can never come twinge `````of frost. |and this be our comfort for ````every boy ````cut down in his high heyday, ````or ever the sweets of the morn- `````ing cloy, ````or the green leaf wither `````away; ````so a sunlit billow curls to a crest, ````and shouts as it breaks at its `````loveliest, ````in a glory of rainbow spray! |be it also the making of ````ermyntrude, ````and many a hundred more-- ````compact of foibles and forti- `````tude-- ````woo'd, won, and widow'd, in ````war. ````god, keep us gallant and unde- `````filed, ````worthy of husband, lover, or `````--child... ````sweet as themselves at the `````core! the riverside literature series a treasury of war poetry british and american poems of the world war - edited, with introduction and notes, by george herbert clarke professor of english in the university of tennessee contents i. america rudyard kipling: the choice henry van dyke: "liberty enlightening the world" robert bridges: to the united states of america vachel lindsay: abraham lincoln walks at midnight jeanne robert foster: the "william p. frye" ii. england and america florence t. holt: england and america lieutenant charles langbridge morgan: to america helen gray cone: a chant of love for england hardwicke drummond rawnsley: at st. paul's: april , rowland thirlmere: jimmy doane alfred noyes: princeton, may, iii. england sir henry newbolt: the vigil rudyard kipling: "for all we have and are" john galsworthy: england to free men sir owen seaman: _pro patria_ george herbert clarke: lines written in surrey, iv. france cecil chesterton: _france_ henry van dyke: the name of france charlotte holmes crawford: _vive la france!_ theodosia garrison: the soul of jeanne d'arc edgar lee masters: o glorious france herbert jones: to france florence earle coates: place de la concorde canon and major frederick george scott: to france grace ellery channing: _qui vive?_ v. belgium laurence binyon: to the belgians edith wharton: belgium eden phillpotts: to belgium sir owen seaman: to belgium in exile gilbert keith chesterton: the wife of flanders vi. russia and america john galsworthy: russia--america robert underwood johnson: to russia new and free vii. italy clinton scollard: italy in arms george edward woodberry: on the italian front, mcmxvi viii. australia archibald t. strong: australia to england ix. canada marjorie l. c. pickthall: canada to england wilfred campbell: langemarck at ypres will h. ogilvie: canadians x. liÈge stephen phillips: the kaiser and belgium dana burnet: the battle of liège xi. verdun laurence binyon: men of verdun eden phillpotts: verdun patrick r. chalmers: guns of verdun xii. oxford winifred m. letts: the spires of oxford w. snow: oxford in war-time tertius van dyke: oxford revisited in war-time xiii. reflections george edward woodberry: sonnets written in the fall of sir henry newbolt: the war films alfred noyes: the searchlights percy mackaye: christmas: thomas hardy: "men who march away" john drinkwater: we willed it not lieutenant-colonel sir ronald ross: the death of peace florence earle coates: in war-time laurence binyon: the anvil walter de la mare: the fool rings his bells john finley: the road to dieppe w. macneile dixon: to fellow travellers in greece austin dobson: "when there is peace" alfred noyes: a prayer in time of war thomas hardy: then and now barry pain: the kaiser and god robert grant: the superman everard owen: three hills xiv. incidents and aspects john freeman: the return grace fallow norton: the mobilization in brittany sir henry newbolt: the toy band sir owen seaman: thomas of the light heart maurice hewlett: in the trenches sir arthur conan doyle: the guards came through william dean howells: the passengers of a retarded submersible laurence button: edith cavell herbert kaufman: the hell-gate of soissons george herbert clarke: the virgin of albert wilfrid wilson gibson: retreat sir henry newbolt: a letter from the front grace hazard conkling: rheims cathedral-- xv. poets militant alan seeger: i have a rendezvous with death lieutenant rupert brooke: the soldier captain charles hamilton sorley: _expectans expectavi_ lieutenant herbert asquith: the volunteer captain julian grenfell: into battle james norman hall: the cricketers of flanders captain charles hamilton sorley: "all the hills and vales along" captain james h. knight-adkin: no man's land alan seeger: champagne, - captain gilbert frankau: headquarters lieutenant e. wyndham tennant: home thoughts from laventie lieutenant robert ernest vernÈde: a petition robert nichols: fulfilment the day's march lieutenant frederic manning: the sign the trenches lieutenant henry william hutchinson: sonnets captain j. e. stewart: the messines road private a. n. field: the challenge of the guns lieutenant geoffrey howard: the beach road by the wood sergeant joseph lee: german prisoners sergeant leslie coulson: "--but a short time to live" lieutenant w. n. hodgson: before action lieutenant dyneley hussey: courage lieutenant a. victor ratcliffe: optimism major sydney oswald: the battlefield captain james h. knight-adkin: "_on les aura!_" corporal alexander robertson: to an old lady seen at a guest-house for soldiers lieutenant gilbert waterhouse: the casualty clearing station lance-corporal malcolm hemphrey: hills of home xvi. auxiliaries john finley: the red cross spirit speaks winifred m. letts: chaplain to the forces eden phillpotts: song of the red cross laurence binyon: the healers thomas l. marson: the red cross nurses xvii. keeping the seas alfred noyes: kilmeny rudyard kipling: the mine-sweepers henry van dyke: _mare liberum_ lieutenant paul bewsher: the dawn patrol reginald mcintosh cleveland: destroyers off jutland c. fox smith: british merchant service xviii. the wounded winifred m. letts: to a soldier in hospital wilfrid wilson gibson: between the lines robert haven schauffler: the white comrade robert w. service: fleurette robert frost: not to keep xix. the fallen lieutenant rupert brooke: the dead john masefield: the island of skyros laurence binyon: for the fallen captain charles hamilton sorley: two sonnets walter de la mare: "how sleep the brave!" edward verrall lucas: the debt canon and major frederick george scott: _requiescant_ lieutenant robert ernest vernÈde: to our fallen katharine tynan: the old soldier robert bridges: lord kitchener john helston: kitchener lieutenant herbert asquith: the fallen subaltern f. w. bourdillon: the debt unpayable wilfrid wilson gibson: the messages g. rostrevor hamilton: a cross in flanders hermann hagedorn: resurrection oscar c. a. child: to a hero moray dalton: rupert brooke (in memoriam) francis bickley: the players charles alexander richmond: a song xx. women and war josephine preston peabody: harvest moon josephine preston peabody: harvest moon: ada tyrrell: my son katharine tynan: to the others grace fallow norton: the journey margaret peterson: a mother's dedication eden phillpotts: to a mother sara teasdale: spring in war-time occasional notes indexes acknowledgments the editor desires to express his cordial appreciation of the assistance rendered him in his undertaking by the officials of the british museum (mr. f.d. sladen, in particular); professor w. macneile dixon, of the university of glasgow; professor kemp smith, of princeton university; miss esther c. johnson, of needham, massachusetts; and mr. francis bickley, of london. he wishes also to acknowledge the courtesies generously extended by the following authors, periodicals, and publishers in granting permission for the use of the poems indicated, rights in which are in each case reserved by the owner of the copyright:-- mr. francis bickley and the _westminster gazette_:--"the players." mr. f.w. bourdillon and the _spectator_:--"the debt unpayable." dr. robert bridges and the london _times_:--"lord kitchener," and "to the united states of america." mr. dana burnet and the new york _evening sun_:--"the battle of liège." mr. wilfred campbell and the ottawa _evening journal_:--"langemarck at ypres." mr. patrick r. chalmers and _punch_:--"guns of verdun." mr. cecil chesterton and _the new witness_:--"france." mr. oscar c.a. child and _harper's magazine_:--"to a hero." mr. reginald mcintosh cleveland and the _new york times_:--"destroyers off jutland." miss charlotte holmes crawford and _scribner's magazine_:--"_vive la france!_" mr. moray dalton and the _spectator_:--"rupert brooke." lord desborough and the london _times_:--"into battle," by the late captain julian grenfell. professor w. macneile dixon and the london _times_:--"to fellow travellers in greece," mr. austin, dobson and the _spectator_:--"'when there is peace;'" sir arthur conan doyle and the london _times_:--"the guards came through." mr. john finley and the _atlantic monthly_:--"the road to dieppe"; mr. finley, the american red cross, and the _red cross magazine_:--"the red cross spirit speaks." mr. john freeman and the _westminster gazette_:--"the return." mr. robert frost and the _yale review_:--"not to keep." mr. john galsworthy and the _westminster gazette_:--"england to free men"; mr. galsworthy and the london _chronicle_:--"russia--america." mrs. theodosia garrison and _scribner's magazine_:--"the soul of jeanne d'arc." lady glenconner and the london _times_:--"home thoughts from laventie," by the late lieutenant e. wyndham tennant. mr. robert grant and the _nation_ (new york):--"the superman." mr. hermann hagedorn and the _century magazine_:--"resurrection." mr. james norman hall and the _spectator_:--"the cricketers of flanders." mr. thomas hardy and the london _times_:--"men who march away," and "then and now." mr. john helston and the _english review_:--"kitchener." mr. maurice hewlett:--"in the trenches," from _sing-songs of the war_ (the poetry bookshop). dr. a. e. hillard:--"the dawn patrol," by lieutenant paul bewsher. mrs. katharine tynan hinkson:--"to the others" and "the old soldier." mrs. florence t. holt and the _atlantic monthly_:--"england and america." mr. william dean howells and the _north american review_:--"the passengers of a retarded submersible." lady hutchinson:--"sonnets," by the late lieutenant henry william hutchinson. mr. robert underwood johnson:--"to russia new and free," from _poems of war and peace_, published by the author. mr. rudyard kipling:--"the choice"; "'for all we have and are'"; and "the mine-sweepers." (copyright, , , , by rudyard kipling.) captain james h. knight-adkin and the _spectator_;--"no man's land" and "_on les aura!_" sergeant joseph lee and the _spectator_:--"german prisoners." mr. e. v. lucas and the _sphere_:--"the debt." mr. walter de la mare and the london _times_:--"'how sleep the brave!'"; mr. de la mare and the _westminster gazette_:--"the fool rings his bells." mr. edward marsh, literary executor of the late rupert brooke:--"the soldier" and "the dead." mr. thomas l. masson:--"the red cross nurses," from the _red cross magazine_. lieutenant charles langbridge morgan and the _westminster gazette_:--"to america." sir henry newbolt:--"the vigil"; "the war films"; "the toy band," and "a letter from the front." mr. alfred noyes:--"princeton, may, "; "the searchlights" (london _times_), "a prayer in time of war" (london _daily mail_), and "kilmeny." mr. will h. ogilvie:--"canadians." mr. barry pain and the london _times_:--"the kaiser and god." miss marjorie pickthall and the london _times_:--"canada to england." canon h.d. dawnsley and the _westminster gazette_:--"at st. paul's, april , ." dr. charles alexander richmond:--"a song." lieutenant-colonel sir ronald ross and the _poetry review_:--"the death of peace." mr. robert haven schauffler:--"the white comrade." mr. w. snow and the _spectator_:--"oxford in war-time." mrs. grace ellery channing stetson and the new york _tribune_:--"_qui vive_?" mr. rowland thirlmere and the _poetry review_:--"jimmy doane." mrs. ada turrell and the _saturday review_:--"my son." dr. henry van dyke and the london _times_:--"liberty enlightening the world," and "_mare liberum_"; dr. van dyke and the _art world_: "the name of france." mr. tertius van dyke and the _spectator_:--"oxford revisited in war-time." mrs. edith wharton:--"belgium," from _king albert's book_ (hearst's international library company). mr. george edward woodberry and the _boston herald_:--"on the italian front, mcmxvi"; mr. woodberry, the _new york times_ and the _north american review_:--"sonnets written in the fall of ." _the athenaeum_:--"a cross in flanders," by g. rostrevor hamilton. _the poetry review_:--"the messines road," by captain j.e. stewart; "-- but a short time to live," by the late sergeant leslie coulson. _the spectator_:--"the challenge of the guns," by private a.n. field. the london _times_:--"to our fallen" and "a petition," by the late lieutenant robert ernest vernède. the _westminster gazette_:--"lines written in surrey, ," by george herbert clarke. messrs. barse & hopkins:--"fleurette," by robert w. service. the cambridge university press and professor william r. sorley:-- "_expectans expectavi_"; "'all the hills and vales along,'" and "two sonnets," by the late captain charles hamilton sorley, from _marlborough and other poems_. messrs. chatto & windus:--"fulfilment" and "the day's march," by robert nichols. messrs. constable & company:--"pro patria," "thomas of the light heart," and "to belgium in exile," by sir owen seaman, from _war-time_; "to france" and "_requiescant_," by canon and major frederick george scott, from _in the battle silences_. messrs. e. p. dutton & company:--"to a soldier in hospital" (the _spectator_); "chaplain to the forces" and "the spires of oxford" (_westminster gazette_), by winifred m. letts, from _hallowe'en, and poems of the war_; "a chant of love for england," by helen gray cone, from _a chant of love for england, and other poems_ (published also by j.m. dent & sons, limited, london). lawrence j. gomme:--"italy in arms," by clinton scollard, from _italy in arms, and other poems_. messrs. houghton mifflin company:--"to the belgians"; "men of verdun"; "the anvil"; "edith cavell"; "the healers" and "for the fallen," by laurence binyon, from _the cause_ (published also by elkin mathews, london, in _the anvil_ and _the winnowing fan_); "headquarters," by captain gilbert frankau, from _a song of the guns_; "place de la concorde" and "in war-time," by florence earle coates, from _the collected poems of florence earle coates_; "harvest moon" and "harvest moon, ," by josephine preston peabody, from _harvest moon_; "the mobilization in brittany" and "the journey," by grace fallow norton, from _roads_, and "rheims cathedral-- ," by grace hazard conkling, from _afternoons of april_. john lane:--"the kaiser and belgium," by the late stephen phillips. the john lane company:--"the wife of flanders," by gilbert k. chesterton, from _poems_ (published also by messrs. burns and gates, london); "the soldier," and "the dead," by the late lieutenant rupert brooke, from _the collected poems of rupert brooke_ (published also by messrs. sidgwick & jackson, london, in _ l , and other poems_). erskine macdonald:--the following poems from _soldier poets_:--"the beach road by the wood," by lieutenant geoffrey howard; "before action," by the late lieutenant w.n. hodgson ("edward melbourne"); "courage," by lieutenant dyneley hussey; "optimism," by lieutenant a. victor ratcliffe; "the battlefield," by major sidney oswald; "to an old lady seen at a guest-house for soldiers," by corporal alexander robertson; "the casualty clearing station," by lieutenant gilbert waterhouse; and "hills of home," by lance-corporal malcolm hemphrey. the macmillan company:--"to belgium"; "verdun"; "to a mother," and "song of the red cross," by eden phillpotts, from _plain song, - _ (published also by william heinemann, london); "the island of skyros," by john masefield; "abraham lincoln walks at midnight," from _the congo and other poems_, by vachel lindsay; "o glorious france," by edgar lee masters, from _songs and satires_; "christmas, ," from _poems and plays_, by percy mackaye; "the hellgate of soissons," by herbert kaufman, from _the hellgate of soissons_; "spring in war-time," by sara teasdale, from _rivers to the sea_; and "retreat," "the messages," and "between the lines," by wilfrid wilson gibson. messrs. macmillan & company:--"australia to england," by archibald t. strong, from _sonnets of the empire_, and "men who march away," by thomas hardy, from _satires of circumstance_. elkin mathews:--"the british merchant service" (the _spectator_), by c. fox smith, from _the naval crown_. john murray:--"the sign," and "the trenches," by lieutenant frederic manning. the princeton university press:--"to france," by herbert jones, from _a book of princeton verse_. messrs. charles scribner's sons:--"i have a rendezvous with death," and "champagne, - ," by the late alan seeger, from _poems_. messrs. sherman, french & company:--"the _william p. frye_" (_new york times_), by jeanne robert foster, from _wild apples_. messrs. sidgwick & jackson:--"we willed it not" (_the sphere_), by john drinkwater; "three hills" (london _times_), by everard owen, from _three hills, and other poems_; "the volunteer," and "the fallen subaltern," by lieutenant herbert asquith, from _the volunteer, and other poems_. messrs. truslove and hanson:--"a mother's dedication," by margaret peterson, from _the women's message_. introduction because man is both militant and pacific, he has expressed in literature, as indeed in the other forms of art, his pacific and militant moods. nor are these moods, of necessity, incompatible. war may become the price of peace, and peace may so decay as inevitably to bring about war. of the dully unresponsive pacificist and the jingo patriot, quick to anger, the latter no doubt is the more dangerous to the cause of true freedom, yet both are "undesirable citizens." he who believes that peace is illusory and spurious, unless it be based upon justice and liberty, will be proud to battle, if battle he must, for the sake of those foundations. for the most part, the poetry of war, undertaken in this spirit, has touched and exalted such special qualities as patriotism, courage, self- sacrifice, enterprise, and endurance. where it has tended to glorify war in itself, it is chiefly because war has released those qualities, so to speak, in stirring and spectacular ways; and where it has chosen to round upon war and to upbraid it, it is because war has slain ardent and lovable youths and has brought misery and despair to women and old people. but the war poet has left the mere arguments to others. for himself, he has seen and felt. envisaging war from various angles, now romantically, now realistically, now as the celebrating chronicler, now as the contemplative interpreter, but always in a spirit of catholic curiosity, he has sung, the fall of troy, the roman adventures, the mediaeval battles and crusades, the fields of agincourt and waterloo, and the more modern revolutions. since homer, he has spoken with martial eloquence through, the voices of drayton, spenser, marlowe, webster, shakespeare, milton, byron, scott, burns, campbell, tennyson, browning, the new england group, and walt whitman,--to mention only a few of the british and american names,--and he speaks sincerely and powerfully to-day in the writings of kipling. hardy, masefield, binyon, newbolt, watson, rupert brooke, and the two young soldiers--the one english, the other american--who have lately lost their lives while on active service: captain charles hamilton sorley, who was killed at hulluch, october , ; and alan seeger, who fell, mortally wounded, during the charge on belloy-en-santerre, july , . there can be little doubt that these several minds and spirits, stirred by the passion and energy of war, and reacting sensitively both to its cruelties and to its pities, have experienced the kinship of quickened insight and finer unselfishness in the face of wide-ranging death. they have silently compared, perhaps, the normal materialistic conventions in business, politics, education, and religion, with the relief from those conventions that nearly all soldiers and many civilians experience in time of war; for although war has its too gross and ugly side, it has not dared to learn that inflexibility of custom and conduct that deadens the spirit into a tame submission. this strange rebound and exaltation would seem to be due less to the physical realities of war--which must in many ways cramp and constrain the individual--than to the relative spiritual freedom engendered by the needs of war, if they are to be successfully met. the man of war has an altogether unusual opportunity to realize himself, to cleanse and heal himself through the mastering of his physical fears; through the facing of his moral doubts; through the reëxamination of whatever thoughts he may have possessed, theretofore, about life and death and the universe; and through the quietly unselfish devotion he owes to the welfare of his fellows and to the cause of his native land. into the stuff of his thought and utterance, whether he be on active service or not, the poet-interpreter of war weaves these intentions, and coöperates with his fellows in building up a little higher and better, from time to time, that edifice of truth for whose completion can be spared no human experience, no human hope. as already suggested, english and american literatures have both received genuine accessions, even thus early, arising out of the present great conflict, and we may be sure that other equally notable contributions will be made. the present anthology contains a number of representative poems produced by english-speaking men and women. the editorial policy has been humanly hospitable, rather than academically critical, especially in the case of some of the verses written by soldiers at the front, which, however slight in certain instances their technical merit may be, are yet psychologically interesting as sincere transcripts of personal experience, and will, it is thought, for that very reason, peculiarly attract and interest the reader. it goes without saying that there are several poems in this group which conspicuously succeed also as works of art. for the rest, the attempt has been made, within such limitations as have been experienced, to present pretty freely the best of what has been found available in contemporary british and american war verse. it must speak for itself, and the reader will find that in not a few instances it does so with sensitive sympathy and with living power; sometimes, too, with that quietly intimate companionableness which we find in gray's _elegy_, and which john masefield, while lecturing in america in , so often indicated as a prime quality in english poetry. but if this quality appears in chaucer and the pre-romantics and wordsworth, it appears also in longfellow and lowell, in emerson and lanier, and in william vaughn moody; for american poetry is, after all, as english poetry,--"with a difference,"--sprung from the same sources, and coursing along similar channels. the new fellowship of the two great anglo-saxon nations which a book of this character may, to a degree, illustrate, is filled with such high promise for both of them, and for all civilization, that it is perhaps hardly too much to say, with ambassador walter h. page, in his address at the pilgrims' dinner in london, april , : "we shall get out of this association an indissoluble companionship, and we shall henceforth have indissoluble mutual duties for mankind. i doubt if there could be another international event comparable in large value and in long consequences to this closer association." mr. balfour struck the same note when, during his mission to the united states, he expressed himself in these words: "that this great people should throw themselves whole- heartedly into this mighty struggle, prepared for all efforts and sacrifices that may be required to win success for this most righteous cause, is an event at once so happy and so momentous that only the historian of the future will be able, as i believe, to measure its true proportions." the words of these eminent men ratify in the field of international politics the hopeful anticipation which tennyson expressed in his poem, _hands all round_, as it appeared in the london _examiner_, february , :-- "gigantic daughter of the west, we drink to thee across the flood, we know thee most, we love thee best, for art thou not of british blood? should war's mad blast again be blown, permit not thou the tyrant powers to fight thy mother here alone, but let thy broadsides roar with ours. hands all round! god the tyrant's cause confound! to our great kinsmen of the west, my friends, and the great name of england, round and round. "o rise, our strong atlantic sons, when war against our freedom springs! o speak to europe through your guns! they can be understood by kings. you must not mix our queen with those that wish to keep their people fools; our freedom's foemen are her foes, she comprehends the race she rules. hands all round! god the tyrant's cause confound! to our dear kinsmen of the west, my friends, and the great cause of freedom, round and round." they ratify also the spirit of those poems in the present volume which seek to interpret to britons and americans their deepening friendship. "poets," said shelley, "are the unacknowledged legislators of the world," and he meant by legislation the guidance and determination of the verdicts of the human soul. g. h. c. _august, _ the choice the american spirit speaks: to the judge of right and wrong with whom fulfillment lies our purpose and our power belong, our faith and sacrifice. let freedom's land rejoice! our ancient bonds are riven; once more to us the eternal choice of good or ill is given. not at a little cost, hardly by prayer or tears, shall we recover the road we lost in the drugged and doubting years, but after the fires and the wrath, but after searching and pain, his mercy opens us a path to live with ourselves again. in the gates of death rejoice! we see and hold the good-- bear witness, earth, we have made our choice for freedom's brotherhood. then praise the lord most high whose strength hath saved us whole, who bade us choose that the flesh should die and not the living soul! _rudyard kipling_ "liberty enlightening the world" thou warden of the western gate, above manhattan bay, the fogs of doubt that hid thy face are driven clean away: thine eyes at last look far and clear, thou liftest high thy hand to spread the light of liberty world-wide for every land. no more thou dreamest of a peace reserved alone for thee, while friends are fighting for thy cause beyond the guardian sea: the battle that they wage is thine; thou fallest if they fall; the swollen flood of prussian pride will sweep unchecked o'er all. o cruel is the conquer-lust in hohenzollern brains: the paths they plot to gain their goal are dark with shameful stains: no faith they keep, no law revere, no god but naked might;-- they are the foemen of mankind. up, liberty, and smite! britain, and france, and italy, and russia newly born, have waited for thee in the night. oh, come as comes the morn. serene and strong and full of faith, america, arise, with steady hope and mighty help to join thy brave allies. o dearest country of my heart, home of the high desire, make clean thy soul for sacrifice on freedom's altar-fire: for thou must suffer, thou must fight, until the warlords cease, and all the peoples lift their heads in liberty and peace. _henry van dyke_ _april , _ to the united states of america brothers in blood! they who this wrong began to wreck our commonwealth, will rue the day when first they challenged freemen to the fray, and with the briton dared the american. now are we pledged to win the rights of man; labour and justice now shall have their way, and in a league of peace--god grant we may-- transform the earth, not patch up the old plan. sure is our hope since he who led your nation spake for mankind, and ye arose in awe of that high call to work the world's salvation; clearing your minds of all estranging blindness in the vision of beauty and the spirit's law, freedom and honour and sweet lovingkindness. _robert bridges_ _april , _ abraham lincoln walks at midnight (in springfield, illinois) it is portentous, and a thing of state that here at midnight, in our little town, a mourning figure walks, and will not rest, near the old court-house pacing up and down, or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards he lingers where his children used to play; or through the market, on the well-worn stones he stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. a bronzed, lank man! his suit of ancient black, a famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl make him the quaint great figure that men love, the prairie-lawyer, master of us all. he cannot sleep upon his hillside now. he is among us:--as in times before! and we who toss and lie awake for long breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door. his head is bowed. he thinks on men and kings. yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? too many peasants fight, they know not why, too many homesteads in black terror weep. the sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. he sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. he carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now the bitterness, the folly, and the pain. he cannot rest until a spirit-dawn shall come;--the shining hope of europe free: the league of sober folk, the workers' earth bringing long peace to cornland, alp, and sea. it breaks his heart that kings must murder still, that all his hours of travail here for men seem yet in vain. and who will bring white peace that he may sleep upon his hill again? _vachel lindsay_ the "william p. frye" i saw her first abreast the boston light at anchor; she had just come in, turned head, and sent her hawsers creaking, clattering down. i was so near to where the hawse-pipes fed the cable out from her careening bow, i moved up on the swell, shut steam and lay hove to in my old launch to look at her. she'd come in light, a-skimming up the bay like a white ghost with topsails bellying full; and all her noble lines from bow to stern made music in the wind; it seemed she rode the morning air like those thin clouds that turn into tall ships when sunrise lifts the clouds from calm sea-courses. there, in smoke-smudged coats, lay funnelled liners, dirty fishing-craft, blunt cargo-luggers, tugs, and ferry-boats. oh, it was good in that black-scuttled lot to see the _frye_ come lording on her way like some old queen that we had half forgot come to her own. a little up the bay the fort lay green, for it was springtime then; the wind was fresh, rich with the spicy bloom of the new england coast that tardily escapes, late april, from an icy tomb. the state-house glittered on old beacon hill, gold in the sun.... 't was all so fair awhile; but she was fairest--this great square-rigged ship that had blown in from some far happy isle on from the shores of the hesperides. they caught her in a south atlantic road becalmed, and found her hold brimmed up with wheat; "wheat's contraband," they said, and blew her hull to pieces, murdered one of our staunch fleet, fast dwindling, of the big old sailing ships that carry trade for us on the high sea and warped out of each harbor in the states. it wasn't law, so it seems strange to me-- a big mistake. her keel's struck bottom now and her four masts sunk fathoms, fathoms deep to davy jones. the dank seaweed will root on her oozed decks, and the cross-surges sweep through the set sails; but never, never more her crew will stand away to brace and trim, nor sea-blown petrels meet her thrashing up to windward on the gulf stream's stormy rim; never again she'll head a no'theast gale or like a spirit loom up, sliding dumb, and ride in safe beyond the boston light, to make the harbor glad because she's come. _jeanne robert foster_ england and america mother and child! though the dividing sea shall roll its tide between us, we are one, knit by immortal memories, and none but feels the throb of ancient fealty. a century has passed since at thy knee we learnt the speech of freemen, caught the fire that would not brook thy menaces, when sire and grandsire hurled injustice back to thee. but the full years have wrought equality: the past outworn, shall not the future bring a deeper union, from whose life shall spring mankind's best hope? in the dark night of strife men perished for their dream of liberty whose lives were given for this larger life. _florence t. holt_ to america when the fire sinks in the grate, and night has bent close wings about the room, and winter stands hard-eyed before the window, when the hands have turned the book's last page and friends are sleeping, thought, as it were an old stringed instrument drawn to remembered music, oft does set the lips moving in prayer, for us fresh keeping knowledge of springtime and the violet. and, as the eyes grow dim with many years, the spirit runs more swiftly than the feet, perceives its comfort, knows that it will meet god at the end of troubles, that the dreary last reaches of old age lead beyond tears to happy youth unending. there is peace in homeward waters, where at last the weary shall find rebirth, and their long struggle cease. so, at this hour, when the old world lies sick, beyond the pain, the agony of breath hard drawn, beyond the menaces of death, o'er graves and years leans out the eager spirit. first must the ancient die; then shall be quick new fires within us. brother, we shall make incredible discoveries and inherit the fruits of hope, and love shall be awake. _charles langbridge morgan_ a chant of love for england a song of hate is a song of hell; some there be that sing it well. let them sing it loud and long, we lift our hearts in a loftier song: we lift our hearts to heaven above, singing the glory of her we love,-- _england!_ glory of thought and glory of deed, glory of hampden and runnymede; glory of ships that sought far goals, glory of swords and glory of souls! glory of songs mounting as birds, glory immortal of magical words; glory of milton, glory of nelson, tragical glory of gordon and scott; glory of shelley, glory of sidney, glory transcendent that perishes not,-- hers is the story, hers be the glory, _england!_ shatter her beauteous breast ye may; the spirit of england none can slay! dash the bomb on the dome of paul's-- deem ye the fame of the admiral falls? pry the stone from the chancel floor,-- dream ye that shakespeare shall live no more? where is the giant shot that kills wordsworth walking the old green hills? trample the red rose on the ground,-- keats is beauty while earth spins round! bind her, grind her, burn her with fire, cast her ashes into the sea,-- she shall escape, she shall aspire, she shall arise to make men free: she shall arise in a sacred scorn, lighting the lives that are yet unborn; spirit supernal, splendour eternal, england! _helen gray cone_ at st. paul's april , not since wren's dome has whispered with man's prayer have angels leaned to wonder out of heaven at such uprush of intercession given, here where to-day one soul two nations share, and with accord send up thro' trembling air their vows to strive as honour ne'er has striven till back to hell the lords of hell are driven, and life and peace again shall flourish fair. this is the day of conscience high-enthroned, the day when east is west and west is east to strike for human love and freedom's word against foul wrong that cannot be atoned; to-day is hope of brotherhood's bond increased, and christ, not odin, is acclaimed the lord. _hardwicke drummond rawnsley_ jimmy doane often i think of you, jimmy doane,-- you who, light-heartedly, came to my house three autumns, to shoot and to eat a grouse! as i sat apart in this quiet room, my mind was full of the horror of war and not with the hope of a visitor. i had dined on food that had lost its taste; my soul was cold and i wished you were here,-- when, all in a moment, i knew you were near. placing that chair where you used to sit, i looked at my book:--three years to-day since you laughed in that seat and i heard you say-- "my country is with you, whatever befall: america--britain--these two are akin in courage and honour; they underpin "the rights of mankind!" then you grasped my hand with a brotherly grip, and you made me feel something that time would surely reveal. you were comely and tall; you had corded arms, and sympathy's grace with your strength was blent; you were generous, clever, and confident. there was that in your hopes which uncountable lives have perished to make; your heart was fulfilled with the breath of god that can never be stilled. a living symbol of power, you talked of the work to do in the world to make life beautiful: yes, and my heartstrings ache to think how you, at the stroke of war, chose that your steadfast soul should fly with the eagles of france as their proud ally. you were america's self, dear lad-- the first swift son of your bright, free land to heed the call of the inner command-- to image its spirit in such rare deeds as braced the valour of france, who knows that the heart of america thrills with her woes. for a little leaven leavens the whole! mostly we find, when we trouble to seek the soul of a people, that some unique, brave man is its flower and symbol, who makes bold to utter the words that choke the throats of feebler, timider folk. you flew for the western eagle--and fell doing great things for your country's pride: for the beauty and peace of life you died. britain and france have shrined in their souls your memory; yes, and for ever you share their love with their perished lords of the air. invisible now, in that empty seat, you sit, who came through the clouds to me, swift as a message from over the sea. my house is always open to you: dear spirit, come often and you will find welcome, where mind can foregather with mind! and may we sit together one day quietly here, when a word is said to bring new gladness unto our dead, knowing your dream is a dream no more; and seeing on some momentous pact your vision upbuilt as a deathless fact. _rowland thirlmere_ princeton, may, _here freedom stood by slaughtered friend and foe, and, ere the wrath paled or that sunset died, looked through the ages; then, with eyes aglow, laid them to wait that future, side by side._ (lines for a monument to the american and british soldiers of the revolutionary war who fell on the princeton battlefield and were buried in one grave.) now lamp-lit gardens in the blue dusk shine through dogwood, red and white; and round the gray quadrangles, line by line, the windows fill with light, where princeton calls to magdalen, tower to tower, twin lanthorns of the law; and those cream-white magnolia boughs embower the halls of "old nassau." the dark bronze tigers crouch on either side where redcoats used to pass; and round the bird-loved house where mercer died, and violets dusk the grass, by stony brook that ran so red of old, but sings of friendship now, to feed the old enemy's harvest fifty-fold the green earth takes the plow. through this may night, if one great ghost should stray with deep remembering eyes, where that old meadow of battle smiles away its blood-stained memories, if washington should walk, where friend and foe sleep and forget the past, be sure his unquenched heart would leap to know their souls are linked at last. be sure he waits, in shadowy buff and blue, where those dim lilacs wave. he bends his head to bless, as dreams come true, the promise of that grave; then, with a vaster hope than thought can scan, touching his ancient sword, prays for that mightier realm of god in man: "hasten thy kingdom, lord. "land of our hope, land of the singing stars, type of the world to be, the vision of a world set free from wars takes life, takes form from thee; where all the jarring nations of this earth, beneath the all-blessing sun, bring the new music of mankind to birth, and make the whole world one." and those old comrades rise around him there, old foemen, side by side, with eyes like stars upon the brave night air, and young as when they died, to hear your bells, o beautiful princeton towers, ring for the world's release. they see you piercing like gray swords through flowers, and smile, from souls at peace. _alfred noyes_ the vigil england! where the sacred flame burns before the inmost shrine, where the lips that love thy name consecrate their hopes and thine, where the banners of thy dead weave their shadows overhead, watch beside thine arms to-night, pray that god defend the right. think that when to-morrow comes war shall claim command of all, thou must hear the roll of drums, thou must hear the trumpet's call. now, before thy silence ruth, commune with the voice of truth; england! on thy knees to-night pray that god defend the right. single-hearted, unafraid, hither all thy heroes came, on this altar's steps were laid gordon's life and outram's fame. england! if thy will be yet by their great example set, here beside thine arms to-night pray that god defend the right. so shalt thou when morning comes rise to conquer or to fall, joyful hear the rolling drums, joyful tear the trumpets call, then let memory tell thy heart: "england! what thou wert, thou art!" gird thee with thine ancient might, forth! and god defend the right! _henry newbolt_ "for all we have and are" for all we have and are, for all our children's fate, stand up and meet the war. the hun is at the gate! our world has passed away in wantonness o'erthrown. there is nothing left to-day but steel and fire and stone. though all we knew depart, the old commandments stand: "in courage keep your heart, in strength lift up your hand," once more we hear the word that sickened earth of old: "no law except the sword unsheathed and uncontrolled," once more it knits mankind. once more the nations go to meet and break and bind a crazed and driven foe. comfort, content, delight-- the ages' slow-bought gain-- they shrivelled in a night, only ourselves remain to face the naked days in silent fortitude, through perils and dismays renewed and re-renewed. though all we made depart, the old commandments stand: "in patience keep your heart, in strength lift up your hand." no easy hopes or lies shall bring us to our goal, but iron sacrifice of body, will, and soul there is but one task for all-- for each one life to give. who stands if freedom fall? who dies if england live? _rudyard kipling_ england to free men men of my blood, you english men! from misty hill and misty fen, from cot, and town, and plough, and moor, come in--before i shut the door! into my courtyard paved with stones that keep the names, that keep the bones, of none but english men who came free of their lives, to guard my fame. i am your native land who bred no driven heart, no driven head; i fly a flag in every sea round the old earth, of liberty! i am the land that boasts a crown; the sun comes up, the sun goes down-- and never men may say of me, mine is a breed that is not free. i have a wreath! my forehead wears a hundred leaves--a hundred years i never knew the words: "you must!" and shall my wreath return to dust? freemen! the door is yet ajar; from northern star to southern star, o ye who count and ye who delve, come in--before my clock strikes twelve! _john galsworthy_ _pro patria_ england, in this great fight to which you go because, where honour calls you, go you must, be glad, whatever comes, at least to know you have your quarrel just. peace was your care; before the nations' bar her cause you pleaded and her ends you sought; but not for her sake, being what you are, could you be bribed and bought. others may spurn the pledge of land to land, may with the brute sword stain a gallant past; but by the seal to which _you_ set your hand, thank god, you still stand fast! forth, then, to front that peril of the deep with smiling lips and in your eyes the light, steadfast and confident, of those who keep their storied 'scutcheon bright. and we, whose burden is to watch and wait,-- high-hearted ever, strong in faith and prayer,-- we ask what offering we may consecrate, what humble service share. to steel our souls against the lust of ease; to bear in silence though our hearts may bleed; to spend ourselves, and never count the cost, for others' greater need;-- to go our quiet ways, subdued and sane; to hush all vulgar clamour of the street; with level calm to face alike the strain of triumph or defeat; this be our part, for so we serve you best, so best confirm their prowess and their pride, your warrior sons, to whom in this high test our fortunes we confide. _owen seaman_ _august , _ lines written in surrey, a sudden swirl of song in the bright sky-- the little lark adoring his lord the sun; across the corn the lazy ripples run; under the eaves, conferring drowsily, doves droop or amble; the agile waterfly wrinkles the pool; and flowers, gay and dun, rose, bluebell, rhododendron, one by one, the buccaneering bees prove busily. ah, who may trace this tranquil loveliness in verse felicitous?--no measure tells; but gazing on her bosom we can guess why men strike hard for england in red hells, falling on dreams, 'mid death's extreme caress, of english daisies dancing in english dells. _george herbert clarke_ france because for once the sword broke in her hand, the words she spoke seemed perished for a space; all wrong was brazen, and in every land the tyrants walked abroad with naked face. the waters turned to blood, as rose the star of evil fate denying all release. the rulers smote, the feeble crying "war!" the usurers robbed, the naked crying "peace!" and her own feet were caught in nets of gold, and her own soul profaned by sects that squirm, and little men climbed her high seats and sold her honour to the vulture and the worm. and she seemed broken and they thought her dead, the overmen, so brave against the weak. has your last word of sophistry been said, o cult of slaves? then it is hers to speak. clear the slow mists from her half-darkened eyes, as slow mists parted over valmy fell, as once again her hands in high surprise take hold upon the battlements of hell. _cecil chesterton_ the name of france give us a name to fill the mind with the shining thoughts that lead mankind, the glory of learning, the joy of art,-- a name that tells of a splendid part in the long, long toil and the strenuous fight of the human race to win its way from the feudal darkness into the day of freedom, brotherhood, equal right,-- a name like a star, a name of light-- i give you _france!_ give us a name to stir the blood with a warmer glow and a swifter flood,-- a name like the sound of a trumpet, clear, and silver-sweet, and iron-strong, that calls three million men to their feet, ready to march, and steady to meet the foes who threaten that name with wrong,-- a name that rings like a battle-song. i give you _france!_ give us a name to move the heart with the strength that noble griefs impart, a name that speaks of the blood outpoured to save mankind from the sway of the sword,-- a name that calls on the world to share in the burden of sacrificial strife where the cause at stake is the world's free life and the rule of the people everywhere,-- a name like a vow, a name like a prayer. i give you _france!_ _henry van dyke_ vive la france! franceline rose in the dawning gray, and her heart would dance though she knelt to pray, for her man michel had holiday, fighting for france. she offered her prayer by the cradle-side, and with baby palms folded in hers she cried: "if i have but one prayer, dear, crucified christ--save france! "but if i have two, then, by mary's grace, carry me safe to the meeting-place, let me look once again on my dear love's face, save him for france!" she crooned to her boy: "oh, how glad he'll be, little three-months old, to set eyes on thee! for, 'rather than gold, would i give,' wrote he, 'a son to france.' "come, now, be good, little stray _sauterelle_, for we're going by-by to thy papa michel, but i'll not say where for fear thou wilt tell, little pigeon of france! "six days' leave and a year between! but what would you have? in six days clean, heaven was made," said franceline, "heaven and france." she came to the town of the nameless name, to the marching troops in the street she came, and she held high her boy like a taper flame burning for france. fresh from the trenches and gray with grime, silent they march like a pantomime; "but what need of music? my heart beats time-- _vive la france!_" his regiment comes. oh, then where is he? "there is dust in my eyes, for i cannot see,-- is that my michel to the right of thee, soldier of france?" then out of the ranks a comrade fell,-- "yesterday--'t was a splinter of shell-- and he whispered thy name, did thy poor michel, dying for france." the tread of the troops on the pavement throbbed like a woman's heart of its last joy robbed, as she lifted her boy to the flag, and sobbed: "_vive la france!_" _charlotte holmes crawford_ the soul of jeanne d'arc _she came not into the presence as a martyred saint might come, crowned, white-robed and adoring, with very reverence dumb,--_ _she stood as a straight young soldier, confident, gallant, strong, who asks a boon of his captain in the sudden hush of the drum._ she said: "now have i stayed too long in this my place of bliss, with these glad dead that, comforted, forget what sorrow is upon that world whose stony stairs they climbed to come to this. "but lo, a cry hath torn the peace wherein so long i stayed, like a trumpet's call at heaven's wall from a herald unafraid,-- a million voices in one cry, '_where is the maid, the maid?_' "i had forgot from too much joy that olden task of mine, but i have heard a certain word shatter the chant divine, have watched a banner glow and grow before mine eyes for sign. "i would return to that my land flung in the teeth of war, i would cast down my robe and crown that pleasure me no more, and don the armor that i knew, the valiant sword i bore. "and angels militant shall fling the gates of heaven wide, and souls new-dead whose lives were shed like leaves on war's red tide shall cross their swords above our heads and cheer us as we ride, "for with me goes that soldier saint, saint michael of the sword, and i shall ride on his right side, a page beside his lord, and men shall follow like swift blades to reap a sure reward. "grant that i answer this my call, yea, though the end may be the naked shame, the biting flame, the last, long agony; i would go singing down that road where fagots wait for me. "mine be the fire about my feet, the smoke above my head; so might i glow, a torch to show the path my heroes tread; _my captain! oh, my captain, let me go back!_" she said. _theodosia garrison_ o glorious france you have become a forge of snow-white fire, a crucible of molten steel, o france! your sons are stars who cluster to a dawn and fade in light for you, o glorious france! they pass through meteor changes with a song which to all islands and all continents says life is neither comfort, wealth, nor fame, nor quiet hearthstones, friendship, wife nor child, nor love, nor youth's delight, nor manhood's power, nor many days spent in a chosen work, nor honored merit, nor the patterned theme of daily labor, nor the crowns nor wreaths of seventy years. these are not all of life, o france, whose sons amid the rolling thunder of cannon stand in trenches where the dead clog the ensanguined ice. but life to these prophetic and enraptured souls is vision, and the keen ecstasy of fated strife, and divination of the loss as gain, and reading mysteries with brightened eyes in fiery shock and dazzling pain before the orient splendour of the face of death, as a great light beside a shadowy sea; and in a high will's strenuous exercise, where the warmed spirit finds its fullest strength and is no more afraid, and in the stroke of azure lightning when the hidden essence and shifting meaning of man's spiritual worth and mystical significance in time are instantly distilled to one clear drop which mirrors earth and heaven. this is life flaming to heaven in a minute's span when the breath of battle blows the smouldering spark. and across these seas we who cry peace and treasure life and cling to cities, happiness, or daily toil for daily bread, or trail the long routine of seventy years, taste not the terrible wine whereof you drink, who drain and toss the cup empty and ringing by the finished feast; or have it shaken from your hand by sight of god against the olive woods. as joan of arc amid the apple trees with sacred joy first heard the voices, then obeying plunged at orleans in a field of spears and lived her dream and died in fire, thou, france, hast heard the voices and hast lived the dream and known the meaning of the dream, and read its riddle: how the soul of man may to one greatest purpose make itself a lens of clearness, how it loves the cup of deepest truth, and how its bitterest gall turns sweet to soul's surrender. and you say: take days for repetition, stretch your hands for mocked renewal of familiar things: the beaten path, the chair beside the window, the crowded street, the task, the accustomed sleep, and waking to the task, or many springs of lifted cloud, blue water, flowering fields-- the prison-house grows close no less, the feast a place of memory sick for senses dulled down to the dusty end where pitiful time grown weary cries enough! _edgar lee masters_ to france those who have stood for thy cause when the dark was around thee, those who have pierced through the shadows and shining have found thee, those who have held to their faith in thy courage and power, thy spirit, thy honor, thy strength for a terrible hour, now can rejoice that they see thee in light and in glory, facing whatever may come as an end to the story in calm undespairing, with steady eyes fixed on the morrow-- the morn that is pregnant with blood and with death and with sorrow. and whether the victory crowns thee, o france the eternal, or whether the smoke and the dusk of a nightfall infernal gather about thee, and us, and the foe; and all treasures run with the flooding of war into bottomless measures-- fall what befalls: in this hour all those who are near thee and all who have loved thee, they rise and salute and revere thee! _herbert jones_ place de la concorde august , [since the bombardment of strasburg, august , , her statue in paris, representing alsace, has been draped in mourning by the french people.] near where the royal victims fell in days gone by, caught in the swell of a ruthless tide of human passion, deep and wide: there where we two a nation's later sorrow knew-- to-day, o friend! i stood amid a self-ruled multitude that by nor sound nor word betrayed how mightily its heart was stirred, a memory time never could efface-- a memory of grief-- like a great silence brooded o'er the place; and men breathed hard, as seeking for relief from an emotion strong that would not cry, though held in check too long. one felt that joy drew near-- a joy intense that seemed itself to fear-- brightening in eyes that had been dull, as all with feeling gazed upon the strasburg figure, raised above us--mourning, beautiful! then one stood at the statue's base, and spoke-- men needed not to ask what word; each in his breast the message heard, writ for him by despair, that evermore in moving phrase breathes from the invalides and père lachaise-- vainly it seemed, alas! but now, france looking on the image there, hope gave her back the lost alsace. a deeper hush fell on the crowd: a sound--the lightest--seemed too loud (would, friend, you had been there!) as to that form the speaker rose, took from her, fold on fold, the mournful crape, gray-worn and old, her, proudly, to disclose, and with the touch of tender care that fond emotion speaks, 'mid tears that none could quite command, placed the tricolor in her hand, and kissed her on both cheeks! _florence earle coates_ to france what is the gift we have given thee, sister? what is the trust we have laid in thy hand? hearts of our bravest, our best, and our dearest, blood of our blood we have sown in thy land. what for all time will the harvest be, sister? what will spring up from the seed that is sown? freedom and peace and goodwill among nations, love that will bind us with love all our own. bright is the path, that is opening before us, upward and onward it mounts through the night; sword shall not sever the bonds that unite us leading the world to the fullness of light. sorrow hath made thee more beautiful, sister, nobler and purer than ever before; we who are chastened by sorrow and anguish hail thee as sister and queen evermore. _frederick george scott_ _qui vive?_ _qui vive?_ who passes by up there? who moves--what stirs in the startled air? what whispers, thrills, exults up there? _qui vive?_ "the flags of france." what wind on a windless night is this, that breathes as light as a lover's kiss, that blows through the night with bugle notes, that streams like a pennant from a lance, that rustles, that floats? "the flags of france." what richly moves, what lightly stirs, like a noble lady in a dance, when all men's eyes are in love with hers and needs must follow? "the flags of france." what calls to the heart--and the heart has heard, speaks, and the soul has obeyed the word, summons, and all the years advance, and the world goes forward with france--with france? who called? "the flags of france." what flies--a glory, through the night, while the legions stream--a line of light, and men fall to the left and fall to the right, but _they_ fall not? "the flags of france." _qui vive?_ who comes? what approaches there? what soundless tumult, what breath in the air takes the breath in the throat, the blood from the heart? in a flame of dark, to the unheard beat of an unseen drum and fleshless feet, without glint of barrel or bayonets' glance, they approach--they come. _who_ comes? (hush! hark!) _"qui vive?"_ "the flags of france." uncover the head and kneel--kneel down, a monarch passes, without a crown, let the proud tears fall but the heart beat high: the greatest of all is passing by, on its endless march in the endless plan: "_qui vive?_" "the spirit of man." "o spirit of man, pass on! advance!" and they who lead, who hold the van? kneel down! the flags of france. _grace ellery channing_ _paris, _ to the belgians o race that caesar knew, that won stern roman praise, what land not envies you the laurel of these days? you built your cities rich around each towered hall,-- without, the statued niche, within, the pictured wall. your ship-thronged wharves; your marts with gorgeous venice vied. peace and her famous arts were yours: though tide on tide of europe's battle scourged black field and reddened soil, from blood and smoke emerged peace and her fruitful toil. yet when the challenge rang, "the war-lord comes; give room!" fearless to arms you sprang against the odds of doom. like your own damien who sought that leper's isle to die a simple man for men with tranquil smile, so strong in faith you dared defy the giant, scorn ignobly to be spared, though trampled, spoiled, and torn, and in your faith arose and smote, and smote again, till those astonished foes reeled from their mounds of slain, the faith that the free soul, untaught by force to quail, through fire and dirge and dole prevails and shall prevail. still for your frontier stands the host that knew no dread, your little, stubborn land's nameless, immortal dead. _laurence binyon_ belgium _la belgique ne regrette rien_ not with her ruined silver spires, not with her cities shamed and rent, perish the imperishable fires that shape the homestead from the tent. wherever men are staunch and free, there shall she keep her fearless state, and homeless, to great nations be the home of all that makes them great. _edith wharton_ to belgium champion of human honour, let us lave your feet and bind your wounds on bended knee. though coward hands have nailed you to the tree and shed your innocent blood and dug your grave, rejoice and live! your oriflamme shall wave-- while man has power to perish and be free-- a golden flame of holiest liberty, proud as the dawn and as the sunset brave. belgium, where dwelleth reverence for right enthroned above all ideals; where your fate and your supernal patience and your might most sacred grow in human estimate, you shine a star above this stormy night little no more, but infinitely great. _eden phillpotts_ to belgium in exile [lines dedicated to one of her priests, by whose words they were prompted.] land of the desolate, mother of tears, weeping your beauty marred and torn, your children tossed upon the spears, your altars rent, your hearths forlorn, where spring has no renewing spell, and love no language save a long farewell! ah, precious tears, and each a pearl, whose price--for so in god we trust who saw them fall in that blind swirl of ravening flame and reeking dust-- the spoiler with his life shall pay, when justice at the last demands her day. o tried and proved, whose record stands lettered in blood too deep to fade, take courage! never in our hands shall the avenging sword be stayed till you are healed of all your pain, and come with honour to your own again. _owen seaman_ _may , _ the wife of flanders low and brown barns, thatched and repatched and tattered, where i had seven sons until to-day, a little hill of hay your spur has scattered.... this is not paris. you have lost the way. you, staring at your sword to find it brittle, surprised at the surprise that was your plan, who, shaking and breaking barriers not a little, find never more the death-door of sedan-- must i for more than carnage call you claimant, paying you a penny for each son you slay? man, the whole globe in gold were no repayment for what _you_ have lost. and how shall i repay? what is the price of that red spark that caught me from a kind farm that never had a name? what is the price of that dead man they brought me? for other dead men do not look the same. how should i pay for one poor graven steeple whereon you shattered what you shall not know? how should i pay you, miserable people? how should i pay you everything you owe? unhappy, can i give you back your honour? though i forgave, would any man forget? while all the great green land has trampled on her the treason and terror of the night we met. not any more in vengeance or in pardon an old wife bargains for a bean that's hers. you have no word to break: no heart to harden. ride on and prosper. you have lost your spurs. _gilbert keith chesterton_ russia--america a wind in the world! the dark departs; the chains now rust that crushed men's flesh and bones, feet tread no more the mildewed prison stones, and slavery is lifted from your hearts. a wind in the world! o company of darkened russia, watching long in vain, now shall you see the cloud of russia's pain go shrinking out across a summer sky. a wind in the world! our god shall be in all the future left, no kingly doll decked out with dreadful sceptre, steel, and stole, but walk the earth--a man, in charity. * * * * * a wind in the world! and doubts are blown to dust along, and the old stars come forth-- stars of a creed to pilgrim fathers worth a field of broken spears and flowers strown. a wind in the world! now truancy from the true self is ended; to her part steadfast again she moves, and from her heart a great america cries: death to tyranny! a wind in the world! and we have come together, sea by sea; in all the lands vision doth move at last, and freedom stands with brightened wings, and smiles and beckons home! _john galsworthy_ to russia new and free land of the martyrs--of the martyred dead and martyred living--now of noble fame! long wert thou saddest of the nations, wed to sorrow as the fire to the flame, not yet relentless history had writ of teuton shame. thou knewest all the gloom of hope deferred. 'twixt god and russia wrong had built such bar each by the other could no more be heard. seen through the cloud, the child's familiar star, that once made heaven near, had made it seem more far. land of the breaking dawn! no more look back to that long night that nevermore can be: the sunless dungeon and the exile's track. to the world's dreams of terror let it flee. to gentle april cruel march is now antiquity. yet--of the past one sacred relic save: that boundary-post 'twixt russia and despair,-- set where the dead might look upon his grave,-- kissed by him with his last-breathed russian air. keep it to witness to the world what heroes still may dare. land of new hope, no more the minor key, no more the songs of exile long and lone; thy tears henceforth be tears of memory. sing, with the joy the joyless would have known who for this visioned happiness so gladly gave their own. land of the warm heart and the friendly hand, strike the free chord; no more the muted strings! forever let the equal record stand-- a thousand winters for this spring of springs, that to a warring world, through thee, millennial longing brings. on thy white tablets, cleansed of royal stain, what message to the future mayst thou write!-- the people's law, the bulwark of their reign, and vigilant liberty, of ancient might, and brotherhood, that can alone lead to the loftiest height. take, then, our hearts' rejoicing overflow, thou new-born daughter of democracy, whose coming sets the expectant earth aglow. soon the glad skies thy proud new flag shall see, and hear thy chanted hymns of hope for russia new and free. _robert underwood johnson_ _april, _ italy in arms of all my dreams by night and day, one dream will evermore return, the dream of italy in may; the sky a brimming azure urn where lights of amber brood and burn; the doves about san marco's square, the swimming campanile tower, the giants, hammering out the hour, the palaces, the bright lagoons, the gondolas gliding here and there upon the tide that sways and swoons. the domes of san antonio, where padua 'mid her mulberry-trees reclines; adige's crescent flow beneath verona's balconies; rich florence of the medicis; sienna's starlike streets that climb from hill to hill; assisi well remembering the holy spell of rapt st. francis; with her crown of battlements, embossed by time, stern old perugia looking down. then, mother of great empires, rome, city of the majestic past, that o'er far leagues of alien foam the shadows of her eagles cast, imperious still; impending, vast, the colosseum's curving line; pillar and arch and colonnade; st. peter's consecrated shade, and hadrian's tomb where tiber strays; the ruins on the palatine with all their memories of dead days. and naples, with her sapphire arc of bay, her perfect sweep of shore; above her, like a demon stark, the dark fire-mountain evermore looming portentous, as of yore; fair capri with her cliffs and caves; salerno drowsing 'mid her vines and olives, and the shattered shrines of paestum where the gray ghosts tread, and where the wilding rose still waves as when by greek girls garlanded. but hark! what sound the ear dismays, mine italy, mine italy? thou that wert wrapt in peace, the haze of loveliness spread over thee! yet since the grapple needs must be, i who have wandered in the night with dante, petrarch's laura known, seen vallombrosa's groves breeze-blown, met angelo and raffael, against iconoclastic might in this grim hour must wish thee well! _clinton scollard_ on the italian front, mcmxvi "i will die cheering, if i needs must die; so shall my last breath write upon my lips _viva italia!_ when my spirit slips down the great darkness from the mountain sky; and those who shall behold me where i lie shall murmur: 'look, you! how his spirit dips from glory into glory! the eclipse of death is vanquished! lo, his victor-cry!' "live, thou, upon my lips, italia mine, the sacred death-cry of my frozen clay! let thy dear light from my dead body shine and to the passer-by thy message say: '_ecco!_ though heaven has made my skies divine, my sons' love sanctifies my soil for aye!'" _george edward woodberry_ australia to england by all the deeds to thy dear glory done, by all the life blood, spilt to serve thy need, by all the fettered lives thy touch hath freed, by all thy dream in us anew begun; by all the guerdon english sire to son hath given of highest vision, kingliest deed, by all thine agony, of god decreed for trial and strength, our fate with thine is one. still dwells thy spirit in our hearts and lips, honour and life we hold from none but thee, and if we live thy pensioners no more but seek a nation's might of men and ships, 't is but that when the world is black with war thy sons may stand beside thee strong and free. _archibald t. strong_ _august, _ canada to england great names of thy great captains gone before beat with our blood, who have that blood of thee: raleigh and grenville, wolfe, and all the free fine souls who dared to front a world in war. such only may outreach the envious years where feebler crowns and fainter stars remove, nurtured in one remembrance and one love too high for passion and too stern for tears. o little isle our fathers held for home, not, not alone thy standards and thy hosts lead where thy sons shall follow, mother land: quick as the north wind, ardent as the foam, behold, behold the invulnerable ghosts of all past greatnesses about thee stand. _marjorie l.c. pickthall_ langemarck at ypres this is the ballad of langemarck, a story of glory and might; of the vast hun horde, and canada's part in the great grim fight. it was april fair on the flanders fields, but the dreadest april then that ever the years, in their fateful flight, had brought to this world of men. north and east, a monster wall, the mighty hun ranks lay, with fort on fort, and iron-ringed trench, menacing, grim and gray. and south and west, like a serpent of fire, serried the british lines, and in between, the dying and dead, and the stench of blood, and the trampled mud, on the fair, sweet belgian vines. and far to the eastward, harnessed and taut, like a scimitar, shining and keen, gleaming out of that ominous gloom, old france's hosts were seen. when out of the grim hun lines one night, there rolled a sinister smoke;-- a strange, weird cloud, like a pale, green shroud, and death lurked in its cloak. on a fiend-like wind it curled along over the brave french ranks, like a monster tree its vapours spread, in hideous, burning banks of poisonous fumes that scorched the night with their sulphurous demon danks. and men went mad with horror, and fled from that terrible, strangling death, that seemed to sear both body and soul with its baleful, flaming breath. till even the little dark men of the south, who feared neither god nor man, those fierce, wild fighters of afric's steppes, broke their battalions and ran:-- ran as they never had run before, gasping, and fainting for breath; for they knew 't was no human foe that slew; and that hideous smoke meant death. then red in the reek of that evil cloud, the hun swept over the plain; and the murderer's dirk did its monster work, 'mid the scythe-like shrapnel rain; till it seemed that at last the brute hun hordes had broken that wall of steel; and that soon, through this breach in the freeman's dyke, his trampling hosts would wheel;-- and sweep to the south in ravaging might, and europe's peoples again be trodden under the tyrant's heel, like herds, in the prussian pen. but in that line on the british right, there massed a corps amain, of men who hailed from a far west land of mountain and forest and plain; men new to war and its dreadest deeds, but noble and staunch and true; men of the open, east and west, brew of old britain's brew. these were the men out there that night, when hell loomed close ahead; who saw that pitiful, hideous rout, and breathed those gases dread; while some went under and some went mad; but never a man there fled. for the word was "canada," theirs to fight, and keep on fighting still;-- britain said, fight, and fight they would, though the devil himself in sulphurous mood came over that hideous hill. yea, stubborn, they stood, that hero band, where no soul hoped to live; for five, 'gainst eighty thousand men, were hopeless odds to give. yea, fought they on! 't was friday eve, when that demon gas drove down; 't was saturday eve that saw them still grimly holding their own; sunday, monday, saw them yet, a steadily lessening band, with "no surrender" in their hearts, but the dream of a far-off land, where mother and sister and love would weep for the hushed heart lying still;-- but never a thought but to do their part, and work the empire's will. ringed round, hemmed in, and back to back, they fought there under the dark, and won for empire, god and right, at grim, red langemarck. wonderful battles have shaken this world, since the dawn-god overthrew dis; wonderful struggles of right against wrong, sung in the rhymes of the world's great song, but never a greater than this. bannockburn, inkerman, balaclava, marathon's godlike stand; but never a more heroic deed, and never a greater warrior breed, in any war-man's land. this is the ballad of langemarck, a story of glory and might; of the vast hun horde, and canada's part in the great, grim fight. _wilfred campbell_ canadians with arrows on their quarters and with numbers on their hoofs, with the trampling sound of twenty that re-echoes in the roofs, low of crest and dull of coat, wan and wild of eye, through our english village the canadians go by. shying at a passing cart, swerving from a car, tossing up an anxious head to flaunt a snowy star, racking at a yankee gait, reaching at the rein, twenty raw canadians are tasting life again! hollow-necked and hollow-flanked, lean of rib and hip, strained and sick and weary with the wallow of the ship, glad to smell the turf again, hear the robin's call, tread again the country road they lost at montreal! fate may bring them dule and woe; better steeds than they sleep beside the english guns a hundred leagues away; but till war hath need of them, lightly lie their reins, softly fall the feet of them along the english lanes. _will h. ogilvie_ the kaiser and belgium he said: "thou petty people, let me pass. what canst thou do but bow to me and kneel?" but sudden a dry land caught fire like grass, and answer hurtled but from shell and steel. he looked for silence, but a thunder came upon him, from liège a leaden hail. all belgium flew up at his throat in flame till at her gates amazed his legions quail. take heed, for now on haunted ground they tread; there bowed a mightier war lord to his fall: fear! lest that very green grass again grow red with blood of german now as then with gaul. if him whom god destroys he maddens first, then thy destruction slake thy madman's thirst. _stephen phillips_ the battle of liÈge now spake the emperor to all his shining battle forces, to the lancers, and the rifles, to the gunners and the horses;-- and his pride surged up within him as he saw their banners stream!-- "'t is a twelve-day march to paris, by the road our fathers travelled, and the prize is half an empire when the scarlet road's unravelled-- go you now across the border, god's decree and william's order-- climb the frowning belgian ridges with your naked swords agleam! seize the city of the bridges-- then get on, get on to paris-- to the jewelled streets of paris-- to the lovely woman, paris, that has driven me to dream!" a hundred thousand fighting men they climbed the frowning ridges, with their flaming swords drawn free and their pennants at their knee. they went up to their desire, to the city of the bridges, with their naked brands outdrawn like the lances of the dawn! in a swelling surf of fire, crawling higher--higher--higher-- till they crumpled up and died like a sudden wasted tide, and the thunder in their faces beat them down and flung them wide! they had paid a thousand men, yet they formed and came again, for they heard the silver bugles sounding challenge to their pride, and they rode with swords agleam for the glory of a dream, and they stormed up to the cannon's mouth and withered there, and died.... the daylight lay in ashes on the blackened western hill, and the dead were calm and still; but the night was torn with gashes-- sudden ragged crimson gashes-- and the siege-guns snarled and roared, with their flames thrust like a sword, and the tranquil moon came riding on the heaven's silver ford. what a fearful world was there, tangled in the cold moon's hair! man and beast lay hurt and screaming, (men must die when kings are dreaming!)-- while within the harried town mothers dragged their children down as the awful rain came screaming, for the glory of a crown! so the morning flung her cloak through the hanging pall of smoke-- trimmed with red, it was, and dripping with a deep and angry stain! and the day came walking then through a lane of murdered men, and her light fell down before her like a cross upon the plain! but the forts still crowned the height with a bitter iron crown! they had lived to flame and fight, they had lived to keep the town! and they poured their havoc down all that day ... and all that night.... while four times their number came, pawns that played a bloody game!-- with a silver trumpeting, for the glory of the king, to the barriers of the thunder and the fury of the flame! so they stormed the iron hill, o'er the sleepers lying still, and their trumpets sang them forward through the dull succeeding dawns, but the thunder flung them wide, and they crumpled up and died,-- they had waged the war of monarchs--and they died the death of pawns. but the forts still stood.... their breath swept the foeman like a blade, though ten thousand men were paid to the hungry purse of death, though the field was wet with blood, still the bold defences stood, stood! and the king came out with his bodyguard at the day's departing gleam-- and the moon rode up behind the smoke and showed the king his dream. _dana burnet_ men of verdun there are five men in the moonlight that by their shadows stand; three hobble humped on crutches, and two lack each a hand. frogs somewhere near the roadside chorus their chant absorbed: but a hush breathes out of the dream-light that far in heaven is orbed. it is gentle as sleep falling and wide as thought can span, the ancient peace and wonder that brims the heart of man. beyond the hills it shines now on no peace but the dead, on reek of trenches thunder-shocked, tense fury of wills in wrestle locked, a chaos crumbled red! the five men in the moonlight chat, joke, or gaze apart. they talk of days and comrades, but each one hides his heart. they wear clean cap and tunic, as when they went to war; a gleam comes where the medal's pinned: but they will fight no more. the shadows, maimed and antic, gesture and shape distort, like mockery of a demon dumb out of the hell-din whence they come that dogs them for his sport: but as if dead men were risen and stood before me there with a terrible fame about them blown in beams of spectral air, i see them, men transfigured as in a dream, dilate fabulous with the titan-throb of battling europe's fate; for history's hushed before them, and legend flames afresh,-- verdun, the name of thunder, is written on their flesh. _laurence binyon_ verdun three hundred thousand men, but not enough to break this township on a winding stream; more yet must fall, and more, ere the red stuff that built a nation's manhood may redeem the master's hopes and realize his dream. they pave the way to verdun; on their dust the hohenzollerns mount and, hand in hand, gaze haggard south; for yet another thrust and higher hills must heap, ere they may stand to feed their eyes upon the promised land. one barrow, borne of women, lifts them high, built up of many a thousand human dead. nursed on their mothers' bosoms, now they lie-- a golgotha, all shattered, torn and sped, a mountain for these royal feet to tread. a golgotha, upon whose carrion clay justice of myriad men still in the womb shall heave two crosses; crucify and flay two memories accurs'd; then in the tomb of world-wide execration give them room. verdun! a clarion thy name shall ring adown the ages and the nations see thy monuments of glory. now we bring thank-offering and bend the reverent knee, thou star upon the crown of liberty! _eden phillpotts_ guns of verdun guns of verdun point to metz from the plated parapets; guns of metz grin back again o'er the fields of fair lorraine. guns of metz are long and grey, growling through a summer day; guns of verdun, grey and long, boom an echo of their song. guns of metz to verdun roar, "sisters, you shall foot the score;" guns of verdun say to metz, "fear not, for we pay our debts." guns of metz they grumble, "when?" guns of verdun answer then, "sisters, when to guard lorraine gunners lay you east again!" _patrick r. chalmers_ the spires of oxford i saw the spires of oxford as i was passing by, the gray spires of oxford against the pearl-gray sky. my heart was with the oxford men who went abroad to die. the years go fast in oxford, the golden years and gay, the hoary colleges look down on careless boys at play. but when the bugles sounded war they put their games away. they left the peaceful river, the cricket-field, the quad, the shaven lawns of oxford, to seek a bloody sod-- they gave their merry youth away for country and for god. god rest you, happy gentlemen, who laid your good lives down, who took the khaki and the gun instead of cap and gown. god bring you to a fairer place than even oxford town. _winifred m. letts_ oxford in war-time [the boat race will not be held this year ( ). the whole of last year's oxford eight and the great majority of the cricket and football teams are serving the king.] under the tow-path past the barges never an eight goes flashing by; never a blatant coach on the marge is urging his crew to do or die; never the critic we knew enlarges, fluent, on how and why! once by the iffley road november welcomed the football men aglow, covered with mud, as you'll remember, eager to vanquish oxford's foe. where are the teams of last december? gone--where they had to go! where are her sons who waged at cricket warfare against the foeman-friend? far from the parks, on a harder wicket, still they attack and still defend; playing a greater game, they'll stick it, fearless until the end! oxford's goodliest children leave her, hastily thrusting books aside; still the hurrying weeks bereave her, filling her heart with joy and pride; only the thought of you can grieve her, you who have fought and died. _w. snow_ oxford revisited in war-time beneath fair magdalen's storied towers i wander in a dream, and hear the mellow chimes float out o'er cherwell's ice-bound stream. throstle and blackbird stiff with cold hop on the frozen grass; among the aged, upright oaks the dun deer slowly pass. the chapel organ rolls and swells, and voices still praise god; but ah! the thought of youthful friends who lie beneath the sod. now wounded men with gallant eyes go hobbling down the street, and nurses from the hospitals speed by with tireless feet. the town is full of uniforms, and through the stormy sky, frightening the rooks from the tallest trees, the aeroplanes roar by. the older faces still are here, more grave and true and kind, ennobled by the steadfast toil of patient heart and mind. and old-time friends are dearer grown to fill a double place: unshaken faith makes glorious each forward-looking face. old oxford walls are grey and worn: she knows the truth of tears, but to-day she stands in her ancient pride crowned with eternal years. gone are her sons: yet her heart is glad in the glory of their youth, for she brought them forth to live or die by freedom, justice, truth. cold moonlight falls on silent towers; the young ghosts walk with the old; but oxford dreams of the dawn of may and her heart is free and bold. _tertius van dyke_ _magdalen college_, _january, _ sonnets written in the fall of i awake, ye nations, slumbering supine, who round enring the european fray! heard ye the trumpet sound? "the day! the day! the last that shall on england's empire shine! the parliament that broke the right divine shall see her realm of reason swept away, and lesser nations shall the sword obey-- the sword o'er all carve the great world's design!" so on the english channel boasts the foe on whose imperial brow death's helmet nods. look where his hosts o'er bloody belgium go, and mix a nation's past with blazing sods! a kingdom's waste! a people's homeless woe! man's broken word, and violated gods! ii far fall the day when england's realm shall see the sunset of dominion! her increase abolishes the man-dividing seas, and frames the brotherhood on earth to be! she, in free peoples planting sovereignty, orbs half the civil world in british peace; and though time dispossess her, and she cease, rome-like she greatens in man's memory. oh, many a crown shall sink in war's turmoil, and many a new republic light the sky, fleets sweep the ocean, nations till the soil, genius be born and generations die. orient and occident together toil, ere such a mighty work man rears on high! iii hearken, the feet of the destroyer tread the wine-press of the nations; fast the blood pours from the side of europe; in the flood on the septentrional watershed the rivers of fair france are running red! england, the mother-aerie of our brood, that on the summit of dominion stood, shakes in the blast: heaven battles overhead! lift up thy head, o rheims, of ages heir that treasured up in thee their glorious sum; upon whose brow, prophetically fair, flamed the great morrow of the world to come; haunt with thy beauty this volcanic air ere yet thou close, o flower of christendom! iv as when the shadow of the sun's eclipse sweeps on the earth, and spreads a spectral air, as if the universe were dying there, on continent and isle the darkness dips unwonted gloom, and on the atlantic slips; so in the night the belgian cities flare horizon-wide; the wandering people fare along the roads, and load the fleeing ships. and westward borne that planetary sweep darkening o'er england and her times to be, already steps upon the ocean-deep! watch well, my country, that unearthly sea, lest when thou thinkest not, and in thy sleep, unapt for war, that gloom enshadow thee. v i pray for peace; yet peace is but a prayer. how many wars have been in my brief years! all races and all faiths, both hemispheres, my eyes have seen embattled everywhere the wide earth through; yet do i not despair of peace, that slowly through far ages nears; though not to me the golden morn appears, my faith is perfect in time's issue fair. for man doth build on an eternal scale, and his ideals are framed of hope deferred; the millennium came not; yet christ did not fail, though ever unaccomplished is his word; him prince of peace, though unenthroned, we hail, supreme when in all bosoms he be heard. vi this is my faith, and my mind's heritage, wherein i toil, though in a lonely place, who yet world-wide survey the human race unequal from wild nature disengage body and soul, and life's old strife assuage; still must abide, till heaven perfect its grace, and love grown wisdom sweeten in man's face, alike the christian and the heathen rage. the tutelary genius of mankind ripens by slow degrees the final state, that in the soul shall its foundations find and only in victorious love grow great; patient the heart must be, humble the mind, that doth the greater births of time await! vii whence not unmoved i see the nations form from dover to the fountains of the rhine, a hundred leagues, the scarlet battle-line, and by the vistula great armies swarm, a vaster flood; rather my breast grows warm, seeing all peoples of the earth combine under one standard, with one countersign, grown brothers in the universal storm. and never through the wide world yet there rang a mightier summons! o thou who from the side of athens and the loins of casar sprang, strike, europe, with half the coming world allied for those ideals for which, since homer sang, the hosts of thirty centuries have died. _george edward woodberry_ the war films o living pictures of the dead, o songs without a sound, o fellowship whose phantom tread hallows a phantom ground-- how in a gleam have these revealed the faith we had not found. we have sought god in a cloudy heaven, we have passed by god on earth: his seven sins and his sorrows seven, his wayworn mood and mirth, like a ragged cloak have hid from us the secret of his birth. brother of men, when now i see the lads go forth in line, thou knowest my heart is hungry in me as for thy bread and wine; thou knowest my heart is bowed in me to take their death for mine. _henry newbolt_ the searchlights [political morality differs from individual morality, because there is no power above the state.--_general von bernhardt_] shadow by shadow, stripped for fight, the lean black cruisers search the sea. night-long their level shafts of light revolve, and find no enemy. only they know each leaping wave may hide the lightning, and their grave. and in the land they guard so well is there no silent watch to keep? an age is dying, and the bell rings midnight on a vaster deep. but over all its waves, once more the searchlights move, from shore to shore. and captains that we thought were dead, and dreamers that we thought were dumb, and voices that we thought were fled, arise, and call us, and we come; and "search in thine own soul," they cry; "for there, too, lurks thine enemy." search for the foe in thine own soul, the sloth, the intellectual pride; the trivial jest that veils the goal for which, our fathers lived and died; the lawless dreams, the cynic art, that rend thy nobler self apart. not far, not far into the night, these level swords of light can pierce; yet for her faith does england fight, her faith in this our universe, believing truth and justice draw from founts of everlasting law; the law that rules the stars, our stay, our compass through the world's wide sea. the one sure light, the one sure way, the one firm base of liberty; the one firm road that men have trod through chaos to the throne of god. therefore a power above the state, the unconquerable power, returns, the fire, the fire that made her great once more upon her altar burns, once more, redeemed and healed and whole, she moves to the eternal goal. _alfred noyes_ christmas: now is the midnight of the nations: dark even as death, beside her blood-dark seas, earth, like a mother in birth agonies, screams in her travail, and the planets hark her million-throated terror. naked, stark, her torso writhes enormous, and her knees shudder against the shadowed pleiades, wrenching the night's imponderable arc. christ! what shall be delivered to the morn out of these pangs, if ever indeed another morn shall succeed this night, or this vast mother survive to know the blood-spent offspring, torn from her racked flesh?--what splendour from the smother? what new-wing'd world, or mangled god still-born? _percy mackaye_ "men who march away" (song of the soldiers) what of the faith and fire within us men who march away ere the barn-cocks say night is growing gray, to hazards whence no tears can win us; what of the faith and fire within us men who march away! is it a purblind prank, o think you, friend with the musing eye who watch us stepping by, with doubt and dolorous sigh? can much pondering so hoodwink you? is it a purblind prank, o think you, friend with the musing eye? nay. we see well what we are doing, though some may not see-- dalliers as they be-- england's need are we; her distress would leave us rueing; nay. we well see what we are doing, though some may not see! in our heart of hearts believing victory crowns the just, and that braggarts must surely bite the dust, press we to the field ungrieving, in our heart of hearts believing victory crowns the just. hence the faith and fire within us men who march away ere the barn-cocks say night is growing gray, to hazards whence no tears can win us; hence the faith and fire within us men who march away. _thomas hardy_ _september , _ we willed it not we willed it not. we have not lived in hate, loving too well the shires of england thrown from sea to sea to covet your estate, or wish one flight of fortune from your throne. we had grown proud because the nations stood hoping together against the calumny that, tortured of its old barbarian blood, barbarian still the heart of man should be. builders there are who name you overlord, building with us the citadels of light, who hold as we this chartered sin abhorred, and cry you risen caesar of the night. beethoven speaks with milton on this day, and shakespeare's word with goethe's beats the sky, in witness of the birthright you betray, in witness of the vision you deny. we love the hearth, the quiet hills, the song, the friendly gossip come from every land; and very peace were now a nameless wrong-- you thrust this bitter quarrel to our hand. for this your pride the tragic armies go, and the grim navies watch along the seas; you trade in death, you mock at life, you throw to god the tumult of your blasphemies. you rob us of our love-right. it is said. in treason to the world, you are enthroned, we rise, and, by the yet ungathered dead, not lightly shall the treason be atoned. _john drinkwater_ the death of peace now slowly sinks the day-long labouring sun behind the tranquil trees and old church-tower; and we who watch him know our day is done; for us too comes the evening--and the hour. the sunbeams slanting through those ancient trees, the sunlit lichens burning on the byre, the lark descending, and the homing bees, proclaim the sweet relief all things desire. golden the river brims beneath the west, and holy peace to all the world is given; the songless stockdove preens her ruddied breast; the blue smoke windeth like a prayer to heaven. * * * * * o old, old england, land of golden peace, thy fields are spun with gossameres of gold, and golden garners gather thy increase, and plenty crowns thy loveliness untold. by sunlight or by starlight ever thou art excellent in beauty manifold; the still star victory ever gems thy brow; age cannot age thee, ages make thee old. thy beauty brightens with the evening sun across the long-lit meads and distant spire: so sleep thou well--like his thy labour done; rest in thy glory as he rests in fire. * * * * * but even in this hour of soft repose a gentle sadness chides us like a friend-- the sorrow of the joy that overflows, the burden of the beauty that must end. and from the fading sunset comes a cry, and in the twilight voices wailing past, like wild-swans calling, "when we rest we die, and woe to them that linger and are last"; and as the sun sinks, sudden in heav'n new born there shines an armed angel like a star, who cries above the darkling world in scorn, "god comes to judgment. learn ye what ye are." * * * * * from fire to umber fades the sunset-gold, from umber into silver and twilight; the infant flowers their orisons have told and turn together folded for the night; the garden urns are black against the eve; the white moth flitters through the fragrant glooms; how beautiful the heav'ns!--but yet we grieve and wander restless from the lighted rooms. for through the world to-night a murmur thrills as at some new-born prodigy of time-- peace dies like twilight bleeding on the hills, and darkness creeps to hide the hateful crime. art thou no more, o maiden heaven-born o peace, bright angel of the windless morn? who comest down to bless our furrow'd fields, or stand like beauty smiling 'mid the corn: mistress of mirth and ease and summer dreams, who lingerest among the woods and streams to help us heap the harvest 'neath the moon, and homeward laughing lead the lumb'ring teams: who teachest to our children thy wise lore; who keepest full the goodman's golden store; who crownest life with plenty, death with flow'rs; peace, queen of kindness--but of earth, no more. * * * * * not thine but ours the fault, thy care was vain; for this that we have done be ours the pain; thou gayest much, as he who gave us all, and as we slew him for it thou art slain. heav'n left to men the moulding of their fate: to live as wolves or pile the pillar'd state-- like boars and bears to grunt and growl in mire, or dwell aloft, effulgent gods, elate. thou liftedst us: we slew and with thee fell-- from golden thrones of wisdom weeping fell. fate rends the chaplets from our feeble brows; the spires of heaven fade in fogs of hell. * * * * * she faints, she falls; her dying eyes are dim; her fingers play with those bright buds she bore to please us, but that she can bring no more; and dying yet she smiles--as christ on him who slew him slain. her eyes so beauteous are lit with tears shed--not for herself but us. the gentle beings of the hearth and home; the lovely dryads of her aisled woods; the angels that do dwell in solitudes where she dwelleth; and joyous spirits that roam to bless her bleating flocks and fruitful lands; are gather'd there to weep, and kiss her dying hands. "look, look," they cry, "she is not dead, she breathes! and we have staunched the damned wound and deep, the cavern-carven wound. she doth but sleep and will awake. bring wine, and new-wound wreaths wherewith to crown awaking her dear head, and make her queen again."--but no, for peace was dead. * * * * * and then there came black lords; and dwarfs obscene with lavish tongues; and trolls; and treacherous things like loose-lipp'd councillors and cruel kings who sharpen lies and daggers subterrene: and flashed their evil eyes and weeping cried, "we ruled the world for peace. by her own hand she died." * * * * * in secret he made sharp the bitter blade, and poison'd it with bane of lies and drew, and stabb'd--o god! the cruel cripple slew; and cowards fled or lent him trembling aid, she fell and died--in all the tale of time the direst deed e'er done, the most accursed crime. _ronald ross_ in war-time (an american homeward-bound) further and further we leave the scene of war--and of england's care; i try to keep my mind serene-- but my heart stays there; for a distant song of pain and wrong my spirit doth deep confuse, and i sit all day on the deck, and long-- and long for news! i seem to see them in battle-line-- heroes with hearts of gold, but of their victory a sign the fates withhold; and the hours too tardy-footed pass, the voiceless hush grows dense 'mid the imaginings, alas! that feed suspense. oh, might i lie on the wind, or fly in the wilful sea-bird's track, would i hurry on, with a homesick cry-- or hasten back? _florence earle coates_ the anvil burned from the ore's rejected dross, the iron whitens in the heat. with plangent strokes of pain and loss the hammers on the iron beat. searched by the fire, through death and dole we feel the iron in our soul. o dreadful forge! if torn and bruised the heart, more urgent comes our cry not to be spared but to be used, brain, sinew, and spirit, before we die. beat out the iron, edge it keen, and shape us to the end we mean! _laurence binyon_ the fool rings his bells come, death, i'd have a word with thee; and thou, poor innocency; and love--a lad with broken wing; and pity, too: the fool shall sing to you, as fools will sing. ay, music hath small sense, and a tune's soon told, and earth is old, and my poor wits are dense; yet have i secrets,--dark, my dear, to breathe you all: come near. and lest some hideous listener tells, i'll ring my bells. they're all at war! yes, yes, their bodies go 'neath burning sun and icy star to chaunted songs of woe, dragging cold cannon through a mud of rain and blood; the new moon glinting hard on eyes wide with insanities! hush!... i use words i hardly know the meaning of; and the mute birds are glancing at love! from out their shade of leaf and flower, trembling at treacheries which even in noonday cower, heed, heed not what i said of frenzied hosts of men, more fools than i, on envy, hatred fed, who kill, and die-- spake i not plainly, then? yet pity whispered, "why?" thou silly thing, off to thy daisies go. mine was not news for child to know, and death--no ears hath. he hath supped where creep eyeless worms in hush of sleep; yet, when he smiles, the hand he draws athwart his grinning jaws faintly their thin bones rattle, and.... there, there; hearken how my bells in the air drive away care!... nay, but a dream i had of a world all mad. not a simple happy mad like me, who am mad like an empty scene of water and willow tree, where the wind hath been; but that foul satan-mad, who rots in his own head, and counts the dead, not honest one--and two-- but for the ghosts they were, brave, faithful, true, when, head in air, in earth's dear green and blue heaven they did share with beauty who bade them there.... there, now! he goes-- old bones; i've wearied him. ay, and the light doth dim, and asleep's the rose, and tired innocence in dreams is hence.... come, love, my lad, nodding that drowsy head, 't is time thy prayers were said. _walter de la mare_ the road to dieppe [concerning the experiences of a journey on foot through the night of august , (the night after the formal declaration of war between england and germany), from a town near amiens, in france, to dieppe, a distance of somewhat more than forty miles.] before i knew, the dawn was on the road, close at my side, so silently he came nor gave a sign of salutation, save to touch with light my sleeve and make the way appear as if a shining countenance had looked on it. strange was this radiant youth, as i, to these fair, fertile parts of france, where caesar with his legions once had passed, and where the kaiser's uhlans yet would pass or e'er another moon should cope with clouds for mastery of these same fields.--to-night (and but a month has gone since i walked there) well might the kaiser write, as caesar wrote, in his new commentaries on a gallic war, "_fortissimi belgae_."--a moon ago! who would have then divined that dead would lie like swaths of grain beneath the harvest moon upon these lands the ancient belgae held, from normandy beyond renowned liège!-- but it was out of that dread august night from which all europe woke to war, that we, this beautiful dawn-youth, and i, had come, he from afar. beyond grim petrograd he'd waked the moujik from his peaceful dreams, bid the muezzin call to morning prayer where minarets rise o'er the golden horn, and driven shadows from the prussian march to lie beneath the lindens of the _stadt_. softly he'd stirred the bells to ring at rheims, he'd knocked at high montmartre, hardly asleep; heard the sweet carillon of doomed louvain, boylike, had tarried for a moment's play amid the traceries of amiens, and then was hast'ning on the road to dieppe, when he o'ertook me drowsy from the hours through which i'd walked, with no companions else than ghostly kilometer posts that stood as sentinels' of space along the way.-- often, in doubt, i'd paused to question one, with nervous hands, as they who read moon-type; and more than once i'd caught a moment's sleep beside the highway, in the dripping grass, while one of these white sentinels stood guard, knowing me for a friend, who loves the road, and best of all by night, when wheels do sleep and stars alone do walk abroad.--but once three watchful shadows, deeper than the dark, laid hands on me and searched me for the marks of traitor or of spy, only to find over my heart the badge of loyalty.-- with wish for _bon voyage_ they gave me o'er to the white guards who led me on again. thus dawn o'ertook me and with magic speech made me forget the night as we strode on. where'er he looked a miracle was wrought: a tree grew from the darkness at a glance; a hut was thatched; a new chateau was reared of stone, as weathered as the church at caen; gray blooms were coloured suddenly in red; a flag was flung across the eastern sky.-- nearer at hand, he made me then aware of peasant women bending in the fields, cradling and gleaning by the first scant light, their sons and husbands somewhere o'er the edge of these green-golden fields which they had sowed, but will not reap,--out somewhere on the march, god but knows where and if they come again. one fallow field he pointed out to me where but the day before a peasant ploughed, dreaming of next year's fruit, and there his plough stood now mid-field, his horses commandeered, a monstrous sable crow perched on the beam. before i knew, the dawn was on the road, far from my side, so silently he went, catching his golden helmet as he ran, and hast'ning on along the dun straight way, where old men's sabots now began to clack and withered women, knitting, led their cows, on, on to call the men of kitchener down to their coasts,--i shouting after him: "o dawn, would you had let the world sleep on till all its armament were turned to rust, nor waked it to this day of hideous hate, of man's red murder and of woman's woe!" famished and lame, i came at last to dieppe, but dawn had made his way across the sea, and, as i climbed with heavy feet the cliff, was even then upon the sky-built towers of that great capital where nations all, teuton, italian, gallic, english, slav, forget long hates in one consummate faith. _john finley_ to fellow travellers in greece march-september, 't was in the piping tune of peace we trod the sacred soil of greece, nor thought, where the ilissus runs, of teuton craft or teuton guns; nor dreamt that, ere the year was spent, their iron challenge insolent would round the world's horizons pour, from europe to the australian shore. the tides of war had ebb'd away from trachis and thermopylae, long centuries had come and gone since that fierce day at marathon; freedom was firmly based, and we wall'd by our own encircling sea; the ancient passions dead, and men battl'd with ledger and with pen. so seem'd it, but to them alone the wisdom of the gods is known; lest freedom's price decline, from far zeus hurl'd the thunderbolt of war. and so once more the persian steel the armies of the greeks must feel, and once again a xerxes know the virtue of a spartan foe. thus may the cloudy fates unroll'd retrace the starry circles old, and the recurrent heavens decree a periclean dynasty. _w. macneile dixon_ "when there is peace" "_when there is peace our land no more will be the land we knew of yore._" thus do our facile seers foretell the truth that none can buy or sell and e'en the wisest must ignore. when we have bled at every pore, shall we still strive for gear and store? will it be heaven? will it be hell, when there is peace? this let us pray for, this implore: that all base dreams thrust out at door, we may in loftier aims excel and, like men waking from a spell, grow stronger, nobler, than before, when there is peace. _austin dobson_ a prayer in time of war [ the war will change many things in art and life, and among them, it is to be hoped, many of our own ideas as to what is, and what is not, "intellectual."] thou, whose deep ways are in the sea, whose footsteps are not known, to-night a world that turned from thee is waiting--at thy throne. the towering babels that we raised where scoffing sophists brawl, the little antichrists we praised-- the night is on them all. _the fool hath said.... the fool hath said...._ and we, who deemed him wise, we who believed that thou wast dead, how should we seek thine eyes? how should we seek to thee for power who scorned thee yesterday? how should we kneel, in this dread hour? lord, teach us how to pray! grant us the single heart, once more, that mocks no sacred thing, the sword of truth our fathers wore when thou wast lord and king. let darkness unto darkness tell our deep unspoken prayer, for, while our souls in darkness dwell, we know that thou art there. _alfred noyes_ then and now when battles were fought with a chivalrous sense of should and ought, in spirit men said, "end we quick or dead, honour is some reward! let us fight fair--for our own best or worst; so, gentlemen of the guard, fire first!" in the open they stood, man to man in his knightlihood: they would not deign to profit by a stain on the honourable rules, knowing that practise perfidy no man durst who in the heroic schools was nurst. but now, behold, what is war with those where honour is not! rama laments its dead innocents; herod howls: "sly slaughter rules now! let us, by modes once called accurst, overhead, under water, stab first." _thomas hardy_ the kaiser and god ["i rejoice with you in wilhelm's first victory. how magnificently god supported him!"--telegram from the kaiser to the crown princess.] led by wilhelm, as you tell, god has done extremely well; you with patronizing nod show that you approve of god. kaiser, face a question new-- this--does god approve of you? broken pledges, treaties torn, your first page of war adorn; we on fouler things must look who read further in that book, where you did in time of war all that you in peace forswore, where you, barbarously wise, bade your soldiers terrorize, where you made--the deed was fine-- women screen your firing line. villages burned down to dust, torture, murder, bestial lust, filth too foul for printer's ink, crime from which the apes would shrink-- strange the offerings that you press on the god of righteousness! kaiser, when you'd decorate sons or friends who serve your state, not that iron cross bestow, but a cross of wood, and so-- so remind the world that you have made calvary anew. kaiser, when you'd kneel in prayer look upon your hands, and there let that deep and awful stain from the wood of children slain burn your very soul with shame, till you dare not breathe that name that now you glibly advertise-- god as one of your allies. impious braggart, you forget; god is not your conscript yet; you shall learn in dumb amaze that his ways are not your ways, that the mire through which you trod is not the high white road of god. _to whom, whichever way the combat rolls, we, fighting to the end, commend our souls._ _barry pain_ the superman the horror-haunted belgian plains riven by shot and shell are strewn with her undaunted sons who stayed the jaws of hell. in every sunny vale of france death is the countersign. the purest blood in britain's veins is being poured like wine. far, far across the crimsoned map the impassioned armies sweep. destruction flashes down the sky and penetrates the deep. the dreadnought knows the silent dread, and seas incarnadine attest the carnival of strife, the madman's battle scene. relentless, savage, hot, and grim the infuriate columns press where terror simulates disdain and danger is largess, where greedy youth claims death for bride and agony seems bliss. it is the cause, the cause, my soul! which sanctifies all this. ride, cossacks, ride! charge, turcos, charge! the fateful hour has come. let all the guns of britain roar or be forever dumb. the superman has burst his bonds. with kultur-flag unfurled and prayer on lip he runs amuck, imperilling the world. the impious creed that might is right in him personified bids all creation bend before the insatiate teuton pride, which, nourished on valhalla dreams of empire unconfined, would make the cannon and the sword the despots of mankind. efficient, thorough, strong, and brave--his vision is to kill. force is the hearthstone of his might, the pole-star of his will. his forges glow malevolent: their minions never tire to deck the goddess of his lust whose twins are blood and fire. o world grown sick with butchery and manifold distress! o broken belgium robbed of all save grief and ghastliness! should prussian power enslave the world and arrogance prevail, let chaos come, let moloch rule, and christ give place to baal. _robert grant_ three hills there is a hill in england, green fields and a school i know, where the balls fly fast in summer, and the whispering elm-trees grow, a little hill, a dear hill, and the playing fields below. there is a hill in flanders, heaped with a thousand slain, where the shells fly night and noontide and the ghosts that died in vain,-- a little hill, a hard hill to the souls that died in pain. there is a hill in jewry, three crosses pierce the sky, on the midmost he is dying to save all those who die,-- a little hill, a kind hill to souls in jeopardy. _everard owen_ _harrow, december, _ the return i heard the rumbling guns. i saw the smoke, the unintelligible shock of hosts that still, far off, unseeing, strove and strove again; and beauty flying naked down the hill from morn to eve: and the stern night cried peace! and shut the strife in darkness: all was still, then slowly crept a triumph on the dark-- and i heard beauty singing up the hill. _john freeman_ the mobilization in brittany i it was silent in the street. i did not know until a woman told me, sobbing over the muslin she sold me. then i went out and walked to the square and saw a few dazed people standing there. and then the drums beat, the drums beat! o then the drums beat! and hurrying, stumbling through the street came the hurrying stumbling feet. o i have heard the drums beat for war! i have heard the townsfolk come, i have heard the roll and thunder of the nearest drum as the drummer stopped and cried, "hear! be strong! the summons comes! prepare!" closing he prayed us to be calm.... and there was calm in my heart of the desert, of the dead sea, of vast plains of the west before the coming storm, and there was calm in their eyes like the last calm that shall be. and then the drum beat, the fatal drum, beat, and the drummer marched through the street and down to another square, and the drummer above took up the beat and sent it onward where huddled, we stood and heard the drums roll, and then a bell began to toll. o i have heard the thunder of drums crashing into simple poor homes. i have heard the drums roll "farewell!" i have heard the tolling cathedral bell. will it ever peal again? shall i ever smile or feel again? what was joy? what was pain? for i have heard the drums beat, i have seen the drummer striding from street to street, crying, "be strong! hear what i must tell!" while the drums roared and rolled and beat for war! ii last night the men of this region were leaving. now they are far. rough and strong they are, proud and gay they are. so this is the way of war.... the train was full and we all shouted as it pulled away. they sang an old war-song, they were true to themselves, they were gay! we might have thought they were going for a holiday-- except for something in the air, except for the weeping of the ruddy old women of finistère. the younger women do not weep. they dream and stare. they seem to be walking in dreams. they seem not to know it is their homes, their happiness, vanishing so. (every strong man between twenty and forty must go.) they sang an old war-song. i have heard it often in other days, but never before when war was walking the world's highways. they sang, they shouted, the _marseillaise!_ the train went and another has gone, but none, coming, has brought word. though you may know, you, out in the world, we have not heard, we are not sure that the great battalions have stirred-- except for something, something in the air, except for the weeping of the wild old women of finistère. how long will the others dream and stare? the train went. the strong men of this region are all away, afar. rough and strong they are, proud and gay they are. so this is the way of war.... _grace fallow norton_ the toy band (a song of the great retreat) dreary lay the long road, dreary lay the town, lights out and never a glint o' moon: weary lay the stragglers, half a thousand down, sad sighed the weary big dragoon. "oh! if i'd a drum here to make them take the road again, oh! if i'd a fife to wheedle, come, boys, come! you that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, fall in! fall in! follow the fife and drum! "hey, but here's a toy shop, here's a drum for me, penny whistles too to play the tune! half a thousand dead men soon shall hear and see we're a band!" said the weary big dragoon. "rubadub! rubadub! wake and take the road again, wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, come, boys, come! you that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, fall in! fall in! follow the fife and drum!" cheerly goes the dark road, cheerly goes the night, cheerly goes the blood to keep the beat: half a thousand dead men marching on to fight with a little penny drum to lift their feet. rubadub! rubadub! wake and take the road again, wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, come, boys, come! you that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, fall in! fall in! follow the fife and drum! as long as there's an englishman to ask a tale of me, as long as i can tell the tale aright, we'll not forget the penny whistle's wheedle-deedle-dee and the big dragoon a-beating down the night, rubadub! rubadub! wake and take the road again, wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, come, boys, come! you that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, fall in! fall in! follow the fife and drum! _henry newbolt_ thomas of the light heart facing the guns, he jokes as well as any judge upon the bench; between the crash of shell and shell his laughter rings along the trench; he seems immensely tickled by a projectile which he calls a "black maria." he whistles down the day-long road, and, when the chilly shadows fall and heavier hangs the weary load, is he down-hearted? not at all. 't is then he takes a light and airy view of the tedious route to tipperary. his songs are not exactly hymns; he never learned them in the choir; and yet they brace his dragging limbs although they miss the sacred fire; although his choice and cherished gems do not include "the watch upon the thames." he takes to fighting as a game; he does no talking, through his hat, of holy missions; all the same he has his faith--be sure of that; he'll not disgrace his sporting breed, nor play what isn't cricket. there's his creed. _owen seaman_ _october, _ in the trenches as i lay in the trenches under the hunter's moon, my mind ran to the lenches cut in a wiltshire down. i saw their long black shadows, the beeches in the lane, the gray church in the meadows and my white cottage--plain. thinks i, the down lies dreaming under that hot moon's eye, which sees the shells fly screaming and men and horses die. and what makes she, i wonder, of the horror and the blood, and what's her luck, to sunder the evil from the good? 't was more than i could compass, for how was i to think with such infernal rumpus in such a blasted stink? but here's a thought to tally with t'other. that moon sees a shrouded german valley with woods and ghostly trees. and maybe there's a river as we have got at home with poplar-trees aquiver and clots of whirling foam. and over there some fellow, a german and a foe, whose gills are turning yellow as sure as mine are so, watches that riding glory apparel'd in her gold, and craves to hear the story her frozen lips enfold. and if he sees as clearly as i do where her shrine must fall, he longs as dearly. with heart as full as mine. _maurice hewlett_ the guards came through men of the twenty-first up by the chalk pit wood, weak with our wounds and our thirst, wanting our sleep and our food, after a day and a night-- god, shall we ever forget! beaten and broke in the fight, but sticking it--sticking it yet. trying to hold the line, fainting and spent and done, always the thud and the whine, always the yell of the hun! northumberland, lancaster, york, durham and somerset, fighting alone, worn to the bone, but sticking it--sticking it yet. never a message of hope! never a word of cheer! fronting hill 's shell-swept slope, with the dull dead plain in our rear. always the whine of the shell, always the roar of its burst, always the tortures of hell, as waiting and wincing we cursed our luck and the guns and the _boche_, when our corporal shouted, "stand to!" and i heard some one cry, "clear the front for the guards!" and the guards came through. our throats they were parched and hot, but lord, if you'd heard the cheers! irish and welsh and scot, coldstream and grenadiers. two brigades, if you please, dressing as straight as a hem, we--we were down on our knees, praying for us and for them! lord, i could speak for a week, but how could you understand! how should _your_ cheeks be wet, such feelin's don't come to _you_. but when can me or my mates forget, when the guards came through? "five yards left extend!" it passed from rank to rank. line after line with never a bend, and a touch of the london swank. a trifle of swank and dash, cool as a home parade, twinkle and glitter and flash, flinching never a shade, with the shrapnel right in their face doing their hyde park stunt, keeping their swing at an easy pace, arms at the trail, eyes front! man, it was great to see! man, it was fine to do! it's a cot and a hospital ward for me, but i'll tell 'em in blighty, wherever i be, how the guards came through. _arthur conan doyle_ the passengers of a retarded submersible november, the american people: what was it kept you so long, brave german submersible? we have been very anxious lest matters had not gone well with you and the precious cargo of your country's drugs and dyes. but here you are at last, and the sight is good for our eyes, glad to welcome you up and out of the caves of the sea, and ready for sale or barter, whatever your will may be. the captain of the submersible: oh, do not be impatient, good friends of this neutral land, that we have been so tardy in reaching your eager strand. we were stopped by a curious chance just off the irish coast, where the mightiest wreck ever was lay crowded with a host of the dead that went down with her; and some prayed us to bring them here that they might be at home with their brothers and sisters dear. we germans have tender hearts, and it grieved us sore to say we were not a passenger ship, and to most we must answer nay, but if from among their hundreds they could somehow a half-score choose we thought we could manage to bring them, and we would not refuse. they chose, and the women and children that are greeting you here are those ghosts of the women and children that the rest of the hundred chose. the american people: what guff are you giving us, captain? we are able to tell, we hope, a dozen ghosts, when we see them, apart from a periscope. come, come, get down to business! for time is money, you know, and you must make up in both to us for having been so slow. better tell this story of yours to the submarines, for we know there was no such wreck, and none of your spookery. the ghosts of the lusitania women and children: oh, kind kin of our murderers, take us back when you sail away; our own kin have forgotten us. o captain, do not stay! but hasten, captain, hasten: the wreck that lies under the sea shall be ever the home for us this land can never be. _william dean howells_ edith cavell she was binding the wounds of her enemies when they came-- the lint in her hand unrolled. they battered the door with their rifle-butts, crashed it in: she faced them gentle and bold. they haled her before the judges where they sat in their places, helmet on head. with question and menace the judges assailed her, "yes, i have broken your law," she said. "i have tended the hurt and hidden the hunted, have done as a sister does to a brother, because of a law that is greater than that you have made, because i could do none other. "deal as you will with me. this is my choice to the end, to live in the life i vowed." "she is self-confessed," they cried; "she is self-condemned. she shall die, that the rest may be cowed." in the terrible hour of the dawn, when the veins are cold, they led her forth to the wall. "i have loved my land," she said, "but it is not enough: love requires of me all. "i will empty my heart of the bitterness, hating none." and sweetness filled her brave with a vision of understanding beyond the hour that knelled to the waiting grave. they bound her eyes, but she stood as if she shone. the rifles it was that shook when the hoarse command rang out. they could not endure that last, that defenceless look. and the officer strode and pistolled her surely, ashamed that men, seasoned in blood, should quail at a woman, only a woman,-- as a flower stamped in the mud. and now that the deed was securely done, in the night when none had known her fate, they answered those that had striven for her, day by day: "it is over, you come too late." and with many words and sorrowful-phrased excuse argued their german right to kill, most legally; hard though the duty be, the law must assert its might. only a woman! yet she had pity on them, the victim offered slain to the gods of fear that they worship. leave them there, red hands, to clutch their gain! she bewailed not herself, and we will bewail her not, but with tears of pride rejoice that an english soul was found so crystal-clear to be triumphant voice of the human heart that dares adventure all but live to itself untrue, and beyond all laws sees love as the light in the night, as the star it must answer to. the hurts she healed, the thousands comforted--these make a fragrance of her fame. but because she stept to her star right on through death it is victory speaks her name. _laurence binyon_ the hell-gate of soissons my name is darino, the poet. you have heard? _oui, comédie française_. perchance it has happened, _mon ami_, you know of my unworthy lays. ah, then you must guess how my fingers are itching to talk to a pen; for i was at soissons, and saw it, the death of the twelve englishmen. my leg, _malheureusement_, i left it behind on the banks of the aisne. regret? i would pay with the other to witness their valor again. a trifle, indeed, i assure you, to give for the honor to tell how that handful of british, undaunted, went into the gateway of hell. let me draw you a plan of the battle. here we french and your engineers stood; over there a detachment of german sharpshooters lay hid in a wood. a _mitrailleuse_ battery planted on top of this well-chosen ridge held the road for the prussians and covered the direct approach to the bridge. it was madness to dare the dense murder that spewed from those ghastly machines. (only those who have danced to its music can know what the _mitrailleuse_ means.) but the bridge on the aisne was a menace; our safety demanded its fall: "engineers,--volunteers!" in a body, the royals stood out at the call. death at best was the fate of that mission--to their glory not one was dismayed. a party was chosen--and seven survived till the powder was laid. and _they_ died with their fuses unlighted. another detachment! again a sortie is made--all too vainly. the bridge still commanded the aisne. we were fighting two foes--time and prussia--the moments were worth more than troops. we _must_ blow up the bridge. a lone soldier darts out from the royals and swoops for the fuse! fate seems with us. we cheer him; he answers--our hopes are reborn! a ball rips his visor--his khaki shows red where another has torn. will he live--will he last--will he make it? _hélas!_ and so near to the goal! a second, he dies! then a third one! a fourth! still the germans take toll! a fifth, _magnifique_! it is magic! how does he escape them? he may.... yes, he _does_! see, the match flares! a rifle rings out from the wood and says "nay!" six, seven, eight, nine take their places, six, seven, eight, nine brave their hail; six, seven, eight, nine--how we count them! but the sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth fail! a tenth! _sacré nom!_ but these english are soldiers--they know how to try; (he fumbles the place where his jaw was)--they show, too, how heroes can die. ten we count--ten who ventured unquailing--ten there were--and ten are no more! yet another salutes and superbly essays where the ten failed before. god of battles, look down and protect him! lord, his heart is as thine-- let him live! but the _mitrailleuse_ splutters and stutters, and riddles him into a sieve. then i thought of my sins, and sat waiting the charge that we could not withstand. and i thought of my beautiful paris, and gave a last look at the land, at france, my _belle france_, in her glory of blue sky and green field and wood. death with honor, but never surrender. and to die with such men--it was good. they are forming--the bugles are blaring--they will cross in a moment and then.... when out of the line of the royals (your island, _mon ami_, breeds men) burst a private, a tawny-haired giant--it was hopeless, but, _ciel!_ how he ran! _bon dieu_ please remember the pattern, and make many more on his plan! no cheers from our ranks, and the germans, they halted in wonderment too; see, he reaches the bridge; ah! he lights it! i am dreaming, it _cannot_ be true. screams of rage! _fusillade!_ they have killed him! too late though, the good work is done. by the valor of twelve english martyrs, the hell-gate of soissons is won! _herbert kaufman_ the virgin of albert (notre dame de brebiÈres) shyly expectant, gazing up at her, they linger, gaul and briton, side by side: death they know well, for daily have they died, spending their boyhood ever bravelier; they wait: here is no priest or chorister, birds skirt the stricken tower, terrified; desolate, empty, is the eastertide, yet still they wait, watching the babe and her. broken, the mother stoops: the brutish foe hurled with dull hate his bolts, and down she swayed, down, till she saw the toiling swarms below,-- platoons, guns, transports, endlessly arrayed: "women are woe for them! let me be theirs, and comfort them, and hearken all their prayers!" _george herbert clarke_ retreat broken, bewildered by the long retreat across the stifling leagues of southern plain, across the scorching leagues of trampled grain, half-stunned, half-blinded, by the trudge of feet and dusty smother of the august heat, he dreamt of flowers in an english lane, of hedgerow flowers glistening after rain-- all-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet. all-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet-- the innocent names kept up a cool refrain-- all-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet, chiming and tinkling in his aching brain, until he babbled like a child again-- "all-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet." _wilfrid wilson gibson_ a letter from the front i was out early to-day, spying about from the top of a haystack--such a lovely morning-- and when i mounted again to canter back i saw across a field in the broad sunlight a young gunner subaltern, stalking along with a rook-rifle held at the ready, and--would you believe it?-- a domestic cat, soberly marching beside him. so i laughed, and felt quite well disposed to the youngster, and shouted out "the top of the morning" to him, and wished him "good sport!"--and then i remembered my rank, and his, and what i ought to be doing: and i rode nearer, and added, "i can only suppose you have not seen the commander-in-chief's order forbidding english officers to annoy their allies by hunting and shooting." but he stood and saluted and said earnestly, "i beg your pardon, sir, i was only going out to shoot a sparrow to feed my cat with." so there was the whole picture, the lovely early morning, the occasional shell screeching and scattering past us, the empty landscape,-- empty, except for the young gunner saluting, and the cat, anxiously watching his every movement. i may be wrong, and i may have told it badly, but it struck _me_ as being extremely ludicrous. _henry newbolt_ rheims cathedral-- a wingèd death has smitten dumb thy bells, and poured them molten from thy tragic towers: now are the windows dust that were thy flower patterned like frost, petalled like asphodels. gone are the angels and the archangels, the saints, the little lamb above thy door, the shepherd christ! they are not, any more, save in the soul where exiled beauty dwells. but who has heard within thy vaulted gloom that old divine insistence of the sea, when music flows along the sculptured stone in tides of prayer, for him thy windows bloom like faithful sunset, warm immortally! thy bells live on, and heaven is in their tone! _grace hazard conkling_ i have a rendezvous with death.... i have a rendezvous with death at some disputed barricade, when spring comes back with rustling shade and apple-blossoms fill the air-- i have a rendezvous with death when spring brings back blue days and fair. it may be he shall take my hand and lead me into his dark land and close my eyes and quench my breath-- it may be i shall pass him still. i have a rendezvous with death on some scarred slope of battered hill, when spring comes round again this year and the first meadow-flowers appear. god knows 't were better to be deep pillowed in silk and scented down, where love throbs out in blissful sleep pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, where hushed awakenings are dear.... but i've a rendezvous with death at midnight in some flaming town, when spring trips north again this year, and i to my pledged word am true, i shall not fail that rendezvous. _alan seeger_ the soldier if i should die, think only this of me: that there's some corner of a foreign field that is for ever england. there shall be in that rich earth a richer dust concealed; 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 the rivers, blest by suns of home. and think this heart, all evil shed away, a pulse in the eternal mind, no less gives somewhere back the thoughts by england given; her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; and laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, in hearts at peace, under an english heaven. _rupert brooke_ expectans expectavi from morn to midnight, all day through, i laugh and play as others do, i sin and chatter, just the same as others with a different name. and all year long upon the stage, i dance and tumble and do rage so vehemently, i scarcely see the inner and eternal me. i have a temple i do not visit, a heart i have forgot, a self that i have never met, a secret shrine--and yet, and yet this sanctuary of my soul unwitting i keep white and whole, unlatched and lit, if thou should'st care to enter or to tarry there. with parted lips and outstretched hands and listening ears thy servant stands, call thou early, call thou late, to thy great service dedicate. _charles hamilton sorley_ _may, _ the volunteer here lies a clerk who half his life had spent toiling at ledgers in a city grey, thinking that so his days would drift away with no lance broken in life's tournament: yet ever 'twixt the books and his bright eyes the gleaming eagles of the legions came, and horsemen, charging under phantom skies, went thundering past beneath the oriflamme. and now those waiting dreams are satisfied; from twilight to the halls of dawn he went; his lance is broken; but he lies content with that high hour, in which he lived and died. and falling thus he wants no recompense, who found his battle in the last resort; nor needs he any hearse to bear him hence, who goes to join the men of agincourt. _herbert asquith_ into battle the naked earth is warm with spring, and with green grass and bursting trees leans to the sun's gaze glorying, and quivers in the sunny breeze; and life is colour and warmth and light, and a striving evermore for these; and he is dead who will not fight; and who dies fighting has increase. the fighting man shall from the sun take warmth, and life from the glowing earth; speed with the light-foot winds to run, and with the trees to newer birth; and find, when fighting shall be done, great rest, and fullness after dearth. all the bright company of heaven hold him in their high comradeship, the dog-star, and the sisters seven, orion's belt and sworded hip. the woodland trees that stand together, they stand to him each one a friend; they gently speak in the windy weather; they guide to valley and ridges' end. the kestrel hovering by day, and the little owls that call by night, bid him be swift and keen as they, as keen of ear, as swift of sight. the blackbird sings to him, "brother, brother, if this be the last song you shall sing, sing well, for you may not sing another; brother, sing." in dreary, doubtful, waiting hours, before the brazen frenzy starts, the horses show him nobler powers; o patient eyes, courageous hearts! and when the burning moment breaks, and all things else are out of mind, and only joy-of-battle takes him by the throat, and makes him blind, through joy and blindness he shall know, not caring much to know, that still nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so that it be not the destined will. the thundering line of battle stands, and in the air death moans and sings; but day shall clasp him with strong hands, and night shall fold him in soft wings. _julian grenfell_ _flanders, april, _ the cricketers of flanders the first to climb the parapet with "cricket balls" in either hand; the first to vanish in the smoke of god-forsaken no man's land; first at the wire and soonest through, first at those red-mouthed hounds of hell, the maxims, and the first to fall,-- they do their bit and do it well. full sixty yards i've seen them throw with all that nicety of aim they learned on british cricket-fields. ah, bombing is a briton's game! shell-hole to shell-hole, trench, to trench, "lobbing them over" with an eye as true as though it _were_ a game and friends were having tea close by. pull down some art-offending thing of carven stone, and in its stead let splendid bronze commemorate these men, the living and the dead. no figure of heroic size, towering skyward like a god; but just a lad who might have stepped from any british bombing squad. his shrapnel helmet set atilt, his bombing waistcoat sagging low, his rifle slung across his back: poised in the very act to throw. and let some graven legend tell of those weird battles in the west wherein he put old skill to use, and played old games with sterner zest. thus should he stand, reminding those in less-believing days, perchance, how britain's fighting cricketers helped bomb the germans out of france. and other eyes than ours would see; and other hearts than ours would thrill; and others say, as we have said: "a sportsman and a soldier still!" _james norman hall_ "all the hills and vales along" all the hills and vales along earth is bursting into song, and the singers are the chaps who are going to die perhaps. o sing, marching men, till the valleys ring again. give your gladness to earth's keeping, so be glad, when you are sleeping. cast away regret and rue, think what you are marching to. little live, great pass. jesus christ and barabbas were found the same day. this died, that went his way. so sing with joyful breath. for why, you are going to death. teeming earth will surely store all the gladness that you pour. earth that never doubts nor fears, earth that knows of death, not tears, earth that bore with joyful ease hemlock for socrates, earth that blossomed and was glad 'neath the cross that christ had, shall rejoice and blossom too when the bullet reaches you. wherefore, men marching on the road to death, sing! pour your gladness on earth's head, so be merry, so be dead. from the hills and valleys earth. shouts back the sound of mirth, tramp of feet and lilt of song ringing all the road along. all the music of their going, ringing, swinging, glad song-throwing, earth will echo still, when foot lies numb and voice mute. on, marching men, on to the gates of death with song. sow your gladness for earth's reaping, so you may be glad, though sleeping. strew your gladness on earth's bed, so be merry, so be dead. _charles hamilton sorley_ no man's land no man's land is an eerie sight at early dawn in the pale gray light. never a house and never a hedge in no man's land from edge to edge, and never a living soul walks there to taste the fresh of the morning air;-- only some lumps of rotting clay, that were friends or foemen yesterday. what are the bounds of no man's land? you can see them clearly on either hand, a mound of rag-bags gray in the sun, or a furrow of brown where the earthworks run from the eastern hills to the western sea, through field or forest o'er river and lea; no man may pass them, but aim you well and death rides across on the bullet or shell. but no man's land is a goblin sight when patrols crawl over at dead o' night; _boche_ or british, belgian or french, you dice with death when you cross the trench. when the "rapid," like fireflies in the dark, flits down the parapet spark by spark, and you drop for cover to keep your head with your face on the breast of the four months' dead. the man who ranges in no man's land is dogged by the shadows on either hand when the star-shell's flare, as it bursts o'erhead, scares the gray rats that feed on the dead, and the bursting bomb or the bayonet-snatch may answer the click of your safety-catch, for the lone patrol, with his life in his hand, is hunting for blood in no man's land. _james h. knight-adkin_ champagne, - in the glad revels, in the happy fêtes, when cheeks are flushed, and glasses gilt and pearled with the sweet wine of france that concentrates the sunshine and the beauty of the world, drink sometimes, you whose footsteps yet may tread the undisturbed, delightful paths of earth, to those whose blood, in pious duty shed, hallows the soil where that same wine had birth. here, by devoted comrades laid away, along our lines they slumber where they fell, beside the crater at the ferme d'alger and up the bloody slopes of la pompelle, and round the city whose cathedral towers the enemies of beauty dared profane, and in the mat of multicolored flowers that clothe the sunny chalk-fields of champagne, under the little crosses where they rise the soldier rests. now round him undismayed the cannon thunders, and at night he lies at peace beneath the eternal fusillade.... that other generations might possess-- from shame and menace free in years to come-- a richer heritage of happiness, he marched to that heroic martyrdom. esteeming less the forfeit that he paid than undishonored that his flag might float over the towers of liberty, he made his breast the bulwark and his blood the moat. obscurely sacrificed, his nameless tomb, bare of the sculptor's art, the poet's lines, summer shall flush with poppy-fields in bloom, and autumn yellow with maturing vines. there the grape-pickers at their harvesting shall lightly tread and load their wicker trays, blessing his memory as they toil and sing in the slant sunshine of october days.... i love to think that if my blood should be so privileged to sink where his has sunk, i shall not pass from earth entirely, but when the banquet rings, when healths are drunk, and faces that the joys of living fill glow radiant with laughter and good cheer, in beaming cups some spark of me shall still brim toward the lips that once i held so dear. so shall one coveting no higher plane than nature clothes in color and flesh and tone, even from the grave put upward to attain the dreams youth cherished and missed and might have known; and that strong need that strove unsatisfied toward earthly beauty in all forms it wore, not death itself shall utterly divide from the beloved shapes it thirsted for. alas, how many an adept for whose arms life held delicious offerings perished here, how many in the prime of all that charms, crowned with all gifts that conquer and endear! honor them not so much with tears and flowers, but you with whom the sweet fulfilment lies, where in the anguish of atrocious hours turned their last thoughts and closed their dying eyes, rather when music on bright gatherings lays its tender spell, and joy is uppermost, be mindful of the men they were, and raise your glasses to them in one silent toast. drink to them--amorous of dear earth as well, they asked no tribute lovelier than this-- and in the wine that ripened where they fell, oh, frame your lips as though it were a kiss. _alan seeger_ _champagne, france_, _july, _ headquarters a league and a league from the trenches--from the traversed maze of the lines, where daylong the sniper watches and daylong the bullet whines, and the cratered earth is in travail with mines and with countermines-- here, where haply some woman dreamed (are those her roses that bloom in the garden beyond the windows of my littered working room?) we have decked the map for our masters as a bride is decked for the groom. fair, on each lettered numbered square--crossroad and mound and wire, loophole, redoubt, and emplacement--lie the targets their mouths desire; gay with purples and browns and blues, have we traced them their arcs of fire. and ever the type-keys chatter; and ever our keen wires bring word from the watchers a-crouch below, word from the watchers a-wing: and ever we hear the distant growl of our hid 'guns thundering. hear it hardly, and turn again to our maps, where the trench lines crawl, red on the gray and each with a sign for the ranging shrapnel's fall-- snakes that our masters shall scotch at dawn, as is written here on the wall. for the weeks of our waiting draw to a close.... there is scarcely a leaf astir in the garden beyond my windows, where the twilight shadows blur the blaze of some woman's roses.... "bombardment orders, sir." _gilbert frankau_ home thoughts from laventie green gardens in laventie! soldiers only know the street where the mud is churned and splashed about by battle-wending feet; and yet beside one stricken house there is a glimpse of grass-- look for it when you pass. beyond the church whose pitted spire seems balanced on a strand of swaying stone and tottering brick, two roofless ruins stand; and here, among the wreckage, where the back-wall should have been, we found a garden green. the grass was never trodden on, the little path of gravel was overgrown with celandine; no other folk did travel along its weedy surface but the nimble-footed mouse, running from house to house. so all along the tender blades of soft and vivid grass we lay, nor heard the limber wheels that pass and ever pass in noisy continuity until their stony rattle seems in itself a battle. at length we rose up from this ease of tranquil happy mind, and searched the garden's little length some new pleasaunce to find; and there some yellow daffodils, and jasmine hanging high, did rest the tired eye. the fairest and most fragrant of the many sweets we found was a little bush of daphne flower upon a mossy mound, and so thick were the blossoms set and so divine the scent, that we were well content. hungry for spring i bent my head, the perfume fanned my face, and all my soul was dancing in that lovely little place, dancing with a measured step from wrecked and shattered towns away ... upon the downs. i saw green banks of daffodil, slim poplars in the breeze, great tan-brown hares in gusty march a-courting on the leas. and meadows, with their glittering streams--and silver-scurrying dace-- home, what a perfect place! _e. wyndham tennant_ a petition all that a man might ask thou hast given me, england, birthright and happy childhood's long heart's-ease, and love whose range is deep beyond all sounding and wider than all seas: a heart to front the world and find god in it. eyes blind enow but not too blind to see the lovely things behind the dross and darkness, and lovelier things to be; and friends whose loyalty time nor death shall weaken and quenchless hope and laughter's golden store-- all that a man might ask thou hast given me, england, yet grant thou one thing more: that now when envious foes would spoil thy splendour, unversed in arms, a dreamer such, as i, may in thy ranks be deemed not all unworthy, england, for thee to die. _robert ernest vernède_ fulfilment was there love once? i have forgotten her. was there grief once? grief yet is mine. other loves i have, men rough, but men who stir more grief, more joy, than love of thee and thine. faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth, lined by the wind, burned by the sun; bodies enraptured by the abounding earth, as whose children we are brethren: one. and any moment may descend hot death to shatter limbs! pulp, tear, blast belovèd soldiers who love rough life and breath not less for dying faithful to the last. o the fading eyes, the grimed face turned bony, oped mouth gushing, fallen head, lessening pressure of a hand, shrunk, clammed and stony! o sudden spasm, release of the dead! was there love once? i have forgotten her. was there grief once? grief yet is mine. o loved, living, dying, heroic soldier, all, all my joy, my grief, my love, are thine. _robert nichols_ the day's march the battery grides and jingles, mile succeeds to mile; shaking the noonday sunshine the guns lunge out awhile, and then are still awhile. we amble along the highway; the reeking, powdery dust ascends and cakes our faces with a striped, sweaty crust. under the still sky's violet the heat throbs on the air.... the white road's dusty radiance assumes a dark glare. with a head hot and heavy, and eyes that cannot rest, and a black heart burning in a stifled breast, i sit in the saddle, i feel the road unroll, and keep my senses straightened toward to-morrow's goal. there, over unknown meadows which we must reach at last, day and night thunders a black and chilly blast. heads forget heaviness, hearts forget spleen, for by that mighty winnowing being is blown clean. light in the eyes again, strength in the hand, a spirit dares, dies, forgives, and can understand! and, best! love comes back again after grief and shame, and along the wind of death throws a clean flame. * * * * * the battery grides and jingles, mile succeeds to mile; suddenly battering the silence the guns burst out awhile.... i lift my head and smile. _robert nichols_ the sign we are here in a wood of little beeches: and the leaves are like black lace against a sky of nacre. one bough of clear promise across the moon. it is in this wise that god speaketh unto me. he layeth hands of healing upon my flesh, stilling it in an eternal peace, until my soul reaches out myriad and infinite hands toward him, and is eased of its hunger. and i know that this passes: this implacable fury and torment of men, as a thing insensate and vain: and the stillness hath said unto me, over the tumult of sounds and shaken flame, out of the terrible beauty of wrath, _i alone am eternal._ one bough of clear promise across the moon. _frederic manning_ the trenches endless lanes sunken in the clay, bays, and traverses, fringed with wasted herbage, seed-pods of blue scabious, and some lingering blooms; and the sky, seen as from a well, brilliant with frosty stars. we stumble, cursing, on the slippery duck-boards. goaded like the damned by some invisible wrath, a will stronger than weariness, stronger than animal fear, implacable and monotonous. here a shaft, slanting, and below a dusty and flickering light from one feeble candle and prone figures sleeping uneasily, murmuring, and men who cannot sleep, with faces impassive as masks, bright, feverish eyes, and drawn lips, sad, pitiless, terrible faces, each an incarnate curse. here in a bay, a helmeted sentry silent and motionless, watching while two sleep, and he sees before him with indifferent eyes the blasted and torn land peopled with stiff prone forms, stupidly rigid, as tho' they had not been men. dead are the lips where love laughed or sang, the hands of youth eager to lay hold of life, eyes that have laughed to eyes, and these were begotten, o love, and lived lightly, and burnt with the lust of a man's first strength: ere they were rent. almost at unawares, savagely; and strewn in bloody fragments, to be the carrion of rats and crows. and the sentry moves not, searching night for menace with weary eyes. _frederic manning_ sonnets i i see across the chasm of flying years the pyre of dido on the vacant shore; i see medea's fury and hear the roar of rushing flames, the new bride's burning tears; and ever as still another vision peers thro' memory's mist to stir me more and more, i say that surely i have lived before and known this joy and trembled with these fears. the passion that they show me burns so high; their love, in me who have not looked on love, so fiercely flames; so wildly comes the cry of stricken women the warrior's call above, that i would gladly lay me down and die to wake again where helen and hector move. ii the falling rain is music overhead, the dark night, lit by no intruding star, fit covering yields to thoughts that roam afar and turn again familiar paths to tread, where many a laden hour too quickly sped in happier times, before the dawn of war, before the spoiler had whet his sword to mar the faithful living and the mighty dead. it is not that my soul is weighed with woe, but rather wonder, seeing they do but sleep. as birds that in the sinking summer sweep across the heaven to happier climes to go, so they are gone; and sometimes we must weep, and sometimes, smiling, murmur, "be it so!" _henry william hutchinson_ the messines road i the road that runs up to messines is double-locked with gates of fire, barred with high ramparts, and between the unbridged river, and the wire. none ever goes up to messines, for death lurks all about the town, death holds the vale as his demesne, and only death moves up and down. ii choked with wild weeds, and overgrown with rank grass, all torn and rent by war's opposing engines, strewn with débris from each day's event! and in the dark the broken trees, whose arching boughs were once its shade, grim and distorted, ghostly ease in groans their souls vexed and afraid. yet here the farmer drove his cart, here friendly folk would meet and pass, here bore the good wife eggs to mart and old and young walked up to mass. here schoolboys lingered in the way, here the bent packman laboured by, and lovers at the end o' the day whispered their secret blushingly. a goodly road for simple needs, an avenue to praise and paint, kept by fair use from wreck and weeds, blessed by the shrine of its own saint. iii the road that runs up to messines! ah, how we guard it day and night! and how they guard it, who o'erween a stricken people, with their might! but we shall go up to messines even thro' that fire-defended gate. over and thro' all else between and give the highway back its state. _j. e. stewart_ the challenge of the guns by day, by night, along the lines their dull boom rings, and that reverberating roar its challenge flings. not only unto thee across the narrow sea, but from the loneliest vale in the last land's heart the sad-eyed watching mother sees her sons depart. and freighted full the tumbling waters of ocean are with aid for england from england's sons afar. the glass is dim; we see not wisely, far, nor well, but bred of english bone, and reared on freedom's wine, all that we have and are we lay on england's shrine. a. n. field the beach road by the wood i know a beach road, a road where i would go, it runs up northward from cooden bay to hoe; and there, in the high woods, daffodils grow. and whoever walks along there stops short and sees, by the moist tree-roots in a clearing of the trees, yellow great battalions of them, blowing in the breeze. while the spring sun brightens, and the dull sky clears, they blow their golden trumpets, those golden trumpeteers! they blow their golden trumpets and they shake their glancing spears. and all the rocking beech-trees are bright with buds again, and the green and open spaces are greener after rain, and far to southward one can hear the sullen, moaning rain. once before i die i will leave the town behind, the loud town, the dark town that cramps and chills the mind, and i'll stand again bareheaded there in the sunlight and the wind. yes, i shall stand where as a boy i stood above the dykes and levels in the beach road by the wood, and i'll smell again the sea breeze, salt and harsh and good. and there shall rise to me from that consecrated ground the old dreams, the lost dreams that years and cares have drowned; welling up within me and above me and around the song that i could never sing and the face i never found. _geoffrey howard_ german prisoners when first i saw you in the curious street like some platoon of soldier ghosts in grey, my mad impulse was all to smite and slay, to spit upon you--tread you 'neath my feet. but when i saw how each sad soul did greet my gaze with no sign of defiant frown, how from tired eyes looked spirits broken down, how each face showed the pale flag of defeat, and doubt, despair, and disillusionment, and how were grievous wounds on many a head. and on your garb red-faced was other red; and how you stooped as men whose strength was spent, i knew that we had suffered each as other, and could have grasped your hand and cried, "my brother!" _joseph lee_ "--but a short time to live" our little hour,--how swift it flies when poppies flare and lilies smile; how soon the fleeting minute dies, leaving us but a little while to dream our dream, to sing our song, to pick the fruit, to pluck the flower, the gods--they do not give us long,-- one little hour. our little hour,--how short it is when love with dew-eyed loveliness raises her lips for ours to kiss and dies within our first caress. youth flickers out like wind-blown flame, sweets of to-day to-morrow sour, for time and death, relentless, claim our little hour. our little hour,--how short a tune to wage our wars, to fan our hates, to take our fill of armoured crime, to troop our banners, storm the gates. blood on the sword, our eyes blood-red, blind in our puny reign of power, do we forget how soon is sped our little hour? our little hour,--how soon it dies: how short a time to tell our beads, to chant our feeble litanies, to think sweet thoughts, to do good deeds. the altar lights grow pale and dim, the bells hang silent in the tower-- so passes with the dying hymn our little hour. _leslie coulson_ before action by all the glories of the day, and the cool evening's benison: by the last sunset touch that lay upon the hills when day was done; by beauty lavishly outpoured, and blessings carelessly received, by all the days that i have lived, make me a soldier, lord. by all of all men's hopes and fears, and all the wonders poets sing, the laughter of unclouded years, and every sad and lovely thing: by the romantic ages stored with high endeavour that was his, by all his mad catastrophes, make me a man, o lord. i, that on my familiar hill saw with uncomprehending eyes a hundred of thy sunsets spill their fresh and sanguine sacrifice, ere the sun swings his noonday sword must say good-bye to all of this:-- by all delights that i shall miss, help me to die, o lord. _w. n. hodgson ("edward melbourne")_ courage alone amid the battle-din untouched stands out one figure beautiful, serene; no grime of smoke nor reeking blood hath smutched the virgin brow of this unconquered queen. she is the joy of courage vanquishing the unstilled tremors of the fearful heart; and it is she that bids the poet sing, and gives to each the strength to bear his part. her eye shall not be dimmed, but as a flame shall light the distant ages with its fire, that men may know the glory of her name, that purified our souls of fear's desire. and she doth calm our sorrow, soothe our pain, and she shall lead us back to peace again. _dyneley hussey_ optimism at last there'll dawn the last of the long year, of the long year that seemed to dream no end, whose every dawn but turned the world more drear, and slew some hope, or led away some friend. or be you dark, or buffeting, or blind, we care not, day, but leave not death behind. the hours that feed on war go heavy-hearted, death is no fare wherewith to make hearts fain. oh, we are sick to find that they who started with glamour in their eyes came not again. o day, be long and heavy if you will, but on our hopes set not a bitter heel. for tiny hopes like tiny flowers of spring will come, though death and ruin hold the land, though storms may roar they may not break the wing of the earthed lark whose song is ever bland. fell year unpitiful, slow days of scorn, your kind shall die, and sweeter days be born. _a. victor ratcliffe_ the battlefield around no fire the soldiers sleep to-night, but lie a-wearied on the ice-bound field, with cloaks wrapt round their sleeping forms, to shield them from the northern winds. ere comes the light of morn brave men must arm, stern foes to fight. the sentry stands, his limbs with cold congealed; his head a-nod with sleep; he cannot yield, though sleep and snow in deadly force unite. amongst the sleepers lies the boy awake, and wide-eyed plans brave glories that transcend the deeds of heroes dead; then dreams o'ertake his tired-out brain, and lofty fancies blend to one grand theme, and through all barriers break to guard from hurt his faithful sleeping friend. _sydney oswald_ "on les aura!" soldat jacques bonhomme loquitur: see you that stretch of shell-torn mud spotted with pools of mire, crossed by a burst abandoned trench and tortured strands of wire, where splintered pickets reel and sag and leprous trench-rats play, that scour the devil's hunting-ground to seek their carrion prey? that is the field my father loved, the field that once was mine, the land i nursed for my child's child as my fathers did long syne. see there a mound of powdered stones, all flattened, smashed, and torn, gone black with damp and green with slime?--ere you and i were born my father's father built a house, a little house and bare, and there i brought my woman home--that heap of rubble there! the soil of france! fat fields and green that bred my blood and bone! each wound that scars my bosom's pride burns deeper than my own. but yet there is one thing to say--one thing that pays for all, whatever lot our bodies know, whatever fate befall, we hold the line! we hold it still! my fields are no man's land, but the good god is debonair and holds us by the hand. "_on les aura!_" see there! and there i soaked heaps of huddled, grey! my fields shall laugh--enriched by those who sought them for a prey. _james h. knight-adkin_ to an old lady seen at a guesthouse for soldiers quiet thou didst stand at thine appointed place, there was no press to purchase--younger grace attracts the youth of valour. thou didst not know, like the old, kindly martha, to and fro to haste. yet one could say, "in thine i prize the strength of calm that held in mary's eyes." and when they came, thy gracious smile so wrought they knew that they were given, not that they bought. thou didst not tempt to vauntings, and pretence was dumb before thy perfect woman's sense. blest who have seen, for they shall ever see the radiance of thy benignity. _alexander robertson_ the casualty clearing station a bowl of daffodils, a crimson-quilted bed, sheets and pillows white as snow-- white and gold and red-- and sisters moving to and fro, with soft and silent tread. so all my spirit fills with pleasure infinite, and all the feathered wings of rest seem flocking from the radiant west to bear me thro' the night. see, how they close me in. they, and the sisters' arms. one eye is closed, the other lid is watching how my spirit slid toward some red-roofed farms, and having crept beneath them slept secure from war's alarms. _gilbert waterhouse_ hills of home oh! yon hills are filled with sunlight, and the green leaves paled to gold, and the smoking mists of autumn hanging faintly o'er the wold; i dream of hills of other days whose sides i loved to roam when spring was dancing through the lanes of those distant hills of home. the winds of heaven gathered there as pure and cold as dew; wood-sorrel and wild violets along the hedgerows grew, the blossom on the pear-trees was as white as flakes of foam in the orchard 'neath the shadow of those distant hills of home. the first white frost in the meadow will be shining there to-day and the furrowed upland glinting warm beside the woodland way; there, a bright face and a clear hearth will be waiting when i come, and my heart is throbbing wildly for those distant hills of home. _malcolm hemphrey_ the red cross spirit speaks wherever war, with its red woes, or flood, or fire, or famine goes, there, too, go i; if earth in any quarter quakes or pestilence its ravage makes, thither i fly. i kneel behind the soldier's trench, i walk 'mid shambles' smear and stench, the dead i mourn; i bear the stretcher and i bend o'er fritz and pierre and jack to mend what shells have torn. i go wherever men may dare, i go wherever woman's care and love can live, wherever strength and skill can bring surcease to human suffering, or solace give. i helped upon haldora's shore; with hospitaller knights i bore the first red cross; i was the lady of the lamp; i saw in solferino's camp the crimson loss. i am your pennies and your pounds; i am your bodies on their rounds of pain afar: i am _you_, doing what you would if you were only where you could-- your avatar. the cross which on my arm i wear, the flag which o'er my breast i bear, is but the sign of what you'd sacrifice for him who suffers on the hellish rim of war's red line. _john finley_ chaplain to the forces ["i have once more to remark upon the devotion to duty, courage, and contempt of danger which has characterized the work of the chaplains of the army throughout this campaign."--_sir john french, in the neuve chapelle dispatch_.] ambassador of christ you go up to the very gates of hell, through fog of powder, storm of shell, to speak your master's message: "lo, the prince of peace is with you still, his peace be with you, his good-will." it is not small, your priesthood's price. to be a man and yet stand by, to hold your life while others die, to bless, not share the sacrifice, to watch the strife and take no part-- you with the fire at your heart. but yours, for our great captain christ, to know the sweat of agony, the darkness of gethsemane, in anguish for these souls unpriced. vicegerent of god's pity you, a sword must pierce your own soul through. in the pale gleam of new-born day, apart in some tree-shadowed place, your altar but a packing-case, rude as the shed where mary lay, your sanctuary the rain-drenched sod, you bring the kneeling soldier god. as sentinel you guard the gate 'twixt life and death, and unto death speed the brave soul whose failing breath shudders not at the grip of fate, but answers, gallant to the end, "christ is the word--and i his friend." then god go with you, priest of god, for all is well and shall be well. what though you tread the roads of hell, your captain these same ways has trod. above the anguish and the loss still floats the ensign of his cross. _winifred m. letts_ song of the red cross o gracious ones, we bless your name upon our bended knee; the voice of love with tongue of flame records your charity. your hearts, your lives right willingly ye gave, that sacred ruth might shine; ye fell, bright spirits, brave amongst the brave, compassionate, divine. example from your lustrous deeds the conqueror shall take, sowing sublime and fruitful seeds of _aidos_ in this ache. and when our griefs have passed on gloomy wing, when friend and foe are sped, sons of a morning to be born shall sing the radiant cross of red; sons of a morning to be born shall sing the radiant cross of red. _eden phillpotts_ the healers in a vision of the night i saw them, in the battles of the night. 'mid the roar and the reeling shadows of blood they were moving like light, light of the reason, guarded tense within the will, as a lantern under a tossing of boughs burns steady and still. with scrutiny calm, and with fingers patient as swift they bind up the hurts and the pain-writhen bodies uplift, untired and defenceless; around them with shrieks in its breath bursts stark from the terrible horizon impersonal death; but they take not their courage from anger that blinds the hot being; they take not their pity from weakness; tender, yet seeing; feeling, yet nerved to the uttermost; keen, like steel; yet the wounds of the mind they are stricken with, who shall heal? they endure to have eyes of the watcher in hell, and not swerve for an hour from the faith that they follow, the light that they serve. man true to man, to his kindness that overflows all, to his spirit erect in the thunder when all his forts fall,-- this light, in the tiger-mad welter, they serve and they save. what song shall be worthy to sing of them-- braver than the brave? _laurence binyon_ the red cross nurses out where the line of battle cleaves the horizon of woe and sightless warriors clutch the leaves the red cross nurses go. in where the cots of agony mark death's unmeasured tide-- bear up the battle's harvestry-- the red cross nurses glide. look! where the hell of steel has torn its way through slumbering earth the orphaned urchins kneel forlorn and wonder at their birth. until, above them, calm and wise with smile and guiding hand, god looking through their gentle eyes, the red cross nurses stand. _thomas l. masson_ kilmeny (a song of the trawlers) dark, dark lay the drifters, against the red west, as they shot their long meshes of steel overside; and the oily green waters were rocking to rest when _kilmeny_ went out, at the turn of the tide. and nobody knew where that lassie would roam, for the magic that called her was tapping unseen, it was well nigh a week ere _kilmeny_ came home, and nobody knew where _kilmeny_ had been. she'd a gun at her bow that was newcastle's best, and a gun at her stern that was fresh from the clyde, and a secret her skipper had never confessed, not even at dawn, to his newly wed bride; and a wireless that whispered above like a gnome, the laughter of london, the boasts of berlin. o, it may have been mermaids that lured her from home, but nobody knew where _kilmeny_ had been. it was dark when _kilmeny_ came home from her quest, with her bridge dabbled red where her skipper had died; but she moved like a bride with a rose at her breast; and "well done, kilmeny!" the admiral cried. now at sixty-four fathom a conger may come, and nose at the bones of a drowned submarine; but late in the evening _kilmeny_ came home, and nobody knew where _kilmeny_ had been. there's a wandering shadow that stares at the foam, though they sing all the night to old england, their queen, late, late in the evening _kilmeny_ came home, and nobody knew where _kilmeny_ had been. _alfred noyes_ the mine-sweepers dawn off the foreland--the young flood making jumbled and short and steep-- black in the hollows and bright where it's breaking-- awkward water to sweep. "mines reported in the fairway, warn all traffic and detain. sent up _unity_, _claribel_, _assyrian_, _stormcock_, and _golden gain_." noon off the foreland--the first ebb making lumpy and strong in the bight. boom after boom, and the golf-hut shaking and the jackdaws wild with fright. "mines located in the fairway, boats now working up the chain, sweepers--_unity_, _claribel_, _assyrian_, _stormcock_, and _golden gain_." dusk off the foreland--the last light going and the traffic crowding through, and five damned trawlers with their syreens blowing heading the whole review! "sweep completed in the fairway. no more mines remain. sent back _unity_, _claribel_, _assyrian_, _stormcock_, and _golden gain_." rudyard kipling_ mare liberum you dare to say with perjured lips, "we fight to make the ocean free"? _you_, whose black trail of butchered ships bestrews the bed of every sea where german submarines have wrought their horrors! have you never thought,-- what you call freedom, men call piracy! unnumbered ghosts that haunt the wave where you have murdered, cry you down; and seamen whom you would not save, weave now in weed-grown depths a crown of shame for your imperious head,-- a dark memorial of the dead,-- women and children whom you left to drown. nay, not till thieves are set to guard the gold, and corsairs called to keep o'er peaceful commerce watch and ward, and wolves to herd the helpless sheep, shall men and women look to thee-- thou ruthless old man of the sea-- to safeguard law and freedom on the deep! in nobler breeds we put our trust: the nations in whose sacred lore the "ought" stands out above the "must," and honor rules in peace and war. with these we hold in soul and heart, with these we choose our lot and part, till liberty is safe on sea and shore. _henry van dyke_ _february , _ the dawn patrol sometimes i fly at dawn above the sea, where, underneath, the restless waters flow-- silver, and cold, and slow, dim in the east there burns a new-born sun, whose rosy gleams along the ripples run, save where the mist droops low, hiding the level loneliness from me. and now appears beneath the milk-white haze a little fleet of anchored ships, which lie in clustered company, and seem as they are yet fast bound by sleep, although the day has long begun to peep, with red-inflamèd eye, along the still, deserted ocean ways. the fresh, cold wind of dawn blows on my face as in the sun's raw heart i swiftly fly, and watch the seas glide by. scarce human seem i, moving through the skies, and far removed from warlike enterprise-- like some great gull on high whose white and gleaming wings beat on through space. then do i feel with god quite, quite alone, high in the virgin morn, so white and still, and free from human ill: my prayers transcend my feeble earth-bound plaints-- as though i sang among the happy saints with many a holy thrill-- as though the glowing sun were god's bright throne. my flight is done. i cross the line of foam that breaks around a town of grey and red, whose streets and squares lie dead beneath the silent dawn--then am i proud that england's peace to guard i am allowed; then bow my humble head, in thanks to him who brings me safely home. _paul bewsher_ destroyers off jutland ["if lost hounds could speak when they cast up next day after an unchecked night among the wild life of the dark they would talk much as our destroyers do."--_rudyard kipling_.] they had hot scent across the spumy sea, _gehenna_ and her sister, swift _shaitan_, that in the pack, with _goblin_, _eblis_ ran and many a couple more, full cry, foot-free; the dog-fox and his brood were fain to flee, but bare of fang and dangerous to the van that pressed them close. so when the kill began some hounds were lamed and some died splendidly. but from the dusk along the skagerack, until dawn loomed upon the reef of horn and the last fox had slunk back to his earth, they kept the great traditions of the pack, staunch-hearted through the hunt, as they were born, these hounds that england suckled at the birth. _reginald mcintosh cleveland_ british merchant service oh, down by millwall basin as i went the other day, i met a skipper that i knew, and to him i did say: "now what's the cargo, captain, that brings you up this way?" "oh, i've been up and down (said he) and round about also.... from sydney to the skagerack, and kiel to callao.... with a leaking steam-pipe all the way to californ-i-o.... "with pots and pans and ivory fans and every kind of thing, rails and nails and cotton bales, and sewer pipes and string.... but now i'm through with cargoes, and i'm here to serve the king! "and if it's sweeping mines (to which my fancy somewhat leans) or hanging out with booby-traps for the skulking submarines, i'm here to do my blooming best and give the beggars beans! "a rough job and a tough job is the best job for me, and what or where i don't much care, i'll take what it may be, for a tight place is the right place when it's foul weather at sea!" * * * * * there's not a port he doesn't know from melbourne to new york; he's as hard as a lump of harness beef, and as salt as pickled pork.... and he'll stand by a wreck in a murdering gale and count it part of his work! he's the terror of the fo'c's'le when he heals its various ills with turpentine and mustard leaves, and poultices and pills.... but he knows the sea like the palm of his hand, as a shepherd knows the hills. he'll spin you yarns from dawn to dark--and half of 'em are true! he swears in a score of languages, and maybe talks in two! and ... he'll lower a boat in a hurricane to save a drowning crew. a rough job or a tough job--he's handled two or three-- and what or where he won't much care, nor ask what the risk may be.... for a tight place is the right place when it's wild weather at sea! _c. fox smith_ to a soldier in hospital courage came to you with your boyhood's grace of ardent life and limb. each day new dangers steeled you to the test, to ride, to climb, to swim. your hot blood taught you carelessness of death with every breath. so when you went to play another game you could not but be brave: an empire's team, a rougher football field, the end--perhaps your grave. what matter? on the winning of a goal you staked your soul. yes, you wore courage as you wore your youth with carelessness and joy. but in what spartan school of discipline did you get patience, boy? how did you learn to bear this long-drawn pain and not complain? restless with throbbing hopes, with thwarted aims, impulsive as a colt, how do you lie here month by weary month helpless, and not revolt? what joy can these monotonous days afford here in a ward? yet you are merry as the birds in spring, or feign the gaiety, lest those who dress and tend your wound each day should guess the agony. lest they should suffer--this the only fear you let draw near. greybeard philosophy has sought in books and argument this truth, that man is greater than his pain, but you have learnt it in your youth. you know the wisdom taught by calvary at twenty-three. death would have found you brave, but braver still you face each lagging day, a merry stoic, patient, chivalrous, divinely kind and gay. you bear your knowledge lightly, graduate of unkind fate. careless philosopher, the first to laugh, the latest to complain. unmindful that you teach, you taught me this in your long fight with pain: since god made man so good--here stands my creed-- god's good indeed. _winifred m. letts_ between the lines when consciousness came back, he found he lay between the opposing fires, but could not tell on which hand were his friends; and either way for him to turn was chancy--bullet and shell whistling and shrieking over him, as the glare of searchlights scoured the darkness to blind day. he scrambled to his hands and knees ascare, dragging his wounded foot through puddled clay, and tumbled in a hole a shell had scooped at random in a turnip-field between the unseen trenches where the foes lay cooped through that unending-battle of unseen, dead-locked, league-stretching armies; and quite spent he rolled upon his back within the pit, and lay secure, thinking of all it meant-- his lying in that little hole, sore hit, but living, while across the starry sky shrapnel and shell went screeching overhead-- of all it meant that he, tom dodd, should lie among the belgian turnips, while his bed.... if it were he, indeed, who'd climbed each night, fagged with the day's work, up the narrow stair, and slipt his clothes off in the candle-light, too tired to fold them neatly in a chair the way his mother'd taught him--too dog-tired after the long day's serving in the shop, inquiring what each customer required, politely talking weather, fit to drop.... and now for fourteen days and nights, at least, he hadn't had his clothes off, and had lain in muddy trenches, napping like a beast with one eye open, under sun and rain and that unceasing hell-fire.... it was strange how things turned out--the chances! you'd just got to take your luck in life, you couldn't change your luck. and so here he was lying shot who just six months ago had thought to spend his days behind a counter. still, perhaps.... and now, god only knew how he would end! he'd like to know how many of the chaps had won back to the trench alive, when he had fallen wounded and been left for dead, if any!... this was different, certainly, from selling knots of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape, day in, day out, and answering "have you got"'s and "do you keep"'s till there seemed no escape from everlasting serving in a shop, inquiring what each customer required, politely talking weather, fit to drop, with swollen ankles, tired.... but he was tired now. every bone was aching, and had ached for fourteen days and nights in that wet trench-- just duller when he slept than when he waked-- crouching for shelter from the steady drench of shell and shrapnel.... that old trench, it seemed almost like home to him. he'd slept and fed and sung and smoked in it, while shrapnel screamed and shells went whining harmless overhead-- harmless, at least, as far as he.... but dick-- dick hadn't found them harmless yesterday, at breakfast, when he'd said he couldn't stick eating dry bread, and crawled out the back way, and brought them butter in a lordly dish-- butter enough for all, and held it high, yellow and fresh and clean as you would wish-- when plump upon the plate from out the sky a shell fell bursting.... where the butter went, god only knew!... and dick.... he dared not think of what had come to dick.... or what it meant-- the shrieking and the whistling and the stink he'd lived in fourteen days and nights. 't was luck that he still lived.... and queer how little then he seemed to care that dick.... perhaps 't was pluck that hardened him--a man among the men-- perhaps.... yet, only think things out a bit, and he was rabbit-livered, blue with funk! and he'd liked dick ... and yet when dick was hit he hadn't turned a hair. the meanest skunk he should have thought would feel it when his mate was blown to smithereens--dick, proud as punch, grinning like sin, and holding up the plate-- but he had gone on munching his dry hunch, unwinking, till he swallowed the last crumb. perhaps 't was just because he dared not let his mind run upon dick, who'd been his chum. he dared not now, though he could not forget. dick took his luck. and, life or death, 't was luck from first to last; and you'd just got to trust your luck and grin. it wasn't so much pluck as knowing that you'd got to, when needs must, and better to die grinning.... quiet now had fallen on the night. on either hand the guns were quiet. cool upon his brow the quiet darkness brooded, as he scanned the starry sky. he'd never seen before so many stars. although, of course, he'd known that there were stars, somehow before the war he'd never realised them--so thick-sown, millions and millions. serving in the shop, stars didn't count for much; and then at nights strolling the pavements, dull and fit to drop, you didn't see much but the city lights. he'd never in his life seen so much sky as he'd seen this last fortnight. it was queer the things war taught you. he'd a mind to try to count the stars--they shone so bright and clear. one, two, three, four.... ah, god, but he was tired.... five, six, seven, eight.... yes, it was number eight. and what was the next thing that she required? (too bad of customers to come so late, at closing time!) again within the shop he handled knots of tape and reels of thread, politely talking weather, fit to drop.... when once again the whole sky overhead flared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of shell and scream of shrapnel roused him. drowsily he stared about him, wondering. then he fell into deep dreamless slumber. * * * * * he could see two dark eyes peeping at him, ere he knew he was awake, and it again was day-- an august morning, burning to clear blue. the frightened rabbit scuttled.... far away, a sound of firing.... up there, in the sky big dragon-flies hung hovering.... snowballs burst about them.... flies and snowballs. with a cry he crouched to watch the airmen pass--the first that he'd seen under fire. lord, that was pluck-- shells bursting all about them--and what nerve! they took their chance, and trusted to their luck. at such a dizzy height to dip and swerve, dodging the shell-fire.... hell! but one was hit, and tumbling like a pigeon, plump.... thank heaven, it righted, and then turned; and after it the whole flock followed safe--four, five, six, seven, yes, they were all there safe. he hoped they'd win back to their lines in safety. they deserved, even if they were germans.... 't was no sin to wish them luck. think how that beggar swerved just in the nick of time! he, too, must try to win back to the lines, though, likely as not, he'd take the wrong turn: but he couldn't lie forever in that hungry hole and rot, he'd got to take his luck, to take his chance of being sniped by foes or friends. he'd be with any luck in germany or france or kingdom-come, next morning.... drearily the blazing day burnt over him, shot and shell whistling and whining ceaselessly. but light faded at last, and as the darkness fell he rose, and crawled away into the night. _wilfrid wilson gibson_ the white comrade (after w.h. leatham's _the comrade in white_) under our curtain of fire, over the clotted clods, we charged, to be withered, to reel and despairingly wheel when the bugles bade us retire from the terrible odds. as we ebbed with the battle-tide, fingers of red-hot steel suddenly closed on my side. i fell, and began to pray. i crawled on my hands and lay where a shallow crater yawned wide; then,--i swooned.... when i woke, it was yet day. fierce was the pain of my wound, but i saw it was death to stir, for fifty paces away their trenches were. in torture i prayed for the dark and the stealthy step of my friend who, staunch to the very end, would creep to the danger zone and offer his life as a mark to save my own. night fell. i heard his tread, not stealthy, but firm and serene, as if my comrade's head were lifted far from that scene of passion and pain and dread; as if my comrade's heart in carnage took no part; as if my comrade's feet were set on some radiant street such as no darkness might haunt; as if my comrade's eyes, no deluge of flame could surprise, no death and destruction daunt, no red-beaked bird dismay, nor sight of decay. then in the bursting shells' dim light i saw he was clad in white. for a moment i thought that i saw the smock of a shepherd in search of his flock. alert were the enemy, too, and their bullets flew straight at a mark no bullet could fail; for the seeker was tall and his robe was bright; but he did not flee nor quail. instead, with unhurrying stride he came, and gathering my tall frame, like a child, in his arms.... again i swooned, and awoke from a blissful dream in a cave by a stream. my silent comrade had bound my side. no pain now was mine, but a wish that i spoke,-- a mastering wish to serve this man who had ventured through hell my doom to revoke, as only the truest of comrades can. i begged him to tell me how best i might aid him, and urgently prayed him never to leave me, whatever betide; when i saw he was hurt-- shot through the hands that were clasped in prayer! then, as the dark drops gathered there and fell in the dirt, the wounds of my friend seemed to me such as no man might bear. those bullet-holes in the patient hands seemed to transcend all horrors that ever these war-drenched lands had known or would know till the mad world's end. then suddenly i was aware that his feet had been wounded, too; and, dimming the white of his side, a dull stain grew. "you are hurt, white comrade!" i cried. his words i already foreknew: "these are old wounds," said he, "but of late they have troubled me." _robert haven schauffler_ fleurette the wounded canadian speaks: my leg? it's off at the knee. do i miss it? well, some. you see i've had it since i was born; and lately a devilish corn. (i rather chuckle with glee to think how i've fooled that corn.) but i'll hobble around all right. it isn't that, it's my face. oh, i know i'm a hideous sight, hardly a thing in place. sort of gargoyle, you'd say. nurse won't give me a glass, but i see the folks as they pass shudder and turn away; turn away in distress.... mirror enough, i guess. i'm gay! you bet i _am_ gay, but i wasn't a while ago. if you'd seen me even to-day, the darnedest picture of woe, with this caliban mug of mine, so ravaged and raw and red, turned to the wall--in fine wishing that i was dead.... what has happened since then, since i lay with my face to the wall, the most despairing of men! listen! i'll tell you all. that _poilu_ across the way, with the shrapnel wound on his head, has a sister: she came to-day to sit awhile by his bed. all morning i heard him fret: "oh, when will she come, fleurette?" then sudden, a joyous cry; the tripping of little feet; the softest, tenderest sigh; a voice so fresh and sweet; clear as a silver bell, fresh as the morning dews: "_c'est toi, c'est toi, marcel! mon frère, comme je suis heureuse!_" so over the blanket's rim i raised my terrible face, and i saw--how i envied him! a girl of such delicate grace; sixteen, all laughter and love; as gay as a linnet, and yet as tenderly sweet as a dove; half woman, half child--fleurette. then i turned to the wall again. (i was awfully blue, you see,) and i thought with a bitter pain: "such visions are not for me." so there like a log i lay, all hidden, i thought, from view, when sudden i heard her say: "ah! who is that _malheureux_?" then briefly i heard him tell (however he came to know) how i'd smothered a bomb that fell into the trench, and so none of my men were hit, though it busted me up a bit. well, i didn't quiver an eye, and he chattered and there she sat; and i fancied i heard her sigh-- but i wouldn't just swear to that. and maybe she wasn't so bright, though she talked in a merry strain, and i closed my eyes ever so tight, yet i saw her ever so plain: her dear little tilted nose, her delicate, dimpled chin, her mouth like a budding rose, and the glistening pearls within; her eyes like the violet: such a rare little queen--fleurette. and at last when she rose to go, the light was a little dim, and i ventured to peep, and so i saw her, graceful and slim, and she kissed him and kissed him, and oh how i envied and envied him! so when she was gone i said in rather a dreary voice to him of the opposite bed: "ah, friend, how you must rejoice! but me, i'm a thing of dread. for me nevermore the bliss, the thrill of a woman's kiss." then i stopped, for lo! she was there, and a great light shone in her eyes. and me! i could only stare, i was taken so by surprise, when gently she bent her head: "_may i kiss you, sergeant?_" she said. then she kissed my burning lips, with her mouth like a scented flower, and i thrilled to the finger-tips, and i hadn't even the power to say: "god bless you, dear!" and i felt such a precious tear pall on my withered cheek, and darn it! i couldn't speak. and so she went sadly away, and i know that my eyes were wet. ah, not to my dying day will i forget, forget! can you wonder now i am gay? god bless her, that little fleurette! _robert w. service_ not to keep they sent him back to her. the letter came saying ... and she could have him. and before she could be sure there was no hidden ill under the formal writing, he was in her sight-- living.--they gave him back to her alive-- how else? they are not known to send the dead-- and not disfigured visibly. his face?-- his hands? she had to look--to ask, "what was it, dear?" and she had given all and still she had all--_they_ had--they the lucky! wasn't she glad now? everything seemed won, and all the rest for them permissible ease. she had to ask, "what was it, dear?" "enough, yet not enough. a bullet through and through, high in the breast. nothing but what good care and medicine and rest--and you a week, can cure me of to go again." the same grim giving to do over for them both. she dared no more than ask him with her eyes how was it with him for a second trial. and with his eyes he asked her not to ask. they had given him back to her, but not to keep. _robert frost_ the dead i blow out, you bugles, over the rich dead! there's none of these so lonely and poor of old, but, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. these laid the world away; poured out the red sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, that men call age; and those who would have been, their sons, they gave, their immortality. blow, bugles, blow! they brought us, for our dearth, holiness, lacked so long, and love, and pain. honour has come back, as a king, to earth, and paid his subjects with a royal wage; and nobleness walks in our ways again; and we have come into our heritage. ii these hearts were woven of human joys and cares washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth. the years had given them kindness. dawn was theirs, and sunset, and the colours of the earth. these had seen movement and heard music; known slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended; felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone; touched flowers and furs and cheeks. all this is ended. there are waters blown by changing winds to laughter and lit by the rich skies, all day. and after, frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance and wandering loveliness. he leaves a white unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, a width, a shining peace, under the night. _rupert brooke_ the island of skyros here, where we stood together, we three men, before the war had swept us to the east three thousand miles away, i stand again and bear the bells, and breathe, and go to feast. we trod the same path, to the selfsame place, yet here i stand, having beheld their graves, skyros whose shadows the great seas erase, and seddul bahr that ever more blood craves. so, since we communed here, our bones have been nearer, perhaps, than they again will be, earth and the worldwide battle lie between, death lies between, and friend-destroying sea. yet here, a year ago, we talked and stood as i stand now, with pulses beating blood. i saw her like a shadow on the sky in the last light, a blur upon the sea, then the gale's darkness put the shadow by, but from one grave that island talked to me; and, in the midnight, in the breaking storm, i saw its blackness and a blinking light, and thought, "so death obscures your gentle form, so memory strives to make the darkness bright; and, in that heap of rocks, your body lies, part of the island till the planet ends, my gentle comrade, beautiful and wise, part of this crag this bitter surge offends, while i, who pass, a little obscure thing, war with this force, and breathe, and am its king." _john masefield_ for the fallen with proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, england mourns for her dead across the sea. flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, fallen in the cause of the free. solemn the drums thrill; death august and royal sings sorrow up into immortal spheres, there is music in the midst of desolation and a glory that shines upon our tears. they went with songs to the battle, they were young, straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. they were staunch to the end against odds uncounted: they fell with their faces to the foe. they shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. at the going down of the sun and in the morning we will remember them. they mingle not with their laughing comrades again; they sit no more at familiar tables of home; they have no lot in our labour of the day-time; they sleep beyond england's foam. but where our desires are and our hopes profound, felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, to the innermost heart of their own land they are known as the stars are known to the night; as the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, moving in marches upon the heavenly plain; as the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, to the end, to the end, they remain. _laurence binyon_ two sonnets i saints have adored the lofty soul of you. poets have whitened at your high renown. we stand among the many millions who do hourly wait to pass your pathway down. you, so familiar, once were strange: we tried to live as of your presence unaware. but now in every road on every side we see your straight and steadfast signpost there. i think it like that signpost in my land hoary and tall, which pointed me to go upward, into the hills, on the right hand, where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow, a homeless land and friendless, but a land i did not know and that i wished to know. ii such, such is death: no triumph: no defeat: only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean, a merciful putting away of what has been. and this we know: death is not life effete, life crushed, the broken pail. we who have seen so marvellous things know well the end not yet. victor and vanquished are a-one in death: coward and brave: friend, foe. ghosts do not say, "come, what was your record when you drew breath?" but a big blot has hid each yesterday so poor, so manifestly incomplete. and your bright promise, withered long and sped, is touched, stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet and blossoms and is you, when you are dead. _charles hamilton sorley_ _june , _ "how sleep the brave" nay, nay, sweet england, do not grieve! not one of these poor men who died but did within his soul believe that death for thee was glorified. ever they watched it hovering near that mystery 'yond thought to plumb, perchance sometimes in loathed fear they heard cold danger whisper, come!-- heard and obeyed. o, if thou weep such courage and honour, beauty, care, be it for joy that those who sleep only thy joy could share. _walter de la mare_ the debt no more old england will they see-- those men who've died for you and me. so lone and cold they lie; but we, we still have life; we still may greet our pleasant friends in home and street; we still have life, are able still to climb the turf of bignor hill, to see the placid sheep go by, to hear the sheep-dog's eager cry, to feel the sun, to taste the rain, to smell the autumn's scents again beneath the brown and gold and red which old october's brush has spread, to hear the robin in the lane, to look upon the english sky. so young they were, so strong and well, until the bitter summons fell-- too young to die. yet there on foreign soil they lie, so pitiful, with glassy eye and limbs all tumbled anyhow: quite finished, now. on every heart--lest we forget-- secure at home--engrave this debt! too delicate is flesh to be the shield that nations interpose 'twixt red ambition and his foes-- the bastion of liberty. so beautiful their bodies were, built with so exquisite a care: so young and fit and lithe and fair. the very flower of us were they, the very flower, but yesterday! yet now so pitiful they lie, where love of country bade them hie to fight this fierce caprice--and die. all mangled now, where shells have burst, and lead and steel have done their worst; the tender tissues ploughed away, the years' slow processes effaced: the mother of us all--disgraced. and some leave wives behind, young wives; already some have launched new lives: a little daughter, little son-- for thus this blundering world goes on. but never more will any see the old secure felicity, the kindnesses that made us glad before the world went mad. they'll never hear another bird, another gay or loving word-- those men who lie so cold and lone, far in a country not their own; those men who died for you and me, that england still might sheltered be and all our lives go on the same (although to live is almost shame). _e.v. lucas_ _requiescant_ in lonely watches night by night great visions burst upon my sight, for down the stretches of the sky the hosts of dead go marching by. strange ghostly banners o'er them float, strange bugles sound an awful note, and all their faces and their eyes are lit with starlight from the skies. the anguish and the pain have passed and peace hath come to them at last, but in the stern looks linger still the iron purpose and the will. dear christ, who reign'st above the flood of human tears and human blood, a weary road these men have trod, o house them in the home of god! _frederick george scott_ _in a field near ypres_ _april, _ to our fallen ye sleepers, who will sing you? we can but give our tears-- ye dead men, who shall bring you fame in the coming years? brave souls ... but who remembers the flame that fired your embers?... deep, deep the sleep that holds you who one time had no peers. yet maybe fame's but seeming and praise you'd set aside, content to go on dreaming, yea, happy to have died if of all things you prayed for-- all things your valour paid for-- one prayer is not forgotten, one purchase not denied. but god grants your dear england a strength that shall not cease till she have won for all the earth from ruthless men release, and made supreme upon her mercy and truth and honour-- is this the thing you died for? oh, brothers, sleep in peace! _robert ernest vernède_ the old soldier lest the young soldiers be strange in heaven, god bids the old soldier they all adored come to him and wait for them, clean, new-shriven, a happy doorkeeper in the house of the lord. lest it abash them, the strange new splendour, lest it affright them, the new robes clean; here's an old face, now, long-tried, and tender, a word and a hand-clasp as they troop in. "my boys," he greets them: and heaven is homely, he their great captain in days gone o'er; dear is the friend's face, honest and comely, waiting to welcome them by the strange door. _katharine tynan_ lord kitchener unflinching hero, watchful to foresee and face thy country's peril wheresoe'er, directing war and peace with equal care, till by long duty ennobled thou wert he whom england call'd and bade "set my arm free to obey my will and save my honour fair,"-- what day the foe presumed on her despair and she herself had trust in none but thee: among herculean deeds the miracle that mass'd the labour of ten years in one shall be thy monument. thy work was done ere we could thank thee; and the high sea swell surgeth unheeding where thy proud ship fell by the lone orkneys, at the set of sun. _robert bridges_ _june , _ kitchener there is wild water from the north; the headlands darken in their foam as with a threat of challenge stubborn earth booms at that far wild sea-line charging home. the night shall stand upon the shifting sea as yesternight stood there, and hear the cry of waters through the air, the iron voice of headlands start and rise-- the noise of winds for mastery that screams to hear the thunder in those cries. but now henceforth there shall be heard from brough of bursay, marwick head, and shadows of the distant coast, another voice bestirred-- telling of something greatly lost somewhere below the tidal glooms, and dead. beyond the uttermost of aught the night may hear on any seas from tempest-known wild water's cry, and roar of iron shadows looming from the shore, it shall be heard--and when the orcades sleep in a hushed atlantic's starry folds as smoothly as, far down below the tides, sleep on the windless broad sea-wolds where this night's shipwreck hides. by many a sea-holm where the shock of ocean's battle falls, and into spray gives up its ghosts of strife; by reef and rock ravaged by their eternal brute affray with monstrous frenzies of their shore's green foe; where overstream and overfall and undertow strive, snatch away; a wistful voice, without a sound, shall dwell beside pomona, on the sea, and speak the homeward- and the outward-bound, and touch the helm of passing minds and bid them steer as wistfully-- saying: "he did great work, until the winds and waters hereabout that night betrayed him to the drifting death! his work went on-- he would not be gainsaid.... though where his bones are, no man knows, not one!" _john helston_ the fallen subaltern the starshells float above, the bayonets glisten; we bear our fallen friend without a sound; below the waiting legions lie and listen to us, who march upon their burial-ground. wound in the flag of england, here we lay him; the guns will flash and thunder o'er the grave; what other winding sheet should now array him, what other music should salute the brave? as goes the sun-god in his chariot glorious, when all his golden banners are unfurled, so goes the soldier, fallen but victorious, and leaves behind a twilight in the world. and those who come this way, in days hereafter, will know that here a boy for england fell, who looked at danger with the eyes of laughter, and on the charge his days were ended well. one last salute; the bayonets clash and glisten; with arms reversed we go without a sound: one more has joined the men who lie and listen to us, who march upon their burial-ground. _herbert asquith_ _ _ the debt unpayable what have i given, bold sailor on the sea, in earth or heaven, that you should die for me? what can i give, o soldier, leal and brave, long as i live, to pay the life you gave? what tithe or part can i return to thee, o stricken heart, that thou shouldst break for me? the wind of death for you has slain life's flowers, it withereth (god grant) all weeds in ours. _f.w. bourdillon_ the messages "i cannot quite remember.... there were five dropt dead beside me in the trench--and three whispered their dying messages to me...." back from the trenches, more dead than alive, stone-deaf and dazed, and with a broken knee, he hobbled slowly, muttering vacantly: "i cannot quite remember.... there were five dropt dead beside me in the trench, and three whispered their dying messages to me.... "their friends are waiting, wondering how they thrive-- waiting a word in silence patiently.... but what they said, or who their friends may be "i cannot quite remember.... there were five dropt dead beside me in the trench--and three whispered their dying messages to me...." _wilfrid wilson gibson_ a cross in flanders in the face of death, they say, he joked--he had no fear; his comrades, when they laid him in a flanders grave, wrote on a rough-hewn cross--a calvary stood near-- "without a fear he gave "his life, cheering his men, with laughter on his lips." so wrote they, mourning him. yet was there only one who fully understood his laughter, his gay quips, one only, she alone-- she who, not so long since, when love was new--confest, herself toyed with light laughter while her eyes were dim, and jested, while with reverence despite her jest she worshipped god and him. she knew--o love, o death!--his soul had been at grips with the most solemn things. for _she_, was _she_ not dear? yes, he was brave, most brave, with laughter on his lips, the braver for his fear! _g. rostrevor hamilton_ resurrection not long did we lie on the torn, red field of pain. we fell, we lay, we slumbered, we took rest, with the wild nerves quiet at last, and the vexed brain cleared of the wingèd nightmares, and the breast freed of the heavy dreams of hearts afar. we rose at last under the morning star. we rose, and greeted our brothers, and welcomed our foes. we rose; like the wheat when the wind is over, we rose. with shouts we rose, with gasps and incredulous cries, with bursts of singing, and silence, and awestruck eyes, with broken laughter, half tears, we rose from the sod, with welling tears and with glad lips, whispering, "god." like babes, refreshed from sleep, like children, we rose, brimming with deep content, from our dreamless repose. and, "what do you call it?" asked one. "i thought i was dead." "you are," cried another. "we're all of us dead and flat." "i'm alive as a cricket. there's something wrong with your head." they stretched their limbs and argued it out where they sat. and over the wide field friend and foe spoke of small things, remembering not old woe of war and hunger, hatred and fierce words. they sat and listened to the brooks and birds, and watched the starlight perish in pale flame, wondering what god would look like when he came. _hermann hagedorn_ to a hero we may not know how fared your soul before occasion came to try it by this test. perchance, it used on lofty wings to soar; again, it may have dwelt in lowly nest. we do not know if bygone knightly strain impelled you then, or blood of humble clod defied the dread adventure to attain the cross of honor or the peace of god. we see but this, that when the moment came you raised on high, then drained, the solemn cup-- the grail of death; that, touched by valor's flame, the kindled spirit burned the body up. _oscar c.a. child_ rupert brooke (in memoriam) i never knew you save as all men know twitter of mating birds, flutter of wings in april coverts, and the streams that flow-- one of the happy voices of our springs. a voice for ever stilled, a memory, since you went eastward with the fighting ships, a hero of the great new odyssey, and god has laid his finger on your lips. _moray dalton_ the players we challenged death. he threw with weighted dice. we laughed and paid the forfeit, glad to pay-- being recompensed beyond our sacrifice with that nor death nor time can take away. _francis bickley_ a song oh, red is the english rose, and the lilies of france are pale, and the poppies grow in the golden wheat, for the men whose eyes are heavy with sleep, where the ground is red as the english rose, and the lips as the lilies of france are pale, and the ebbing pulses beat fainter and fainter and fail. oh, red is the english rose, and the lilies of france are pale. and the poppies lie in the level corn for the men who sleep and never return. but wherever they lie an english rose so red, and a lily of france so pale, will grow for a love that never and never can fail. _charles alexander richmond_ harvest moon over the twilight field, over the glimmering field and bleeding furrows, with their sodden yield of sheaves that still did writhe, after the scythe; the teeming field, and darkly overstrewn with all the garnered fullness of that noon-- two looked upon each other. one was a woman, men had called their mother: and one the harvest moon. and one the harvest moon who stood, who gazed on those unquiet gleanings, where they bled; till the lone woman said: "but we were crazed.... we should laugh now together, i and you; we two. you, for your ever dreaming it was worth a star's while to look on, and light the earth; and i, for ever telling to my mind glory it was and gladness, to give birth to human kind. i gave the breath,--and thought it not amiss, i gave the breath to men, for men to slay again; lording it over anguish, all to give my life, that men might live, for this. "you will be laughing now, remembering we called you once dead world, and barren thing. yes, so we called you then, you, far more wise than to give life to men." over the field that there gave back the skies a scattered upward stare from sightless eyes, the furrowed field that lay striving awhile, through many a bleeding dune of throbbing clay,--but dumb and quiet soon, she looked; and went her way, the harvest moon. _josephine preston peabody_ harvest moon: moon, slow rising, over the trembling sea-rim, moon of the lifted tides and their folded burden. look, look down. and gather the blinded oceans, moon of compassion. come, white silence, over the one sea pathway: pour with hallowing hands on the surge and outcry, silver flame; and over the famished blackness, petals of moonlight. once again, the formless void of a world-wreck gropes its way through the echoing dark of chaos; tide on tide, to the calling, lost horizons,-- one in the darkness. you that veil the light of the all-beholding, shed white tidings down to the dooms of longing, down to the timeless dark; and the sunken treasures, one in the darkness. touch, and harken,--under that shrouding silver, rise and fall, the heart of the sea and its legions, all and one; one with the breath of the deathless, rising and falling. touch and waken so, to a far hereafter, ebb and flow, the deep, and the dead in their longing: till at last, on the hungering face of the waters, there shall be light. _light of light, give us to see, for their sake. light of light, grant them eternal peace; and let light perpetual shine upon them; light, everlasting._ _josephine preston peabody_ my son here is his little cambric frock that i laid by in lavender so sweet, and here his tiny shoe and sock i made with loving care for his dear feet. i fold the frock across my breast, and in imagination, ah, my sweet, once more i hush my babe to rest, and once again i warm those little feet. where do those strong young feet now stand? in flooded trench, half numb to cold or pain, or marching through the desert sand to some dread place that they may never gain. god guide him and his men to-day! though death may lurk in any tree or hill, his brave young spirit is their stay, trusting in that they'll follow where he will. they love him for his tender heart when poverty or sorrow asks his aid, but he must see each do his part-- of cowardice alone he is afraid. i ask no honours on the field, that other men have won as brave as he-- i only pray that god may shield my son, and bring him safely back to me! _ada tyrrell_ to the others this was the gleam then that lured from far your son and my son to the holy war: your son and my son for the accolade with the banner of christ over them, in steel arrayed. all quiet roads of life ran on to this; when they were little for their mother's kiss. little feet hastening, so soft, unworn, to the vows and the vigil and the road of thorn. your son and my son, the downy things, sheltered in mother's breast, by mother's wings, should they be broken in the lord's wars--peace! he who has given them--are they not his? dream of knight's armour and the battle-shout, fighting and falling at the last redoubt, dream of long dying on the field of slain; this was the dream that lured, nor lured in vain. these were the voices they heard from far; bugles and trumpets of the holy war. your son and my son have heard the call, your son and my son have stormed the wall. your son and my son, clean as new swords; your man and my man and now the lord's! your son and my son for the great crusade, with the banner of christ over them--our knights new-made. _katharine tynan_ the journey i went upon a journey to countries far away, from province unto province to pass my holiday. and when i came to serbia, in a quiet little town at an inn with a flower-filled garden with a soldier i sat down. now he lies dead at belgrade. you heard the cannon roar! it boomed from rome to stockholm, it pealed to the far west shore. and when i came to russia, a man with flowing hair called me his friend and showed me a flowing river there. now he lies dead at lemberg, beside another stream, in his dark eyes extinguished the friendship of his dream. and then i crossed two countries whose names on my lips are sealed.... not yet had they flung their challenge nor led upon the field sons who lie dead at liège, dead by the russian lance, dead in southern mountains, dead through the farms of france. i stopped in the land of louvain, so tranquil, happy, then. i lived with a good old woman, with her sons and her grandchildren. now they lie dead at louvain, those simple kindly folk. some heard, some fled. it must be some slept, for they never woke. i came to france. i was thirsty. i sat me down to dine. the host and his young wife served me with bread and fruit and wine. now he lies dead at cambrai-- he was sent among the first. in dreams she sees him dying of wounds, of heat, of thirst. at last i passed to dover and saw upon the shore a tall young english captain and soldiers, many more. now they lie dead at dixmude, the brave, the strong, the young! i turn unto my homeland, all my journey sung! _grace fallow norton_ a mother's dedication dear son of mine, the baby days are over, i can no longer shield you from the earth; yet in my heart always i must remember how through the dark i fought to give you birth. dear son of mine, by all the lives behind you; by all our fathers fought for in the past; in this great war to which your birth has brought you, acquit you well, hold you our honour fast! god guard you, son of mine, where'er you wander; god lead the banners under which you fight; you are my all, i give you to the nation, god shall uphold you that you fight aright. _margaret peterson_ to a mother robbed mother of the stricken motherland-- two hearts in one and one among the dead, before your grave with an uncovered head i, that am man, disquiet and silent stand in reverence. it is your blood they shed; it is your sacred self that they demand, for one you bore in joy and hope, and planned would make yourself eternal, now has fled. but though you yielded him unto the knife and altar with a royal sacrifice of your most precious self and dearer life-- your master gem and pearl above all price-- content you; for the dawn this night restores shall be the dayspring of his soul and yours. _eden phillpotts_ spring in war-time i feel the spring far off, far off, the faint, far scent of bud and leaf-- oh, how can spring take heart to come to a world in grief, deep grief? the sun turns north, the days grow long, later the evening star grows bright-- how can the daylight linger on for men to fight, still fight? the grass is waking in the ground, soon it will rise and blow in waves-- how can it have the heart to sway over the graves, new graves? under the boughs where lovers walked the apple-blooms will shed their breath-- but what of all the lovers now parted by death, grey death? _sara teasdale_ occasional notes asquith, herbert. he received a commission in the royal marine artillery at the end of and served as a second lieutenant with an anti- aircraft battery in april, , returning wounded during the following june. he became a full lieutenant in july, but was invalided home after about six weeks. in june, , he joined the royal field artillery and went out to france once again with a battery of field guns at the beginning of march, . since that time he has been steadily on active service. bewsher, paul. he was educated at st. paul's school, and is a sub-lieutenant in the royal naval air service. binyon, laurence. his war writings include _the winnowing fan_ and _the anvil_, published in america under the title of _the cause_. bridges, robert. he has been poet-laureate of england since . brooke, rupert. he was born at rugby on august , , and became a fellow of king's college, cambridge, in . he was made a sub-lieutenant in the royal naval volunteer reserve in september, ; accompanied the antwerp expedition in october of the same year; and sailed with the british mediterranean expeditionary force on february , . he died in the aegean, on april , and lies buried in the island of skyros. see the memorial poems in this volume, _the island of skyros_, by john masefield; and _rupert brooke_, by moray dalton. his war poetry appears in the volume entitled _ and other poems_, and in his _collected poems_. campbell, wilfred. this well-known canadian poet has lately published _sagas of vaster britain, war lyrics_, and _canada's responsibility to the empire_. his son, captain basil campbell, joined the second pioneers. chesterton, cecil edward. he has been editor of the _new witness_ since , and is a private in the highland light infantry. his war writings include _the prussian hath said in his heart_, and _the perils of peace_. chesterton, gilbert keith. this brilliant and versatile author has written many essays on phases of the war, including weekly contributions to _the illustrated london news_. cone, helen gray. she has been professor of english in hunter college since . her war poetry appears in the volume entitled _a chant of love for england, and other poems_. coulson, leslie. he joined the british army in september, , declined a commission and served in egypt, malta, gallipoli (where he was wounded), and prance. he became sergeant in the city of london regiment (royal fusiliers) and was mortally wounded while leading a charge against the germans in october, . dixon, william macneile. he is professor of english language and literature in the university of glasgow. his war writings include _the british navy at war_ and _the fleets behind the fleet_. doyle, sir arthur conan. he has written much of interest on the war, especially as regards the western campaigns. field, a.n. he is a private in the second new zealand brigade. frankau, gilbert. upon the declaration of war he joined the ninth east surrey regiment (infantry), with the rank of lieutenant. he was transferred to the royal field artillery in march, , and was appointed adjutant during the following july. he proceeded to france in that capacity, fought in the battle of loos, served at ypres during the winter of - , and thereafter took part in the battle of the somme. in october, , he was recalled to england, was promoted to the rank of staff captain in the intelligence corps, and was sent to italy to engage in special duties. freeman, john. he was lieutenant-colonel in the russian a. m. s., on the bacteriological mission to galicia, . galsworthy, john. mr. galsworthy, the well-known novelist, poet, and dramatist, served for several months as an expert _masseur_ in an english hospital for french soldiers at martouret. gibson, wilfrid wilson. his war writings include _battle_, etc. grenfell, the hon. julian, d.s.o. he was a captain in the first royal dragoons; was wounded near ypres on march , ; and died at boulogne on may . he was the eldest son of lord desborough. "julian set an example of light-hearted courage," wrote lieutenant-colonel machlachan, of the eighth service battalion rifle brigade, "which is famous all through the army in france, and has stood out even above the most lion-hearted." hall, james norman. he is a member of the american aviation corps in france, and author of _kitchener's mob_ and _high adventure_. he was captured by the germans, may , , after an air battle inside the enemy's lines. hardy, thomas. he received the order of merit in . hemphrey, malcolm. he is a lance-corporal in the army ordnance corps, nairobi, british east africa. hewlett, maurice henry. he has published a group of his war poems under the title _sing-songs of the war_. hodgson, w.n. he was the son of the bishop of ipswich and edmundsbury, and was a lieutenant in the devon regiment. his pen-name is "edward melbourne." he won the military cross. he was killed during the battle of the somme, in july, . howard, geoffrey. he is a lieutenant in the royal fusiliers. hussey, dyneley. he is a lieutenant in the thirteenth battalion of the lancashire fusiliers, and has published his war poems in a volume entitled _fleur de lys_. hutchinson, henry william. he was the son of sir sidney hutchinson, and was educated at st. paul's school. he was a second lieutenant in the middlesex regiment. he was killed while on active service in france, march , , at the age of nineteen. kaufman, herbert. he has published _the song of the guns_, which was later republished as _the hell-gate of soissons_. kipling, rudyard. mr. kipling won the nobel prize for literature in . his war writings include _the new armies in training, france at war_, and _sea warfare_. knight-adkin, james. when war was declared he was a master at the imperial service college, windsor, and lieutenant in the officers' training corps. he volunteered on the first day of the war and was attached to the fourth battalion, gloucester regiment. he went into the trenches in march, , was wounded in june, and was invalided home. in he returned to france, and is now a captain in charge of a prisoner-of-war camp. lee, joseph. he enlisted, at the outbreak of the war, as a private in the st/ th battalion of the black watch, royal highlanders, in which corps he has served on all parts of the british front in france and flanders. sergeant lee has both composed and illustrated a volume of war-poems entitled _ballads of battle_. lucas, edward verrall. mr. lucas has undertaken hospital service. masefield, john. mr. masefield, whose lectures in america early in quickened interest in his work and personality, has been very active during the war. he has written an excellent study of the campaign on the gallipoli peninsula, having served there and also in france in connection with red cross work. morgan, charles langbridge. he is a sub-lieutenant in the royal naval division, and is a prisoner of war in holland. newbolt, sir henry. he is the author of _the book of the thin red line, story of the oxfordshire and buckinghamshire light infantry_, and _stories of the great war_. noyes, alfred. his war writings include _a salute to the fleet_, etc. ogilvie, william henry. he was professor of agricultural journalism in the iowa state college, u.s.a., from to . his war writings include _australia and other verses_. oswald, sydney. he is a major in the king's royal rifle corps. phillips, stephen. his war writings include _armageddon_, etc. he died december , . phillpotts, eden. among his war writings are _the human boy and the war_, and _plain song, - _. ratcliffe, a. victor. he was a lieutenant in the th/ th west yorkshire regiment, and was killed in action on july , . rawnsley, rev. hardwicke drummond. he has been canon of carlisle and honorary chaplain to the king since . robertson, alexander. he is a corporal in the twelfth york and lancaster regiment. he was reported "missing" in july, . ross, sir ronald. he is the president of the poetry society of great britain, and is a lieutenant-colonel in the royal army medical corps. scollard, clinton. his war writings include _the vale of shadows, and other verses of the great war_, and _italy in arms, and other verses_. scott, canon frederick george. he is a major in the third brigade of the first canadian division, british expeditionary force. seaman, sir owen. he has been the editor of _punch_ since . his war writings include _war-time_ and _made in england_. seeger, alan. among the americans who have served at the front there is none who has produced poetic work of such high quality as that of alan seeger. he was born in new york on june nd, ; was educated at the horace mann school; hackley school, tarrytown, new york; and harvard college. in he went to paris and lived the life of a student and writer in the latin quarter. during the third week of the war he enlisted in the foreign legion of france. his service as a soldier was steady, loyal and uncomplaining--indeed, exultant would not be too strong a word to describe the spirit which seems constantly to have animated his military career. he took part in the battle of champagne. afterwards, his regiment was allowed to recuperate until may, . on july a general advance was ordered, and on the evening of july the legion was ordered to attack the village of belloy-en-santerre. seeger's squad was caught by the fire of six machine-guns and he himself was wounded in several places, but he continued to cheer his comrades as they rushed on in what proved a successful charge. he died on the morning of july . the twenty or more poems he wrote during active service are included in the collected _poems by alan seeger_, with an introduction by william archer. sorley, charles hamilton. he was born at old aberdeen on may , . he was a student at marlborough college from the autumn of until the end of , at which time he was elected to a scholarship at university college, oxford. after leaving school in england, he spent several months as a student and observer in germany. when the war broke out he returned home and was gazetted second lieutenant in the seventh (service) battalion of the suffolk regiment. in november he was made a lieutenant, and in august, , a captain. he served in france from may to october , , when he was killed in action near hulluch. his war poems and letters appear in a volume entitled _marlborough and other poems_, published by the cambridge university press. stewart, j.e. he is a captain in the eighth border regiment, british expeditionary force. he was awarded the military cross in . tennant, edward wyndham. he was the son of baron glenconner, and was at winchester when war was declared. he was only seventeen when he joined the grenadier guards, twenty-first battalion. he had one year's training in england, saw one year's active service in france, and fell, gallantly fighting, in the battle of the somme, . tynan, katharine. pen-name of mrs. katharine tynan hinkson, whose war writings include _the flower of peace_, _the holy war_, etc. van dyke, henry. he has been professor of english literature in princeton university since , and was united states minister to the netherlands and luxembourg from june, , to december, . he has published several war poems. he is the first american to receive an honorary degree at oxford since the united states entered the war. the degree of doctor of civil law was conferred upon him on may , . vernÈde, robert ernest. he was educated at st. paul's school and at st. john's college, oxford. on leaving college he became a professional writer, producing several novels and two books of travel sketches, one dealing with india, the other with canada. he was also author of a number of poems. at the outbreak of the war he enlisted in the nineteenth royal fusiliers, known as the public schools battalion, and received a commission as second lieutenant in the rifle brigade, in may, . he went to france in november, , and was wounded during the battle of the somme in september of the following year, but returned to the front in december. he died of wounds on april , , in his forty-second year. waterhouse, gilbert. lieutenant in the second essex regiment. his war writings include _railhead, and other poems_. he is reported "missing." wharton, edith. she has written _fighting france_, etc. index of first lines a bowl of daffodils a league and a league from the trenches--from the traversed maze of the lines a song of hate is a song of hell a sudden swirl of song in the bright sky a wind in the world! the dark departs a wingèd death has smitten dumb thy bells all that a man might ask thou hast given me, england all the hills and vales along alone amid the battle-din untouched ambassador of christ you go around no fire the soldiers sleep to-night as i lay in the trenches as when the shadow of the sun's eclipse at last there'll dawn the last of the long year awake, ye nations, slumbering supine because for once the sword broke in her hand before i knew, the dawn was on the road beneath fair magdalen's storied towers blow out, you bugles, over the rich dead broken, bewildered by the long retreat brothers in blood! they who this wrong began burned from the ore's rejected dross by all the deeds to thy dear glory done by all the glories of the day by day, by night, along the lines their dull boom rings champion of human honour, let us lave come, death, i'd have a word with thee courage came to you with your boyhood's grace dark, dark lay the drifters, against the red west dawn off the foreland--the young flood making dear son of mine, the baby days are over dreary lay the long road, dreary lay the town endless lanes sunken in the clay england, in this great fight to which you go england! where the sacred flame facing the guns, he jokes as well far fall the day when england's realm shall see for all we have and are franceline rose in the dawning gray from morn to midnight, all day through further and further we leave the scene give us a name to fill the mind great names of thy great captains gone before green gardens in laventie guns of verdun point to metz he said: thou petty people, let me pass hearken, the feet of the destroyer tread here is his little cambric frock here lies a clerk who half his life had spent here, where we stood together, we three men i cannot quite remember.... there were five i feel the spring far off, far off i have a rendezvous with death i heard the rumbling guns, i saw the smoke i know a beach road i never knew you save as all men know i pray for peace; yet peace is but a prayer i saw her first abreast the boston light i saw the spires of oxford i see across the chasm of flying years i was out early to-day, spying about i went upon a journey i will die cheering, if i needs must die if i should die, think only this of me in a vision of the night i saw them in lonely watches night by night in the face of death, they say, he joked--he had no fear in the glad revels, in the happy fêtes it is portentous, and a thing of state it was silent in the street land of the desolate, mother of tears land of the martyrs--of the martyred dead led by wilhelm, as you tell lest the young soldiers be strange in heaven low and brown barns, thatched and repatched and tattered men of my blood, you english men! men of the twenty-first moon, slow rising, over the trembling sea-rim mother and child! though the dividing sea my leg? it's off at the knee my name is darino, the poet. you have heard? _oui, comédie française_ nay, nay, sweet england, do not grieve near where the royal victims fell no man's land is an eerie sight no more old england will they see not long did we lie on the torn, red field of pain not since wren's dome has whispered with man's prayer not with her ruined silver spires now is the midnight of the nations: dark now lamp-lit gardens in the blue dusk shine now slowly sinks the day-long labouring sun now spake the emperor to all his shining battle forces o gracious ones, we bless your name o living pictures of the dead o race that caesar knew of all my dreams by night and day often i think of you, jimmy doane oh, down by the millwall basin as i went the other day oh, red is the english rose oh! yon hills are filled with sunlight, and the green leaves paled to gold our little hour,--how swift it flies out where the line of battle cleaves over the twilight field _qui vive?_ who passes by up there? quiet thou didst stand at thine appointed place robbed mother of the stricken motherland saints have adored the lofty soul of you see you that stretch of shell-torn mud spotted with pools of mire shadow by shadow, stripped for fight she came not into the presence as a martyred saint might come she was binding the wounds of her enemies when they came shyly expectant, gazing up at her sometimes i fly at dawn above the sea the battery grides and jingles the falling rain is music overhead the first to climb the parapet the horror-haunted belgian plains riven by shot and shell the naked earth is warm with spring the road that runs up to messines the starshells float above, the bayonets glisten there are five men in the moonlight there is a hill in england there is wild water from the north they had hot scent across the spumy sea they sent him back to her. the letter came this is my faith, and my mind's heritage this is the ballad of langemarck this was the gleam then that lured from far those who have stood for thy cause when the dark was around thee thou warden of the western gate, above manhattan bay thou, whose deep ways are in the sea three hundred thousand men, but not enough to the judge of right and wrong 't was in the piping time of peace under our curtain of fire under the tow-path past the barges unflinching hero, watchful to foresee was there love once? i have forgotten her we are here in a wood of little beeches we challenged death. he threw with weighted dice we may not know how fared your soul before we willed it not. we have not lived in hate what have i given what is the gift we have given thee, sister? what of the faith and fire within us what was it kept you so long, brave german submersible? when battles were fought when consciousness came back, he found he lay when first i saw you in the curious street when the fire sinks in the grate, and night has bent when there is peace our land no more whence not unmoved i see the nations form wherever war, with its red woes with arrows on their quarters and with numbers on their hoofs with proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children ye sleepers, who will sing you you dare to say with perjured lips you have become a forge of snow-white fire war rhymes [illustration] by wayfarer foreword the reader of this booklet is not expected to agree with everything in it. the rhymes express only the impressions made on the writer at the time by the varied incidents and conditions arising out of the great war, and some of them did not apply when circumstances changed. they have been printed as written, however, and, if they serve no other purpose, may at least help us to recall some things that too soon have nearly passed out of our minds. the outbreak of hostilities, the invasion of belgium, the old land in it and the rush of the british born to enlist, the early indifference of the majority of canadians, the unemployment and distress of the winter of - , the heartlessness of germany, canada stirred by the valor of her first battalions, recruiting general throughout the country, the slackness of the united states, financial and political profiteering in all countries, smaller european nations playing for position, italy joining the allies, the debacle of russia, the awful casualty lists, the return of disabled soldiers, the ceaseless war work of our women, the united states at last declaring war on germany, the final line up and defeat of the hun, and the horror and apparent uselessness of it all; some reflection of all these may be found by the reader in these simple rhymes. modern diplomacy, or how the war started august, said austria,--"you murderous serb, you the peace of all europe disturb; get down on your knees, and apologize, please, or i'll kick you right off my front curb." said serbia,--"don't venture too far, or i'll call in my uncle, the czar; he won't see me licked, nor insulted, nor kicked, so you better leave things as they are." said the kaiser,--"that serb's a disgrace. we must teach him to stay in his place, if russia says boo, i'm in the game, too, and right quickly we'll settle the case." the czar said,--"my cousin the kaiser, was always a good advertiser; he's determined to fight, and insists he is right, but soon he'll be older and wiser." "for forty-four summers," said france, "i have waited and watched for a chance to wrest alsace-lorraine from the germans again, and now is the time to advance." said belgium,--"when armies immense pour over my boundary fence, i'll awake from my nap, and put up a scrap they'll remember a hundred years hence." said john bull,--"this 'ere kaiser's a slob, and 'is word isn't worth 'arf a bob, (if i lets belgium suffer, i'm a blank bloomin' duffer) so 'ere goes for a crack at 'is nob." said italy,--"i think i'll stay out, till i know what this row is about; it's a far better plan, just to sell my banan', till the issue is plain beyond doubt." said our good uncle samuel, "i swaow i had better keep aout of this raow, for with mormons, and niggers, and greasers, i figgers i have all i kin handle just naow." the allied forces november, when johnnie bull pledges his word, to keep it he'll gird on his sword, while allies and sons will shoulder their guns; the prince, and the peasant, and lord. first there's bold tommy aitkins himself, for a shilling a day of poor pelf, and for love of his king, and the fun of the thing, he fights till he's laid on the shelf. brave taffy is ready to go as soon as the war bugles blow; he fights like the diel, when it comes to cold steel, and dies with his face to the foe. and donald from north inverness, who fights in a ballet girl's dress; he likes a free limb, no tight skirts for him, impending his march to success. the gun runner, stern, from belfast, now stands at the head of the mast; if a tempest should come, or a mine or a bomb, he will stick to his post to the last. and hogan, that broth of a lad, home ruler from bally-na-fad, writes--"i'm now in the trench with the english and french, and we're licking the germans, be dad!" the cockney canuck from toronto, whom maple leaves hardly stick on to, made haste to enlist, to fight the mailed fist, when canadian born didn't want to. from where the wide-winged albatross floats white 'neath the southern cross, there came the swift cruisers, and germans are losers; australians want no kaiser boss. from sheep run, pine forest and fern, the stalwart new zealanders turn to the land of their sires, for with ancestral fires their bosoms in ardor still burn. the tall, turbanned, heathen hindoo is proud to be in the game too, for the joy of his life, is to help in the strife of the sahibs, and see the war through. the frenchman who made wooden shoes, while airing his socialist views, deserted his bench for the horrible trench, as soon as he heard the war news. the wild, woolly, grinning, turco, from where the fierce desert winds blow, will give up his life in the thick of the strife, and go where the good niggers go. the versatile jap's in the game, because of a treaty he came, for old johnnie bull, will have his hands full, the bellicose germans to tame. the hard riding cossack and russ, at the very first sign of a fuss, cried--"long live the white czar, we are off to the war, no more nihilist nonsense for us." the bold belgian burgher from brussels, has fought in a hundred hard tussles, and is still going strong, nor will it be long, ere the foe back to berlin he hustles. the hardy cantankerous serb, whom even the turk couldn't curb, in having a go with emperor joe, will the plans of the kaiser disturb. the fierce mountaineers of king nick got into the ring good and quick, they are never afraid, for to fight is their trade, while their wives have the living to pick. the modern good samaritan december, the road that leads to jericho, by thieves is still beset, for kaiser bill, the highwayman, is there already yet. thrown thick o'er half a continent, his blood-stained victims lie; the priest, in horror, lifts his hands, the levite passes by. the modern good samaritan, kind-hearted uncle sam, exclaims, "this thing gets on my nerves i'll send a cablegram. but while the cash is going free, i'll see what i can get, and since these chaps are down and out; i'll steal their trade, you bet." satan's soliloquy november, hell hath enlarged its borders, while satan sits in state, and gives his servants orders to open wide the gate. "my most successful agent," said he, "is kaiser bill; just watch his daily pageant of souls come down the hill. his friends who sacked the city; his slaves who raped the nuns; his ghouls devoid of pity-- the bloody, lustful huns, the 'scrap of paper' liars, the burners of louvain shall feed hell's hottest fires with judas and with cain. the unfenced city raiders, the crew of submarine that sank the unarmed traders to vent the kaiser's spleen. the wreckage of the nations, ten million dwellings lost, murders and mutilations, the world's great holocaust. the workman's scanty wages, the souls of sunken ships; the faith and hope of ages, the prayers from human lips; the livelihood of millions, the commerce and the trade; the untold wasted billions man's industry had made. for these i thank the kaiser; his efforts please me well; the world becomes no wiser; it's growing time in hell." the canadian way january, when times are good, and labor dear we coax the british workman here, and should he shrink to cross the drink, we tell him he has naught to fear. but when the times are hard and straight, his is indeed a sorry fate; we let him die, with starving cry, like lazarus, beside our gate. when all the battle flags are furled, and wolf and lamb together curled, we loudly sing,--"god save the king," and bid defiance to the world. when some must go to bear the brunt, and check the german kaiser's stunt, we still can brag, and wave the flag, but send the british to the front. when princess pats charge down the pike, and put the germans on the hike, we shout,--"hooray for canaday! the world has never seen our like." but when word comes across the waves, the first contingent misbehaves, we cry aloud to all the crowd, "them british born are fools or knaves." when other men with sword and gun, would stop the fierce destroying hun, we count the cost as money lost, and still look out for number one. when other lands attain their goal, our name will blacken heaven's scroll, a thing of scorn, all men to warn; a country that has lost its soul. the english woman's complaint march, we want to ask canadians to treat us not as fools; we cannot learn to play the game until we learn the rules. we ask them not to try to take the mote from our eye, nor say, till their own beam's removed, "no english need apply." we try to be canadians, it's 'ard we must confess, to drop our english adjectives and learn to say "i guess," we've chucked the bread and cheese and beer, we learning to eat pie, so please cut out that nasty slur, "no english need apply." we came 'ere for our children's sake, (at 'ome they 'ad no show) though 'tain't just what we thought it was, this land of frost and snow; but we never shrink at 'ardships, and we've come 'ere to stiy; so hustle down that bloomin' sign, "no english need apply." we aren't no cooking experts, and couldn't make a blouse, for, till our 'usbands married us, we never 'ad kept 'ouse; and then we 'ad our families, but that's no reason why, as you should flash your dirty ads, "no english need apply." at learning to economize perhaps we're rather slow, but when you call for volunteers our sons and 'usbands go; in all of your contingents canadians are shy, but colonel sam 'as never said, "no english need apply." when, steeped in military pride, the crazy kaiser bill let loose his hell-directed hordes, to plunder, burn and kill, and british lads took up their guns for freedom's cause to die, brave, blood-stained belgium didn't say "no english need apply." wherever danger blocks the way an englishman has led, no storm-tossed sea, no foreign shore, but shelters england's dead; and when brave spirits took their flight to realms beyond the sky, we know saint peter didn't say "no english need apply." unemployed april, "i haven't any way, sir, to earn my daily bread; give me a job, i pray, sir, my children must be fed." "to keep your kids from harm, sir," the city man replied, "there's no place like the farm, sir, the peaceful country side." "i have no work to do, sir," said i to farmer sprout; "so i have come to you, sir, to try to help me out." he answered: "can you plow, sir, or build a load of hay? if you can't milk a cow, sir, you'd better fade away." "have you a job to-day, sir, to give a working man? my stomach's full of hay, sir, my children live on bran." "i really can't delay, sir," the busy man replied, "please call some other day, sir, my car is just outside." "i want to find a place, sir," said i to groucher black; "i couldn't go the pace, sir, and now i'm off the track." old groucher growled in answer, "this town of blasted hopes has no place for a man, sir, who does not know the ropes." "i'm anxious to enlist, sir, i am a briton true, to fight the mailed fist, sir, the kaiser and his crew." thus answered dr. brown,--"sir, in one main point you lack; i'll have to turn you down, sir, because your teeth don't track." "i'd like to find some work, sir," to smith, m.p., i spoke; "i really am no shirk, sir, although i'm stony broke." said he, "you poor old lobster, you have a lot to learn, to get a steady job, sir, you really must intern." the hate of hans april, i hate dot teufel, johnnie bull, (der kaiser says i must) mit rage mine heart is filled so full sometime i tink i'll bust. vot pisness he mit horse and gun, dot channel shtream to cross? vot matter for de tings ve done? der kaiser is de boss. dose english, yaw, i tells you true! dey spoil der kaiser's plans, shoost cause ve march de belgium through dey kill us sherman mans. mine brudder's dead, already, soon, mine sister is von spy, mine cousin rides de big balloon, dot floats up in de sky. my poys--dot story i can't wrote, i lose them, von--two--tree, ven english teufels sink dose boat, vot sail der untersee. mineself, i learn de english talk von time in milwaukee, i hang around de antwerp dock, und hear vot i can see. dey tink dey'll shtarve us shermans oudt, not yet, already, blease, ve still haf lots of saur-kraut, und goot limburger cheese. mit blenty peers unt blenty shmokes, und rye bread mixed mit sand, dis is enough for sherman folks dat luf de faderland. ve'll tear dot english heart oudt yet mit eagle's beak and claws; shoost now ve can't to london get, i don't know vy pecause. ve should haf been dere long ago, mit dose machine dot flies, but tings seem gooing britty slow, berhaps der kaiser lies. hans begins to wonder april, i vonder if dot's nefer so, shaymeezle russia take. you can't pelieve von half you know, such lies dose papers make. i vonder if dose tales are true, ve lose most all our ships, our colonies and commerce too; i hear tings mit my lips. i vonder if dose dardanelles, can shtop der allied fleet, somedimes to me dere's someting tells, maype dose turks get peat. i vonder, too, if italy vill give to us der bump, shoost now she's vaiting yet to see vichway der cat vill yump. i vonder can our army shtop dose russian teufels' raid, or vill dey gain de mountain top or fail to make de grade. i vonder if dot balkan bunch, und greece und holland too, should give us britty soon de punch, vot vill der kaiser do. i vonder vere der kaiser shtays mit all dose poys of his, you pet, dey keep a goot long vays from vere de bullets whiz. i vonder if dot kultur's goot, sometimes it is, no doubt, but ven it comes to daily foodt i luf der saur-kraut. i vonder if ve all get stung, like vot de yankees say; der kaiser maype yet get hung, if ve don't vin de day. * * * * * mine gracious! vot is dat i say? no von, i hope, don't hear; dose spies vould sell mine life away for von goot drink of peer. =recruiting appeals= jack canuck october, "only forty per cent of the volunteers at valcartier are canadian born." "a large number of men are being kept at home by their wives and mothers." --recent news items. our jack canuck is active, he plays a pretty goal, but make swift runs to cover when drums begin to roll. and jack canuck's unselfish, he lets the honors go all to his british brother, when war time bugles blow. and jack canuck is modest; that's why he chooses rears, and sees the front seats taken by british volunteers. yes, jack canuck's a hero whose glory never fades; he'll lick his weight in wild cats --the day his lodge parades. and jack canuck's free handed he sends, (jack's awful wise), his dumpling dust in ship loads; (it pays to advertise). for jack canuck is thrifty, he wants, when peace is made, to feed the worn out nations, and capture all the trade. and miss canuck and mrs., they value so the lives of husband, son and sweetheart, these daughters, maids and wives. they'll let the belgian mother, the french and english maid give husband, lover, brother, to stop the kaiser's raid. they'll see sweet highland mary walk life's long path alone, and hear dear irish nora wail for the loved ones gone. they'll send a feather pillow or knit a pair of socks, and think they've done their duty by them that take the knocks. oh that our hearts were bigger, and not so worldly wise; 'when duty calls, or danger;' ready to sacrifice. what owest thou february, in blood bought belgian trenches, on stormy northern sea, brave hearts of oak are watching, protecting you and me. the british wife and mother, the maid with sweetheart dear, lest those they love should falter hold back the scalding tear. "your king and country need you," they say with courage high. "your fathers, too, were soldiers; and not afraid to die." like fearless free born britons, not kaiser driven slaves, go heroes from the homeland to unmarked foreign graves. shall we, with path made easy, while others fight and fall, in freedom's hour of danger neglect the empire's call? shall we hoard up our dollars? shall farmers hold their wheat, while children suffer hunger, and workmen walk the street? that land is doomed already to black, unending night, whose old men worship money; whose young men will not fight. o, for some john the baptist! some prophet malachi, to lash our selfish conscience, and teach us purpose high. * * * * * thank heaven there's a remnant, a few not quite enslaved, for ten just men in sodom, the city would have saved. a call to the colors november, ye strong young men of huron, ye sons of britons true, your fathers fought for freedom, and now it's up to you; your brother's blood is calling, for you they fought and died, brave boys with souls unconquered, by huns are crucified. ten million hunnish outlaws, the kaiser's tools and slaves, have strewn the sea with corpses, and scarred the earth with graves; they know no god but mammon; no law but sword and flame, they crush the weaker peoples, with deeds we dare not name. see belgium rent and bleeding, the kaiser's hellish work, armenia vainly pleading for mercy from the turk. the poles and serbs are dying the victims of the huns, with anguished voices crying, "o send us men and guns!" think of the lusitania, of martyred nurse cavell, then say, "can these be human who act like fiends of hell." the empire's in the conflict, and bound to see it through; each man the old flag shelters, must share the burden too. then rise, ye sons of huron, all hell has broken loose, the kaiser's strafe is on us, with him we make no truce. come, rally to the colors till victory is won, your king and country need you, and duty must be done. choose ye in times like these, each heart decrees a law unto itself; what shall it be for you and me, self sacrifice or pelf? which shall we choose, to win or lose? our all is in the game: what shall we give that truth may live? how much in freedom's name? a hero's heart, an honored name, or coward's part, and shirker's shame? the awful strife, wounds and disease, or sordid life of selfish ease? an open purse, our strength in full, or painted horse and party pull? the trenches' mud, and trusted word, or tainted blood, and rusted sword? soul unafraid, the prayer of faith, or heart dismayed at thought of death? the noble deed, the unmarked grave, or craven greed our lives to save? where shall we stand that this fair land no kaiser's strafe shall know? shall never feel the prussian heel, nor german kultur show? this we will do, if we are true; honor the empire's call, each bear his part with loyal heart, lest britain's flag may fall. the slacker's son "the teacher says at school, dad, that twenty years ago the kaiser tried to rule, dad, and plunged the world in woe. when britain needed men, dad, to help to fight the huns, boys dropped the plow and pen, dad, to go and man the guns. each man he did his share, dad, the loyal, strong and true; i wish i had been there, dad, to fight along with you. i'm glad you met no harm, dad, and wear no wooden peg; for bill's dad lost an arm, dad, and jim's dad lost a leg. the kaiser was so strong, dad, that britain almost lost, the war was hard and long, dad, and none could count the cost. our men were firm and brave, dad, and freely shed their blood, and many found a grave, dad, beneath the flanders mud. you never say a word, dad, about this awful fight; where is your trusty sword, dad? let's get it out tonight. the other fellows brag, dad, of what their dads have done, and jim's dad has a flag, dad, he captured from a hun. and mr. sandy ross, dad, who works down at the mill, has a victoria cross, dad, for fighting kaiser bill; and little tommy dagg, dad, the youngest of your clerks, says his dad was at bagdad, and shot a hundred turks. when we go for a walk, dad, or take our flying car, you never want to talk, dad, about the mighty war; please talk to me tonight, dad, before i go to bed, of when you went to fight, dad." but dad hung down his head. blasted hopes we hoped to end our troubled days far from the maddening strife, erstwhile to chortle roundelays of peaceful country life; but now the phone rings night and morn, the trolleys crash and bang; we hear the fearsome auto horn where once the thrushes sang. we hoped the children that we raised, those stalwart girls and boys; would follow in the trail we blazed that selfish ease destroys; but now, when men are needed so to fight the mailed fist, our girls won't let their husbands go, nor will our sons enlist. we hoped the pirates all were dead, those horrid buccaneers, who dyed the ocean's waves with red, in wicked bygone years: but now we mourn, as happy days, that sanguinary past, since kaiser bill a hundred ways, has captain kidd outclassed. we hoped that kings had wiser grown since charles i. lost his head, and bonaparte was overthrown, for painting europe red; but now we have the greatest kill since cave men fought with stones. behold the kaiser's butcher bill! ten million dead men's bones. langemark may, the maple leaf is stained with red, deeper than autumn's dye; on foreign fields our noble dead their valor testify. cut off, out-numbered, ten to one, by wolfish german pack our men like heroes fought and won, they kept the teutons back. they held their post, they saved the day, those young lions from the west; what higher tribute can we pay, "they fought like britain's best." when reinforcements came at last, then woe betide the huns, from man to man the word was passed "we must retake the guns." mid rifle ball and poison bomb, shrapnel and shrieking shell, and all the hell of kaiserdom, they charged, while hundreds fell. with fearless eye and ringing cheer they made that wild advance, for life was cheap and glory dear, those bloody days in france. o, life is short to him who gives long years for selfish pay; in righteous cause, the soldier lives a lifetime in a day. the canadian army the news, "the old land's in it," stirred us one august morn, then waited not a minute the fearless british born. they were the first to offer to die for england's name scorning the shirking scoffer, who would not play the game. but when the german kaiser of victories could brag, canadians got wiser and rallied round the flag. the orangemen, stout-hearted, the cheery lads in green, when once the ball was started in khaki garb were seen. a regiment of tories, a regiment of grits, discarded party worries to give the kaiser fits. battalions of free thinkers and regiments of jews and some of water drinkers, and some that hit the booze. a regiment of chinese, a regiment of yanks, a regiment with fine knees and bare and brawny shanks, a regiment of teachers who laid aside the birch, and one of sons of preachers, a credit to the church. a regiment of colonels, who couldn't get a sit, (to judge by their externals they're feeling fine and fit); a regiment of slackers, a regiment of thieves, and one of bold bushwhackers, all wearing maple leaves. battalions, too, of frenchmen, the breed that never yields, are making splendid trench men, on belgium's bloody fields. battalions from the prairies now man the smoking tubes; from london and st. marys, a regiment of rubes. thus, to defend the nation, they rallied to a man, our fighting population so cosmopolitan. not one from danger blenches, they vie in skill and pluck and when they reach the trenches, we call them all canuck. fight or pay october, the cause of freedom needs our help, the old land's in the fray, it's up to every lion's whelp to either fight or pay. the bloody turk and savage hun still ravish, burn and slay, each loyal son must man a gun, or stay at home and pay. our sisters, mothers, sweethearts, wives, they nurse, and knit, and pray, let men forego their selfish lives, and either fight or pay. the call is clear to sacrifice our life, our purse, our play; ere honor dies, let us arise and either fight or pay. "england expects from every man his duty on this day." 'twas thus lord nelson's message ran ere he began the fray. shall we our noble heritage, see crumbling down like clay, this goodly age, a blotted page, and neither fight nor pay? nay! while our british blood runs red, let those refuse who may, we'll heed what mighty nelson said on old trafalgar day, from cottage, castle, palace, hall, we'll come without delay, at duty's call, and stake our all, to fight, or pay, or pray. =rhymes for children= hunting the were-wolf the jungle law is broken; from forest, field and plain, the beasts and birds have spoken, "the traitor must be slain," the surly bear comes growling, from out his lonesome den; he hears the were-wolf howling, athirst for blood of men. the fierce war eagle screeches across the channel deep, his scream the lion reaches and rouses him from sleep; the busy beaver hiding in far off northern wood, the mighty bull moose, striding in stately solitude. the humpy, bumpy cattle, the tiger from his lair, go down into the battle beside the timid hare. the elephant and camel, the ostrich and emu, weird things, both bird and mammal, and old man kangaroo. all vow, by fur and feather, each with one purpose filled, to work and fight together, until the were-wolf's killed. meanwhile in war's arena, unmoved by tears and groans, the buzzard and hyena pick clean the victim's bones. johnnie's grouch 'cause brother ben has gone to fight across the sea so far, i like to sit around at night and read about the war, but when i think me and my chums are fighting fritz in france, my ma asks if i've done my sums; a feller gets no chance. and when i'm marching proudly back with fifty captured huns, my dad will say "retire jack". that's how they spike my guns. my teacher's a conscriptionist, she calls me "johnnie dear," but backs it with an iron fist and so i volunteer. i got kept in at school one day for lessons not half learned, and when dad asked, "why this delay?" i said i'd been interned. and when our test exams came out and mine were extra bad, i said, "we needn't fuss about a scrap of paper, dad." when sister's chap comes round at night, and pa seems in a rage, ma only smiles; she knows all right, it's just dad's camoflage. and when i entertain this beau while sis puts on her dress, sometimes i get a dime, you know; that's strategy, i guess. my dad is getting rather stout, and hates to mow the lawn; but when he gets the mower out, first thing he knows i'm gone; but when i've trouble with my pa no matter what it's for, i make an ally of my ma, and then i win the war. the trench that fritz built this is the trench that fritz built. this is the hun who lay in the trench that fritz built. this is the gun that killed the hun who lay in the trench that fritz built. this is the farmer's only son, who mans the gun that killed the hun, who lay in the trench that fritz built. this is the farmer, weary and worn, who raised the son, who mans the gun, that killed the hun, who lay in the trench that fritz built. this is she, who in youth's bright morn, was wed to the man, now weary and worn, 'tis she to whom the son was born, who in front of the battle, all tattered and torn, still mans the gun that killed the hun, who lay in the trench that fritz built. this is the slacker, all shaven and shorn, who drives a car with a tooting horn, and laughs at the farmer weary and worn, and his wife at work in the early morn, hoeing potatoes and beets and corn, because the son, who to them was born, is in front of the battle, all tattered and torn, still manning the gun that killed the hun, who lay in the trench that fritz built. this is the maid who treats with scorn the shifty slacker, all shaven and shorn, and his shining car with the tooting horn, but honors the farmer weary and worn, and his wife who helps him hoe the corn, and milk the cows in the early morn, for she loves the son who to them was born, who in front of the battle all tattered and torn, still mans the gun that killed the hun, who lay in the trench that fritz built! =nursery rhymes= =up-to-date= ten little slackers ten little slackers standing in a line, one went to u. s., then there were nine. nine little slackers out for a skate, one broke his leg and then there were eight. eight little slackers playing odd and even, got in a mix up and then there were seven. seven little slackers sucking sugar sticks, one got dyspepsia, then there were six. six little slackers only half alive, one got married and then there were five. five little slackers were such a bore the fool killer got one, then there were four. four little slackers out on a spree, auto turned turtle, and then there were three. three little slackers in a canoe, simpleton rocked the boat, then there were two. two little slackers, one was a hun, he got imprisoned, then there was one. one little slacker, war nearly won, he got conscripted, then there were none. one little, two little, three little slackers, four little, five little, six little slackers, seven little, eight little, nine little slackers, ten little slacker men. * * * * * jack sprat can eat no fat, his wife can eat no lean, because upon their platter now no meat is ever seen. make a cake, make a cake, my good man, make it of treacle and cornmeal and bran, tick it and pick it and mark it with b, and eat it for breakfast and dinner and tea. little deeds and mortgages, little bonds and stocks, help amid financial storms to keep us off the rocks. little loads of stove wood, little jags of coal, make our pocket books look sick, and put us in the hole. little jack horner sat in a corner, eating his whole wheat pie, he looked pretty glum for he found not a plum, and he said, i don't like this old pie. little tommy tucker sang for his supper, what did he sing for? white bread and butter; but he had to take corn-cake instead of white bread, with oleomargarine on it to spread. farmer dingle had a little pig, not very little and not very big; it weighed two hundred or a few pounds over and brought fifty dollars when sold to a drover. then farmer dingle stood up and lied, and mrs. dingle sat down and cried, "hogs eat so much valuable feed," said he, "they need," said he, "good feed," said she, so there's really no money in pigee wigee wee. one little man went to battle, one little man stayed at home, one little man got white bread and butter, one little man got none, one little man cried see, see, see, you'll eat brown bread till the war is done. tom, tom, the piper's son, stole a pig and away he run, "high cost of meat i've got you beat," said tom, while making his retreat. jack, nick and jill went after bill, and fought on land and water, till nick fell down and lost his crown, and bill went tumbling after. there was a crooked man who wore a crooked smile, and built a crooked railroad o'er many a crooked mile, he got some crooked statesmen to play his crooked games, and they all got crooked titles before their crooked names. * * * * * sing a song of sixpence, country going dry, four and twenty booze shops selling no more rye. when the bars were open, whiskey had its fling, now we ride the water cart, along with george, our king. once dad, in the bar room, counted out his money, weary mother sat at home, patching clothes for sonny. now dad's in the garden wearing out his clothes, money in his pocket, bloom all off his nose. =miscellaneous= bedlam october, "the world is mad, my masters," the poet had the facts to prove this sweeping statement, in man's punk-headed acts; for since the day when adam partook of the wrong tree, we've toiled, and slipped, and blundered; "what fools these mortals be". take out your horse or auto, and drive the country roads, and see the fields and orchards bearing their precious loads. old mother earth produces with lavish hand and free, but half is lost or ruined by man's stupidity. ten thousand tons of apples will surely go to waste while poor folk in the cities will hardly get a taste. we take good wheat and barley and manufacture bums, whose wives and little children are starving in the slums. the man that's poor as woodwork, and nearly always broke, can somehow find a nickel to puff away in smoke; while those who have the money to eat and drink their fills, are sure to over-do it, and run up doctor bills. if, when the times are peaceful i kill one man, by heck! they'll call it bloody murder, and hang me by the neck. in war-time he's a hero, who sends through air or sea a bomb to blow a thousand into eternity. and so, dear gentle reader, you see, by all the rules, that earth's whole population except ourselves are fools. the certainties when icy blasts blow fierce and wild, cutting the face like steel, and summer's heart is trodden down 'neath winter's iron heel, it's all a part of nature's plan, so stay and play the game; next spring will bring the violets, and roses just the same. when pharaoh's lean ill-favored kine have grazed the pastures brown. and, on a parched and starving world the brazen sun glares down; though canaan's forests, fields and farms, are scorched, as with a flame, there's food in joseph's granaries in egypt just the same. when pharaoh makes the task more hard for overburdened hands, and stubble fields refuse the straw his tale of bricks demands; what matter if our little lives go out in fear and shame? the waters of the mighty nile flow onward just the same. when, at the front, to bar the way, the red sea waters stand, and egypt's hosts are close behind, a fierce relentless band; intent their firstborn to avenge, their hebrew slaves to claim: look up, and see the pyramids, firm standing, just the same. when human ghouls hell's lid uplift to plunder, burn and kill, and truth seems driven from her throne, say to your heart, "be still!" don't think that freedom's day is done, and honor but a name, for right still reigns and planets gleam in heaven just the same. the friendly spies a tale of camp borden november, the main camping ground of the huron indians was near where camp borden is now situated. where soldiers build their camp fires, at night there gather 'round the spirits of the hurons from happy hunting ground, no sentry hears their footsteps, they need no countersigns; as silent as the moonlight, they pass within the lines. fierce shine their dusky faces as through the tents they glide, once more they smell the war paint and know a warrior's pride; the white man's modern weapons their ghostly fingers feel, the guns so swift and deadly, the long sharp blades of steel. they nod to one another, nor knew so wild a joy since, leagued with the algonquins, they fought the iroquois; among the sleeping soldiers they pass the silent night, and nudge, and smile, and whisper, "white brother make big fight." when shafts of light are breaking across the eastern sky, they wrap their mantles 'round them, and breathe a soft "good-bye", then vanish like the shadows that lurk among the trees, the sentry hearing only the sighing of the breeze. jack canuck to uncle sam april, take down your old gun, uncle sammy, all your pockets with cartridges cram; the war fogs that rise, cold and clammy, seem to frighten you some, uncle sam. you once were the first to get ready, the most eager in liberty's fight, your brain, unc. was clear, calm and steady, when you battled for justice and right. time was when each star in old glory shone for freedom all round the wide world. the winds and the waves told the story wheresoever its folds were unfurled; but now your good rifle is rusty, all your work of long years is undone. old glory, bedraggled and dusty, is insulted and scorned by the hun. there once was a time, uncle sammy, when the honor of sister or wife, e'en that of a poor negro mammy, you'd defend, uncle sam, with your life. but now, what's the matter i wonder, you see womanhood treated like junk, and think but of guarding your plunder: can you tell me the reason, dear unc.? it seems that your head isn't level, with your wilsons, and bryans and fords, you let things all go to the devil, and protect your poor people with words. it can't be the killing that vexes, and prevents you from getting your gun, you're lynching men now, down in texas for one tenth that the kaiser has done. sammy april, brave sammy's a fighter, who said he was slow, that duffeldorf blighter was running his show? the fellow who hinted that sammy was slack, with praise, now, unstinted, should take it all back; for sammy's a wonder, and now going strong, ('twas somebody's blunder that held him so long) he's just the right fellow, we're glad that he came, the chap that is yellow has some other name. this sammy's a dandy; when once in the race, he makes himself handy in any old place: can preach a good sermon, or sing a good song, or lick any german who happens along: a single hand talker, as good as the best, a two fisted fighter, with hair on his chest, a long distance hiker, who never goes lame; he's not any piker whatever the game. there's no one that's quicker at pulling a gun, he'll sure be a sticker when facing the hun; can camp in a palace, or live in a tent, drink wine from a chalice, or eat meat in lent; sweet tongued to the ladies and kind to the kids, condemns things to hades, when down by the skids; at home on the river, plantation or farm, sometimes a high liver who does himself harm. abstemious, very, when prices are high, he learns to be merry without any pie; an expert at poker, with money to spare, a down and out broker who plays solitaire; an orator forceful, a whale to invent, o sammy's resourceful, a versatile gent, though late in the race, sam, we wish you good luck, come on, take your place, sam, with johnnie canuck. france to columbia november, columbia, my sister, republic great and free, when liberty was threatened i looked in vain to thee; that hope was vain, my sister, you lost your greatest chance; men live on lies in utah, men die for truth in france. columbia, my sister, you saw my blood run red, my sons and daughters murdered, the tears my orphans shed; you raised no voice in protest, to stop the hun's advance; men live at ease in kansas, with hell let loose in france. columbia, my sister, your children you have seen, drowned in the cruel ocean by german submarine; but baseball is important, the theatre and dance, and pleasure rules in texas while horror reigns in france. columbia, my sister, in sordid love of gain your vultures and hyenas wax fat upon the slain; the nations, sorrow stricken, receive your careless glance, and wealth in massachusetts means poverty in france. columbia, my sister, i know your heart is right, though on your head has fallen this hellish hunnish blight; i love you still, my sister, and warn you, lest perchance the huns may rule wisconsin when driven out of france. jim's sacrifice jim marched away one summer day to fight the boastful hun, in khaki clad, as fine a lad as ever carried gun, no braver knight e'er went to fight, in shining coat of mail, in days of old, for love or gold, or for the holy grail. his aim was sure, his heart was pure, like good sir galahad, he played the game when hardships came his face was always glad, until, by chance, somewhere in france, he saw a "hometown sun," he read one page, then in a rage he strafed it like a hun. the girl he loved had faithless proved, and german slacker wed; that cruel stroke jim's spirit broke, he wished that he were dead. he who had been so straight and clean, and every fellow's chum, now lived apart with hardened heart, and soaked himself with rum. 'mid rats and mice and fleas and lice he spent his days and nights; waist deep in mud, besmeared with blood, he fought a hundred fights; his faith was lost, the angel host of mons he didn't see; no comrade white beheld his plight, with loving sympathy. the devil strip, where bullets zipp, the narrow neutral band where man to man they fight and plan to win that "no man's land"; here jim would go to hunt the foe, he thought it only fun, and that day lost that couldn't boast another slaughtered hun. his awful deeds so say the creeds, jim's bright young manhood marred; his health was sound, he got no wound, but sin his spirit scarred. some lost their health, some lost their wealth, of all war took its toll, some lost their life in bloody strife, jim only lost his soul. the orgy of thor the war god calls, whate'er befalls his orders must be filled, though work may stop in mine and shop, and farms may lie untilled. at his command each human hand must toil to pay the price in coal, or meat, or wool, or wheat, oil, cotton, corn or rice. from pole to pole he takes control of land, and air, and tide, then death and dearth fill all the earth, and hell's gate opens wide. fierce robber bands, o'er desert sands no white man ever saw, bring all their spoil, with endless toil, to fill the monster's maw. o'er ice and snow the huskies go, beneath the northern star, and gather toll, a scanty dole, to pay the god of war. from out the states go mighty freights of cotton, corn and oil; from west to east, to feed the beast, the people save and toil. the west's astir, the binders whirr around the settler's shack; the threshers hum, lest winter come before the wheat's in sack. the bullocks strain on loaded wain, piled high with bales of wool, a season's clip from shed to ship; the cargo must be full. the drivers swear, the bulls by pair plunge panting through the dust, like things accurst they die of thirst the war gods say they must. where battle fields dread harvests yield the war god's revels be, where blood runs red, he counts the dead, and shrieks and howls in glee. with fiendish laughs, he fiercely quaffs the precious crimson tide; he'll drink his fill, nor rest until his blood lust's satisfied. motes and beams we condemn, with hot curses, the hun for his piracy, perjury, pride, for his nameless atrocities done, for the ten million victims that died. then we'll lift holy hands to the skies, when the day of our victory comes, while pale children, with piteous cries, starve for bread in the slime of our slums. we despite the degenerate yank with his blood-spattered idol of gold, who, his birthright, for cash in the bank, and political pottage has sold. then we send our poor boys to the war with a prayer that they keep themselves clean, and we purchase a shining new car, praying harder for cheap gasoline. we detest the false bulgars and greeks; they must learn to be true to their friends; they have proved themselves traitors and sneaks, using war for their own selfish ends. but our grafters their pockets may fill, while valiantly waving the flag, caring nothing who settles the bill, if they only get off with the swag. we abhor the unspeakable turk, for his orgies of murder and shame, his detestable devilish work done in honor of allah's fair name; then we pray as the pharisee prayed, while afar off the publican stood, but forget the creator has made all the children of men of one blood. nurse cavell november, this world has spots made holy by deeds or lives of love, has shrines where high and lowly alike, their hearts may prove; this age, when faith might falter mid shriek of shot and shell, has added one more altar, the grave of nurse cavell. she cared for sick and dying, knew neither friend nor foe, she spent her strength in trying to heal a neighbor's woe. for deeds by love inspired the kaiser's vengeance fell on form so frail and tired, heroic nurse cavell. what though the prussian kultur now threatened her with death; she met the screaming vulture in simple, quiet faith, "i am an english woman, i love my country well, but must not hate a foeman," said kindly nurse cavell. she faced the guns with even, calm, fearless, english eyes, and then, her foes forgiven, made willing sacrifice; thus, at the midnight hour, in prussian prison cell, crushed by a tyrant's power, died christlike nurse cavell. but when no more war legions in battles fierce are hurled, when, to remotest regions, peace reigns throughout the world; where'er beyond the waters the british peoples dwell mothers will tell their daughters the tale of nurse cavell. 'twas ever thus november, o preacher, prophet, martyr, sage, whose message falls on heedless ears, bethink that unrepentant age when noah preached for six score years; see israel to baal bowed, the persecuting pharisee, and all the loaves and fishes crowd beside the sea of galilee. o patriot of humble birth, with heart to help a fellow man, to reconstruct the things of earth upon a nobler, wiser plan; the curse that mars the lowly born will dog your footsteps till your death, the proud judeans' words of scorn, "no good thing comes from nazareth." o mother, when your son lies dead, you hate this cruel world of blood, you pay the price, with grief bowed head, the age-old price of motherhood. 'twas thus eve mourned o'er abel's loss, naomi grieved in tents of shem, 'twas thus she wept beside the cross who bore a son in bethlehem. o soldier with the shattered breast, beside the shell-swept flanders road, the one who gives the weary rest knows all the burden of your load. the anguished thirst, the bitter pain, a father's face he could not see, the hate of man, sin's awful stain, he bore them all on calvary. ego the ego of the human race, the sordid love of self, we see it in life's hurried chase, the grafter's greed for pelf. the horror of the battle field, the killed, the maimed, the blind, the beaten foe, too proud to yield, the ego of mankind. the ego of the human race, the poison in our blood, the lying tongue, the double face, justice and truth withstood. the heavy task, the scanty pay, the beggar with his bone, the rich young man who went away, the king upon his throne. the ego of the human race, the subtle serpent's lie no toilsome years can e'er efface, "ye shall not surely die." eve still by serpent's word beguiled, the curse on ham that fell, poor outcast hagar's starving child, cities where lot might dwell. the ego of the human race, the toil each day brings in, the idlers in the market place, the sorrow and the sin; bequeathed from pre-historic sire, in turk and teuton still, the ape's inordinate desire, the tiger's lust to kill. freedom we're fighting now for liberty where'er our armies are, we wouldn't want our king to be a kaiser, or a czar. we want no rabbi with his book, no priest in sable stole, for priest and rabbi ne'er can brook the freedom of the soul. we must be free, to work, or play, or loaf, just when we like, and if we get too little pay, be free to go on strike: and if, perchance, we gain our goal, and wealth to us should come, we must be free to take our toll, from workman's scanty crumb. we must be free to hit the booze that steals our children's bread, the cash that ought to buy them shoes, pour down our necks instead. we must be free to come and go; no russ nor hun are we, there's nothing grander here below than british liberty. but when, from nations drowned in tears, for crimes by kaiser done, the cry goes forth for volunteers to come and fight the hun; we must be free at home to stay, while others take their chance "of finding little homes of clay" in flanders or in france. twenty years after november, where men make bloody sacrifice, and pile the earth with slain, kind mother nature ever tries to cover up the stain. 'mid charnel of the tiger's den may pure white lilies blow, and on the graves of warlike men the peaceful daisies grow. the grass is all the greener now where men most fiercely strove, and maids may hear on vimy's brow the cooing of the dove. where cannon roared by night and day, and men in thousands fell, the sunny headed children play, and pick up bits of shell. where once raged war's infernal din, and bullets fell like rain the peaceful peasants gather in a hundred fold of grain; and where men plied the deadly steel, and blood ran red like wine, we see the holy sisters kneel beside the rebuilt shrine. and over on the rising ground the fresh young maples stand to mark the graves of those who found death in a foreign land; here women of the nameless woes, still pray when day is done, that god will rest the souls of those who strafed the hellish hun. faith november, the soldier, when the war began, presumed the cause was right, but didn't ask the campaign's plan; his duty was to fight. the child, with all things yet to prove, still thinks the world is fair, while trusting in a mother's love, and in a father's care. the patient 'neath the surgeon's knife unconscious is, and still, the only hope to save his life is in the doctor's skill. the farmer sows in faith his seed, and trusts the sun and rain, meanwhile he fights the choking weed that grows among the grain. the planets in their orbits roll, the seasons come and go, the angry seas own god's control, his care the sparrows know. but we, by pride made over bold, face providence unawed, and like the patriarch of old, presume to question god. ten thousand prayers in discord rise from church and cloister dim, when will we cease our feeble cries, and trust the world to him? 'tis his the broken heart to bind, to heal the serpent's bite, the judge is he of all mankind, and shall he not do right? everybody helping march, if you want a fine new car, do without, if you like a good cigar, cut it out, thrift will help to win the war, there's no doubt. if you are too old to fight, you can pay, if you think war isn't right, you can pray, help to crush the kaiser's might as you may. if you are a tory gay, or a grit, throw your politics away, do your bit, war is now the game to play; you are it. if you have good things to eat, pack a box, if you are a maiden neat, knit some socks, keep the soldier's tired feet, off the rocks. get a piece of land on spec, plow and sow, there's a place for every peck, you can grow. swat the kaiser in the neck, issue him a passage check down below. the world's overdraft may, on life's broad fields, whate'er we sow, 'tis certain we shall reap; the watching scribes, above, below, somewhere a record keep. the faithless church, the lying creed teaching that wrong is right, the childless home, the heartless greed, the jealousy and spite. the feasting, selfish, idle rich, the hungry, hardened poor, the drunkard lying in the ditch, the brothel's open door; whate'er we do, where'er we dwell, whate'er our names or creeds, they total up in heaven or hell, the sum of all our deeds. we thought the race was to the swift, the battle to the strong, like mariners with boat adrift, we heard the sirens' song, we put our trust in armies vast, in battleships and marts, we deemed but hoodoos of the past the prayers from human hearts. so heavy grew the moral debt of every class and rank, no further credit could we get at satan's private bank. the wealth bestowed by sea and land we squandered in a day, the devil took our notes of hand, and now there's hell to pay. the world will drown in blood and tears, and famine stalk abroad, 'til men repent their sordid years and humbly call on god. this cruel war the kaiser made, (the worst since satan fell,) will end when all the world has paid its overdraft on hell. slackers we condemn, as selfish slackers, those not willing to enlist to oppose the prussian kultur and the kaiser's iron fist, but they're not the only slackers, those who will not go and fight. for every man's a slacker who does less now than he might. there are slackers in the pulpit, in the elder's cushioned pew, and all through the congregation there are slackers not a few. there are slackers in the workshop, there are slackers on the farm, and slackers down in parliament whose defeat would do no harm. some munition men are slackers, and some who store our food. while they dream of higher profits and of interest accrued. we condemn the youthful shirker and we say his heart's not right, but there's many an arrant slacker not eligible to fight. so let each and all get busy, if we would the kaiser thrash. from the man who owns the millions to the girl who slings the hash, all the women busy knitting, all the men out hoeing beans, for the war may be decided by the work behind the scenes. the loyal blacks august, three years ago the war began, three years ago to-day the empire's call to every man was either fight or pay. some men the country well could spare their clear-cut duty shun but all the blacks have done their share to help defeat the hun. my brother jim, who worked by spells (he had a lazy streak) is busy now inspecting shells at forty bones a week. and jack, of course, is rather young, he's just nineteen or so, and tom had trouble with his lung about twelve years ago. my brother ben would like to fight, the kaiser makes him wild, but if he went 'twould not be right, he has a wife and child. i cannot lease my farm and store, with prices soaring higher, if times keep good for two years more i think i can retire. although we didn't volunteer and learn the soldier's art, we hold some good positions here and bravely do our part, while some the khaki suits have donned, and in the trenches slave we put into a war loan bond each dollar we can save. but there are lots of husky chaps could go as well as not, there's arthur mee and joe perhaps, paul pierce and barney bott, and peter jones and sam delong, and jack smith's hired man, and scotty moss, and wesley strong, and billy barlow's dan. and robert green and walter white, and others i could name; when these refuse to go and fight it is a burning shame; i think they should be forced to go, conscription is the plan to catch these chaps so very slow and make them play the man. the troubles of tino war pot is still stewing, not a sign of peace, trouble now is brewing 'round the shores of greece; tino needs our pity, threatened by the huns, seaboard town and city faced by british guns. if he helps the germans lose his job for life; if he favors britain has to square his wife. holds no trumps nor aces, cannot take a trick, cards are all queen's faces, tino's feeling sick. tino never whistles, neither does he sing, bed of thorns and thistles; who would be a king? has the world gone mad? december, what a lack of reason in this earthly throng! in and out of season everything goes wrong; over there in europe kaiser, king and czar, raise a mighty flare up, plunge a world in war. neither king nor kaiser down in mexico, are the people wiser? echo answers, "no!" there, contending factions murder, pillage, burn; plunder and exactions everywhere you turn. has the world gone crazy? are the men all fools? is our thinking hazy, spite of all our schools? the trees the wind that through the forest blows may scatter leaves and blossoms wide. the parent tree but firmer grows when by the tempest torn and tried. the stately oak withstands the storm that rocks its boughs in fiercest strife; the winds that shake its sturdy form but give a deeper, stronger life. the maple leaves are falling fast, the sugar groves look gaunt and grim, but sap will flow when winter's past, and sweetness course through every limb. the mighty eucalyptus tree but sheds its bark at winter's call its leaves retain their greenery, and yield a curing oil for all. a seedling in the maori's time, now, toughened by a thousand gales, straight stands the kauri in its prime, fit mast for proudest ship that sails. drooping its weary fronds, the palm in sorrow stands on sun-baked plain till comes, like blessed healing balm, the early and the latter rain. the noble banyan dying lives, in youth 'twould shield a single man, in age its spreading shelter gives shade for a prince's caravan. no weaklings these, their roots deep down in mother earth retain their hold. to heaven they raise a leafy crown, sound-hearted, loyal, earnest-souled. who knows =the pessimist= our lot is cast in evil days we almost lose our faith in god, we cannot comprehend his ways, nor recognize his chast'ning rod. to stem the hun's relentless tread, his hymns of hate, his crimes of cain we give our daily toll of dead, but wonder if 'tis all in vain. =the optimist= brave men must fight, brave men must fall, whene'er a tyrant lifts his head; when freedom sounds her battle call, we must not grudge our noble dead. e'en now the victor's shouts we hear, on blood bought hill, o'er shell-swept plain; the end of tyranny is near, our struggle has not been in vain. =the socialist= if, when our cheering shall have died, no more for sordid grain we plan, but shed the hoofs and horns of pride, and strive to help our fellow man, so each will get a fair return for labor done by hand or brain and none can take what others earn; the war will not have been in vain. =the anarchist= if still the selfish creed we preach of pleasure, ease and strife for gold; employer, and employee, each resentful, greedy, uncontrolled; then poor men still will curse the great, and hellish hordes will rise again with hungry, hardened, hunnish hate; this war will have been fought in vain. afterwards when the war shall have ceased with its sorrow, its hunger, and horror, and hell, in the dawn of a brighter to-morrow, what tale will historians tell? will the nations get records of glory, of cowardice, courage or crime, when the sages record the true story, to ring down the decades of time? we believe that some peoples now broken, and crushed by the turk and the hun will arise from their darkness unspoken, and stand in the light of the sun. and it may be that germans, grown wiser and taught at so fearful a cost, will have hanged their contemptible kaiser and regained the fair name they have lost. we believe that the allies now fighting, and lavishing billions untold, will have found, in the wrong that needs righting, a service far better than gold; that in bearing the load of another, in heeding the cry of the pained, that in staying the feet of a brother, fresh strength for themselves will have gained. and some lands that now cravenly study the getting of guerdons and gain, may have found their gold blasted and bloody, and tarnished by tears for the slain; and because they dishonoured their stations were weak when they should have been strong, may be treated with scorn by the nations, a byword and hissing among. so the scribe will set down in his pages the story the centuries tell, that, for sin, death is still the true wages, and broad the road leading to hell. german securities fall the british guns have spoken and bill may lose his crown, the german line is broken, and saur-kraut is down. the gallant french are storming the huns with iron hail; they've given fritz a warning, and limburger is stale. the russ is westward pushing, herding the huns like sheep, thus ends the big four flushing, and liverwurst is cheap. king victor's brave italians are driving back pell-mell the austrian battalions and weiners will not sell. the belgians, too, are holding their end up with the rest, they hear the teutons scolding, bologna's past its best. roumanians, and others, who now are standing pat will call the allies brothers when lager beer goes flat. trouble in the trenches the true story of the difficulty on the russian front. september, when slav and russ had raised a fuss, and sent their czar a-kiting, said givinski to blatherski, "we've done enough of fighting." "i've got a cough," wheezed killmanoff, "from working in the trenches, i'd rather fight a doggoned sight, than put up with the stenches. i want to quit and take a sit in some place clean and brighter, let those who like come down the pike to strafe the german blighter." "i've got the itch," growled dirtovitch, "bog spavin and lumbago." "i'm never dry," swore goshallski, "i smell worse than a dago." "this cheese is high," grouched buttinski, "no hungry rat would eat it." "this meat is tough," whined ivanuff, "i think we ought to beat it." "it makes me mad," stormed hazembad, "the prevalence of vermin." "you've said it right," owned gotabite, "i'm lousy as a german." said takemoff, "our lives are rough in these here blooming ditches, but mine's the worst by half a verst, since some guy stole my breeches." their pay was back, their belts were slack, each man his troubles blurted. with empty guns to face the huns, small wonder they deserted. the worshippers wo sing was just a heathen blind, a dull insensate clod, yet somehow to his darkened mind, there came a thought of god. he shaped an idol out of clay, and to it bowed his knee; no one had taught him how to pray, alas, the poor chinee! an artist took his brush and paint, and on his canvas board, he wrought a picture of a saint, and called it christ the lord; with patient hand, and wondrous skill, retouched that kindly face, but thought it ever lacking still, in majesty and grace. a preacher in his pulpit stood, (his words the people trust,) his message was that god is good, and knows mankind is dust. he drew a picture of a lord, omniscient, pure and kind, his thoughts, his purposes, his word, too high for human mind. the kaiser has conceived a god, to rule o'er sea and land, with strong, remorseless, iron rod, in hohenzollern hand; a god who honors lies and fraud, and mean hypocrisy, a boastful, bloody, brutal god, the god of germany. and thus we all our idols make, as our conception is, and pray our father, but to take, our helpless hands in his; to give us each a ray of hope, to each a message bring, each king and kaiser, priest and pope, each humble poor wo sing. to jean baptiste o jean baptiste! do not resist the military act, jean; you like to fight, the cause is right, (you know this is a fact, jean.) when tasks are hard, 'tis not, old pard. your way to ever shirk, jean; the saw-log jam, mills, woods and dam all tell how well you work, jean. it isn't fear that keeps you here, you're active, brave and strong, jean; but in this scrap, by some mishap, we got you going wrong, jean. in dear old france, the huns advance with bullet, bomb and gas, jean, it's hardly square that you're not there; (hank bourassa's an ass, jean.) that we may win, you must begin to help more in this fight, jean, the die is cast, forget our past intolerance and spite, jean, the things you love may worthless prove, if you don't get your gun, jean; your woods, and mines, your homes and shrines, may all go to the hun, jean. our kinsmen brave, across the wave, the kaiser have defied, jean, british and french, in bloody trench, are fighting side by side, jean. where duty leads, what matter creeds, or what baptismal font, jean? so let us sing--"long live the king" and join the bonne entente, jean. the lost tribes we read about the tribes dispersed, that israelitish host, condemned and exiled, sin-accursed, among the gentiles lost, we wonder what strange paths they walk, in what far land they dwell, where now does reuben feed his flock, and joseph buy and sell? in search of them we vainly roam through distant, foreign states, then find a people nearer home with all the hebrew traits. they seize the heathen nations' land, and hold it by the sword, and deem themselves a righteous band. the chosen of the lord. they deem themselves a righteous band, and for religion's sake they bravely compass sea and land one proselyte to make. they drive poor hagar from their homes the wilderness to search, while abraham, forsooth, becomes a pillar in the church. they scorn their dreaming brother's right to visions he may have, and to the warring ishmaelite they sell him as a slave. unmoved they hear the cry of pain, old jacob's wailing note, "an evil beast my son has slain, there's blood on joseph's coat." when wearied on the desert track, with hunger faint and weak, egyptian flesh pots lure them back, the garlic and the leek. the fruitful promised land they view, but fear to enter in. and wander still, a faithless crew, the wilderness of sin. their enemies before them flee. their foemen's gates they hold, but esau's birthright still we see to crafty jacob sold. they worship aaron's golden calf, but scorn his priestly rod, and when from marah's springs they quaff, they murmur against god. though david's sceptre still remains with judah's royal line, on leah's sons are bloody stains, and ephriam's drunk with wine; blind sampson, by delilah's shears, is made grind dagon's corn, but only in a thousand years is there a moses born. reliability britannia's word was spoken the feeble to defend, that promise was not broken, she kept it to the end. britannia's word is good, tried, tested, proved in blood, in every land, 'mid snow or sand, she for the truth has stood. britannia borrowed millions in thrifty days of old, now, when she asks for billions, she always gets the gold. britannia's note is good, she signs it with her blood, each promise made, she fully paid, let cost be what it would. britannia's sons are falling, the proud, the strong, the gay, they heard their mother calling, they would not say her, nay. britannia's sword is good, she draws it when she should, the flag that flies 'neath all the skies a thousand years has stood. the mcleans the heather's on fire. mcleans from the byre, the hamlet, the city, the wide open plains, the lairds and rapscallions fill up the battalions with blue blood, with true blood, the loyal mcleans. they hear the drums rattle, they rush to the battle, (each man in the clan a base coward disdains), they die in their glory, the trenches are gory with red blood, with shed blood of gallant mcleans. afar on the heather, where hame folk foregather, the pibroch is wailing a dirge for the slain, the women are weeping, their lane vigils keeping, sair, sair, are the hearts in the clan o' mclean. but mony will stick it, till kaiser bill's lickit, and doontrodden people get back a' their ain, then maids will stop greeting, for soon they'll be meeting the bonnie brave lads o' the clan o' mclean. farmer john speaks his mind may, those fellows down in parliament have kicked up such a fuss, that now we seem election bent to clean up all the muss. the grits are sharpening their swords to give the tories fits, while they, with scorching bitter words denounce the faithless grits. all out of doors is fresh and green, but no more green than we who help to run the grit machine, or bow the tory knee. we hear the strident party call in words no one believes; the liberals are traitors all, the tories all are thieves. the birds are singing in the trees, old summer's back at last, the lilacs scent the morning breeze, the crops are growing fast; why should we leave these peaceful scenes, and don our vests and coats, to hear those chaps who spilled the beans slangwhanging for our votes? if we give heed to every tale told when the campaign's hot, the tories all should be in jail, the grits should all be shot. let's raise more chickens, calves and shoats, the politicians shun, let's grow more beans and wheat and oats, and help defeat the hun. when the game isn't fair as we struggle up life's hillside where the road is hard and long, weak, discouraged, tired, lonely, and everything gone wrong. when we see some men refusing their allotted load to bear, while their brother's back is breaking, then we know the game's not fair. when we see some men grow wealthy, while their brothers die in france, we rebel at the injustice, and demand an even chance; when we see some children hungry, with no decent clothes to wear, and some other stuffed and pampered, then we know the game's not fair. when we have to pay high taxes on our little wooden shack, though the mortgage isn't settled and the interest is back, when the rich man's stately mansion, doesn't pay its proper share, and he lies about his income, then we know the game's not fair. when we read in all the papers how our boys are strafing fritz, throwing bombs into his trenches for to blow him all to bits, when we think of him that started this vile war, then we declare if the kaiser goes unpunished we shall know the game's not fair. heinie's holler britty soon now fife years vill pe done since ve march into belgium von day, but since den some beeg rifers have run troo de pridges, i tink all de vay, den already de tings seemed so blain, ven ve shtart oudt to lick de whole vorld ve vas sure dat us shermans vould reign shoost verefer our flag vas unfurled. for to see dat some tings can't pe done all dose junker man's heads vas too tick, und, inshtead of a blace in de sun, ve haf got, vot you call, armyshtick. vot dot armyshtick baper's aboudt i can't get troo dis headpiece of mine but dose fellers dot von wrote it oudt, und us fellers dat lost had to sign. shoost so soon vas dat armyshtick made den dose allies dey run de whole show, for already deir plans vas all laid ven ve back into shermany go. dere vas fellers from england und france, und yankees, italians und japs, mit some hoboes dat all get a chance from some blaces not marked on de maps. for six months now dey talk und dey shmoke, mit no shermans at all in de game und dey tink up von pully goot shoke, den dey tell us to write down our name. dey vould take all our money und ships, und dose blace in de sun dat ve got. but we ain't handing oudt no free trips, und won't sign no beace dreaty like dot. what we won was it for this, i want to know, we saw our boys to flanders go; for this that belgium suffered so, that france withstood the ruthless foe, and said "no further shalt thou go," that serbia was plunged in woe, and women wept along the po; that poles were herded to and fro, and anzacs died at gallipo; that britain let her plans all go, laid bare her breast, and took the blow, and held the seas 'neath sun and snow danger above and death below; that uncle sam, though rather slow to scrap the doctrine of monroe, got busy at the final show? for years of blood and tears, although we boast the kaiser's overthrow, the net results seem these, i trow, that profiteers pile up the dough, and gather where they did not sow, that scythes of death fresh harvests mow, where bolshevists fierce whiskers grow, and no hun yet has eaten crow; that wild sinn feiners, fallen low, plan proud britannia's overthrow, save these the world can little show, but wooden crosses, row on row. in flanders fields, where poppies blow. the home coming july st, now that heinie is licked to a frazzle, and fritzie is clipped in the comb, we're holding a big razzle-dazzle to welcome our soldier boys home. they bore themselves brave in the battle they kept themselves clean on parade, they herded the bosches like cattle in many a nerve-racking raid. in order to do the boys justice, we need all the help we can get, without it the contract will bust us and swamp the committee with debt. so we want all old timers of wingham, (although the good town has gone dry) fast as railroad or auto can bring 'em, to come on the first of july. perhaps you've grown rich on the prairies, your farm in town lots you have sold, or, with products of wheat fields and dairies, have lined all your pockets with gold, or it may be your harp strings are rusted, your measures all halting and lame, perhaps you're discouraged and busted, and tired of playing the game. if so, come to wingham this summer, forget the world's trouble and strife, our program will sure be a hummer, we'll give you the time of your life. we'll make no untimely suggestions, concerning the length of your stay, nor ask you impertinent questions about what you've done while away. =the opinions of fritz= fritz finds fault ("canadians are using lacrosse sticks to throw hand grenades into german trenches."--news item.) "dere is some tings not right in dis schrap, for dose english and french don't fight fair ven dey pring in de turco and jap und de hindu and beeg russian bear; but already us goot sherman mans ve vas ending dot var britty quick, till dey shtart oop some more dirty blans, ven dose poys vill trow bombs mit a shtick. ve don't mind some old rifles und guns, nor dose airships und dreadnoughts und tings, ve don't care if dey call us de huns, [ ] und ve laugh at de song dat dey sings: but dose teufels from canada come, dey vould blay us von mean shabby trick, for ve can't get avay from de bomb dat dey trow from de end of a shtick. ven ve tink ve are safe for de day, mit goot sausage and saurkraut filled, dose canadians shtart oop to blay mit a game dat ve nefer haf drilled. ven ve see dose tings fly troo de air den already ve feel britty sick; if dey hit us dey don't seem to care, ven dey trow dose old bombs mit a shtick. ven ve shoots all our cartridge avay, und de vagons don't pring any more; ven our shells get more scarce efry day, mit our shirts und our breechaloons tore, und de shmokes und de limburger done (dot is spreading it on britty tick), den i tells you it isn't no fun ven dose poys vill trow bombs mit a shtick." [footnote : tipperary] fritz has another grouch (the germans say that if it hadn't been for the canadian rats they would have got through to calais.--news item.) dere's a ting dat i'll nefer furshtay. ven ve shtart oop dat goot poison gas, vy dose rats don't get oudt of de vay, so us shermans to ypres can pass. ven ve shoots all our cartridge avay, dat's already deir time to retreat; vot's de use so ve make de beeg fight, if dose rats don't know ven dey get beat? mit de gas dey gets britty soon killed, den ve send dem de shrapnel some more, und de bombshell mit limburger filled, dat vill shmell vorse dan duffeldorf's shtore; but dose beggars come back mit a rush, und i twice mit deir bay'nets get pricked; vot's de use so ve make de beeg push, if dose rats don't know ven dey get licked? i soon made some goot running, you pet! ven dey come like vild teufels behind; all my life i vill dream of dem yet, for i tought sure mine bapers vos signed. dey came on mit a yump und a yell till right into our trenches dey dashed; vot's de use so ve trow de beeg shell, if dose rats don't know ven dey get smashed? ve haf tried efry blan dat ve knows, but to scare dem no vay haf ve found, (how ve vish dey had shtayed vere de snows blow dose maples und pines all around). day und night dey vill put oop de shcrap, und already ve lose vot ve got; vot's de use for us setting de trap, if dose rats don't know ven dey get caught. the kaiser consults fritz october, ven der kaiser vould shtart some beeg shtunt, all dose shwells den soon come to de front, und de prince, und de king seem to be de whole ting, mit old fritz at de heel of de hunt. but somedimes ven de kaiser's in doubt, und already can't find his vay oudt; ven dose hard shpots he hits, den he say--"mine dear fritz, vot you tinks of dis peesness, old scoudt?" so it vas mit dose junkers so shlick, dey vould soon end dis var britty quick; but, shoost after de marne de crawl unter de barn, for already dey feel mighty sick. den der kaiser say--"fritzie, old chap, let me know vot you tink of dis schrap; vill ve lick dose beeg shmoke, or go britty soon proke, mit de faderland viped off de map?" den i say--"dat's von very hard case; can tree jacks beat four kings und some ace? ven ve hafn't de card ve must bluff britty hard, or shoost trow down our hand in disgrace. if like checkers ve blay, don't forget dey got more men dan ve haf, you bet! if ve makes some beeg schore, und not man off no more, ve may shtop mit a draw, maype yet." den der kaiser say--"tanks, mr. strauss, on your back dere don't grow any moss; i'll shoost blay some more pranks on dose silly old yanks" den he gif me von nice iron cross. fritz in the hospital ven der kaiser his var bugles blow, und say: "fritz, to de front you must go," den it vasn't so strange, i vas glad for de change; but i hope mine katrina don't know. britty soon ve're de whole of de show, und like vater dose goot liquors flow; ven, mit vine und champaigne ve got drunk in louvain, dere vas tings mine katrina don't know. soon already, ve fight mit de foe, for von year, und it seems britty slow; if i'm killed in de trench by dose english und french den perhaps mine katrina von't know. so dis time, ven dose hand grenades trow, den i tinks soon it's time for to go; if mine back's full mit lead, not mine breast, nor mine head, dat's von ting mine katrina don't know. ven dey takes me some blace down pelow, mit tree hundred vite peds in von row; for dose nice english nurse [ ] i forget dat beeg curse, but i'm glad mine katrina don't know. [footnote : gott strafe england!] fritz philosophizes since i'm held in his hospital up, mine poor back full mit shrapnel und lead ven i tink of der kaiser und krupp, dere's a ting dat von't come troo mine head. vot already i'm tinking aboudt, to pelieve in mine heart i can't yet, but de more dat i knows i find oudt vy dose englishmans frightened don't get. ve haf guns dat vill shoot forty miles, dat de fort und de city desthroys; ve haf zepps. of de latest new shtyles; ve haf millions of men und more poys; ve haf hundreds of unterseeboots dat all ships from de ocean vill drive, und ve kills, und ve burns, and ve shoots till dere von't pe no english alive. but for none of dese tings vill dey shcare it's deir nerve (dat's, i tink, vat they call), ven ve tink ve haf licked dem, i shwear dat dose english shoost laugh und play ball. but ven shermans get oudt from de trench, den ve crawl avay somewhere to shmoke, mit some schooners de beeg thirst to quench, for already our hearts vas near proke. ven dose english come on mit a run, den deir officers lead all de vay; but us shermans get chained to de gun, vile de boss in some safe blace vill shtay, maype dat's vy ve gets de cold feet, und dose english don't scare vort a cent; for a private vil nefer redreat from de blace vere his leader first vent. fritz writes to his frau dear katrina--dis letter i write from von hospital, somevere in france, for i get so proke oop in de fight dat dis maype vill be mine last chance. vell, i hold von whole trench py mineself, mit some poys dat shoost come to de front; britty soon dey get laid on de shelf, den your fritz have to do be beeg shtunt. ven i shoot all dose english and french, den already i tinks i vill shmoke, den i hunts von safe blace in de trench, vere de rain mit de ground doesn't soak. soon i vake mit a punch from a gun, und i hear von canadian say: "come mit me, you darned shleepy old hun," den he shteal mine seegars all avay. den de next ting i know i am here, for already de vorld had turned plack; dat canadian certain vos queer, for he carry me in on his back. from mine preast so mooch hardvare got oudt britty soon i can shtart von shmall shtore; if dere's any old junk mans aboudt dey might call at dis hospital door. now katrina don't vorry some more, keep de grubs from de cabbage avay, und pe sure dat you lock oop de door, ven alone in de house you must shtay. put some flowers on leetle karl's grave; all de time now i'm glad he is dead; vot's de use to grow oop shtrong und prave, only shoost to get shot troo de head? mine truly, fritz. katrina replies to fritz mine dear fritz: it shoost makes me feel plue ven i get me dat letter you write, for already mine fears haf come true dat you maype get hurt in dis fight, vot's de use so you make de beeg splash, und you hold de whole trench py your self? dat don't put no more meat in mine hash und not any more pread on mine shelf. do you tink dat der kaiser vill care? if he gifs you von cheap iron cross, ven i lose mine own fritz i can't shpare, vot vill dat do to make oop mine loss? britty soon all de men haf gone oudt, und von't maype come back any more; dere's shoost left yet old hans, mit de goudt, und de duffledorf poy at de shtore. you vill now shtay von prisoner yet, till already de var is all done, but perhaps dat's more safer, you pet, dan to shtand in de front of de gun. dere's shoost von ting i tell you; bevare of dose nurse mit de shining plack eyes, if dey got some pink cheeks, und brown hair, your katrina is double deir size. vot you tink, fritz? der kaiser's men come, und de cherries all pick from de trees, den dey take all mine apples and plum, und mine carrots und cabbages seize; de potatoes dey got mit de rest, und, pecause i vould raise von beeg row, dey shoost tell me, pull down mit mine vest und dey call me von noisy old frau. yours yet, katrina. fritz writes again dear katrina,--dis letter you get so already you know how i vas; vell, dere's von ting dat troubles me yet, und i tells you de reason pecause; dose nurse doctors you tink vas so gay haf de heaves, und blind staggers und gout, und dey trow dose nice cabbage avay dat vould make me some goot saur-kraut. und de limburger cheese dat you sent, dat vas making me feel shtrong und vell, britty soon mit the garbage it vent, for dose nurses dey don't like de shmell. ven i ask for pork sausages vonce, den dey say, (vot i tells you is true,) "don't you know, you fat-headed old dunce, dose vill gif you de tic-doul-our-eux." dey von't let me no liverwurst eat; for dey say it ain't fit for de crows. ven i ask for some shmiercase so shweet, den dey laugh und dey turn up deir nose, dey shoost feed me some custards und jell und some broth dat i drink mit a cup, how dey tink i vill efer get vell if dey don't keep mine stomach filled up? ven dis var vill get ofer you pet! den some pickled pig's feet i vill buy, mit bologna and shnapps, maype yet, und some coffee to drink ven i'm dry, britty soon to mine bed i musht go, so no more i can't write you shoost now; gif mine luf to dose beeples ve know und take some for yourself, mine dear frau. mine truly, fritz. katrina replies mine dear fritz,--vot to tink i don't know, ven dose hospital letters i get, but mine tears dey vill run britty shlow, till i hear some tings different yet, ven you're sick like you tries to make oudt, vot you vant mit some shmeircase to eat, und pork sausages, coffee and kraut und limburger und pickled pig's feet? i shoost tink you contented might shtay, till de var is all ofer und done, mit some custards und jells like you say, dat is better dan facing de gun. ve get nefer such goot tings like dese here at home in de old faderland, for dose english shut up all de seas ven to shtarve us goot shermans dey planned. ven de men und de poys vent avay for to fight for de goot faderland, den de vomans must vork all de day mit a piece of plack bread in deir hand. dere's no meat now, nor butter at all, shoost de tings ve can grow in de ground; und already i'm getting so shmall, dat mine dress vill go twice times around. all dat cash in de bank dat ve haf, ven de kaiser's men need it, dey said, if dey takes efry cent dat ve save, schraps of baper dey gifs us instead. but i fool dose chaps vonce, britty soon, for i put all de gold in a sack, mit your vatch, und mine brooches und shpoon in de garden i bury dem back. yours yet, katrina. fritz learns about canada vot's de use for some beeples to blow, und to make some beeg fools mit demselves ven already de tings dey don't know vould soon fill all de books on de shelves? ven i'm oudt in de hospital yard, und go unter de tree mit de rest, den i shmoke, und i blay some more card mit von chap from de canada vest. dis here feller, his name is von krink, und his fader from shermany go, he vill tell me some lies i don't tink, from de blace vere dose maple leafs grow. dat beeg farm of his dad's is so vide dey musht drive all deir horses mit shteam, und it take dem, to plow down de side, von whole veek mit a buffalo team. und to cross dat beeg country, he say, dey go five or six days on de train; dey could shtick in von corner avay, de whole faderland, england und spain. dey haf rivers more beeg as de rhine, und some forests as vide as de sea, und dose veat fields, mit homesteads so fine, dey vill gif von for notting to me. vot's de use den ve fight, i don't know, for von shmall shtrip of land py de sea, for if dis feller tells me vot's so, den already beeg fools ve must pe. ven dis var vill get ofer, you bet, so dat me und katrina can go, i vill get me von farm maype yet, from de blace vere dose maple leafs grow. fritz can't furshtay seems like someting go wrong mit mine head since de day ven i make de beeg fight, und mine heart gets so heafy like lead ven i dries some more bieces to write. dot is vy i so seldom don't wrote 'bout some tings dat vill happen to me since dose shells, vot you call? get mine goat, und i am only von left out of tree. dot canadian feller, von krink, ven i say, "nix furshtay" to his talk, he shoost tells me to take von more tink, or already he'll knock off mine plock. ven i tells him de tings dat he say i can't find dem in mine leetle book, den he varn me to not get too gay britty soon or he'll gif me de hook. den he say dat de kaiser's a chump, und his vorks dey vos shlipping a cog, und his crown vill get trowed in de dump, for he put de whole vorld on de hog; dot us shermans vos all off our base und already our goose vos cooked prown; britty soon ourselves home ve can chase, und den go avay back und sit down. vot he somedimes vould mean i don't know ven he gifs me dis foolishness talk, if i ask him he say, "shoost go slow, mine dear fritz, ven you're oudt for a valk." dot is not like de english i shpoke, vot i learn in de books i haf read. den no vunder mine heart is near proke; und von krink says dere's veels in mine head. fritz is learning vile i vait in his hospital yard for dose holes in mine back to fill up, den mine brain it vould vork pritty hard, like von vagon dat climbs de hill up. vill dis var soon get done, i don't know, so some more mine katrina vill shmile, vonce we tought ve vould vin long ago but ve're learning some tings, all de vile. dere seems millions of men mit de gun, shoost like ants shwarming oudt of de hill. from all ofer dis vorld dey haf run us goot shermans already to kill. ve believed dat dem french vas no goot, shonnie bull ve vould shtarve in his isle, ve vould sink all his ships dat pring foodt, but ve're learning some tings all de vile. it will not pe so easy, i tink, shonnie bull to put down on de floor, for venefer his ships ve vill sink, pritty soon he vas puilding some more, dose beeg zepps, und dose unterseeboots dat ve make mit de latest new shtyle; if dey don't always hit vot dey shoots, ve must learn some more tings all de vile. ven already ve dakes von shmall town, den ve lose him a couple of dimes, shoost so soon von beeg hill ve goes down, dere's anoder von up dat ve climbs. some goot shermans vos lifing to-day, in dose drenches for five hundred mile, ven dose english und french vill get gay den ve show dem some tings, all de vile. fritz hears from the kaiser yaw, de kaiser he write me von day, shoost so soon he find oudt he get shtuck; first his letters dey come mit de dray, now de're filling von beeg motor truck, soon, already, i dells him vot's drue, dat some tings don't look goot in dis fight, den der kaiser he feel britty plue, und like dis vay to me he vill write. "mine dear fritz,--since von tirp has gone oudt, dere's no von around here i can trust, so i vant you to dell me, old scoudt, vill it pe de vorld power, or bust? ven ve licked de russ, english und french, den de dago und portugee came, seems de deeper ve dig in de trench de more fellers get into de game. mine beeg armies dey soon melt avay, like von shnow pank goes down mit de sun, ve keep losing more men efry day, und dose bapers say, "notting vas done," dose new zeppelin ships vas a fake, shoost de fraus und de kiddies dey get, und de unterseebootens ve make, like de fish dey get caught mit de net. soon our foes take de skin mit de fleece, so i vant you to hear vot dey say: if deir talk seems to listen like peace, den you send me de vord right avay. yaw, mine fritz, you must dell me some tings, shoost so soon you get on to deir track, und de feller mine letter dat prings, vill already your answer dake back." fritz advises the kaiser mine dear kaiser,--i'm telling you straight, dat ve nefer can vin dis beeg fight, dough de faderland armies vas great, dere is udders dat's greater, all right, shoost you make de goot beace britty soon, right avay, or you notting haf got; ven you sups mit de teufel, de spoon vill already, somedimes get too hot. shoost cut oudt dat beeg strafe dat you make, ven you can't mit dose englishmans pull, und you say it vas all a mistake, for you lufs your dear cousin, john bull. den you cheat dose fool english some more, like for forty long years ve haf done: dey'll forget den dose treaties ve tore, und no more vill dey call us de hun. you can fix tings quite easy mit france, shoost you gif up de alsace-loraine, den venefer ve see de goot chance ve vill march in and take dem again; den dere's russia and serbia too, vill vant pay for de men dat ve kill; now i tells you de ting dat you do you say austria vill settle deir bill. dere's no trouble vill come from de yanks, since ve mix dem in mexico up; ven a feller get bit vonce, no tanks! he von't fool any more mit de pup; for de belgians some tings must be done; so shoost bromise de monies to pay, till ve get back dose blace in de sun, den ve vink, und ve say, "nix furshtay." fritz admits ignorance dis old vorld is von uncertain blace, dere is so many tings ve don't know, ven ve shtart oudt to travel de pace, ve can't tell shoost how far ve vill go, ve don't know, from de vay a man valks, how mooch money dat feller may get, und dose chaps mit de very smooth talks may haf schemes in deir heads maype yet. ven some leetle birds shtand on a shtump, ve don't know yet de first von to fly; ve can't tell, from de paint on de pump, shoost how soon de old vell vill run dry; ve don't know vy de grass is so green, nor vy all plue roses grow red, how de pod get ouside of de bean, und de cabbages get de shwelled head. ve don't know, ven de veather is dry, britty soon if ve get some more rains, vy dere's many a goot-looking guy in his head dat don't haf any brains; vy de plack card vill alvays come thrump, ven a handful of red vons ve hold, nor how far can von leedle flea yump nor vy mud-turtles nefer get old. in dose car, ven ve go for a ride, ve can't tell ven dere's someting vill bust, und ourselves ve so often haf lied, ve don't know any feller to trust; ve can't tell yet de end of dis schrap, ve may get, ven de fighting is done, some varm country, not marked on de map dat's more hot dan a blace in de sun. fritz on the english ven i fights mit dose englishmans yet, dere vas tings vy i nefer can't see, und, dis time i'm certain, you bet! either dey must pe crazy or me. dey vill bay von beeg price for a king, but as soon as he put on his crown, und vould try to pe doing some ting, dey say,--"go avay pack und sit down." ven dey get all dose blace in de sun, und de blaces vere grows de beeg trees, ven already de hard vork is done, den john bull say,--"shoost go as you blease." if in dublin a feller rebels, britty soon on a rope he vill shwing, but go free, so mine newsbaper tells, if in ulster he do de same ting. johnnie bull prings his pread und his meat from de ends of de vorld far avay, vile de lands vere he ought to grow veat, dem's de blaces de pheasants will shtay, ven he say dat he nefer vill fight, but vill shtick mit his vork und his blay dat vas lies he vas telling all right, for he fight like de teufel to-day. und dose beeples dat nefer had vorked, all dose soft-handed ladies und shwells, und de fellers dat always had shirked, haf got busy now making de shells. if ve're brisoners, vounded or sick, shoost so soon ve fall into deir hand, den dey doctor und feed us oop shlick; dese are tings dat i can't understand. when will it end november, von krink tells fritz when the war will end. ven you tinks dis beeg var vill get done? (dat's de ting you hear efryone say.) britty soon vill dey lay down de gun, so i home mit katrina can shtay? vell, i tells you mine friends, vot i tink, dat de kaiser don't know, nor de czar, so i shpeak mit dat feller, von krink, shoost how soon ve can settle dis var. "ve vill not shtop de fight," said von krink "till de kaiser climbs down from his throne all dot wilhelmstrasse bunch, i don't tink, haf deir backs mitout moss ofergrown. ve vill take back de heligoland, und dose krupp vorks to bieces vill shmash, ve vill shpoil all dose profits so grand, und miss bertha can cook her own hash." "und dose blaces vay out in de sun, vere de kaiser such goot money shpends, john bull vill shoost tink it fine fun to divide dem around mit his friends, ve vill take all de kaiser's beeg ships, ve vill make free de kiel canal und de shermans must pass oudt de chips ven dey lose de beeg jack-pot next fall. "den berhaps if dey're getting too gay, ve vill bang dem a couple of times; dat already might be de best way, for to settle dose submarine crimes. ven ve get all dose leetle chores done, und some more ve can't tink about yet, ve vill hang up de sword und de gun. but not von minute sooner, you bet!" the kaiser again consults fritz mine dear fritz,--your advice ven i take, und i try dot goot beace talk to shtart, den dose fellers all call it a fake, for dey say it don't come from mine heart; vat's de ting to do next, i don't know, mit dose bull-headed english und french, dey shoost tink dey're de whole of de show since they pounded us oudt of some trench. dey are licking us now britty fast, like i nefer could tink dey vill do, mit beeg guns dey now haf us out-classed, und mit airships und teufel tanks too. ve must all de hard hammering take for dose bulgars und turks vas no goot, seems like now von beeg blunder ve make und de game ve haf not undershtoodt. ven ve tink ve vill get some more oil, und de oats, und potatoes, and meat, all dose tings de roumanians shpoil shoost so soon as ve make dem redreat; und mine shlack brudder, tino of greece, he gets batted all ofer der ground, ven he shtrikes he goes oudt on first base, und makes nefer de run all around. britty soon, fritz, ve someting must do, or already ve all vill be killed, for dose english haf put on de screw und our stomachs are nefer half filled. vat you tink of dis plan, mine dear fritz, in mine head dat already i get, dat i take back again von tirpitz, und herr teufel in partnership yet? fritz warns the kaiser mine dear kaiser,--dose tings vas a fake, ven you shtart oop dat untersea show und already a pardnership make mit von tirpitz, von teufel and co. ven de try dis same game vonce pefore, soon ve lose all dose subs dat ve had, und dis time ve vill lose dem some more, for now even dose yanks haf got mad. some advice i vould give to you yet, (it vill shoost take a minute or two,) call dose subs all in oudt of de vet, dat's already de best ting to do. you may tink dat old fritz is a fool, und haf maype some axes to grind, but dose tings dat he learned oudt of school, dey vill pring de improvement of mind. since dat day i vas brisoner took, und i hafn't got notting to do, den i read all dose bapers und book, und write maybe a letter or two, dere's some tings i already find oudt dat de faderland bapers von't tell, how dose english, like leetle hans shtout, haf de pussy cat pulled from de vell. all dose english must half deir own vay, und so soon as deir foes dey vill shmash, like napoleon dey ship dem avay or like thebaw or arabi pash; so i tells you, mine kaiser, bevare, or you gets yourself soon in a fix, saint helena's old rock is still dere for de feller dat loses de tricks. fritz goes farming may, mine katrina,--so long since i write, you vill tink i am dead maybe yet; if i never come back from dis fight, den some udder old feller you get. vell i tells you de reason, mine frau, vy already mine letters vill shtop, ven john bull soon finds oudt i can plow den he vant me to put in de crop. in de vorld if dere's not enough veat, for to make all de beeples some pread, den de poor vill get notting to eat, und dey all vill go britty soon dead, so john bull some potatoes vill sow, vere dose rabbits und pheasants haf stayed, und de veat, oats und barley vill grow vere de tennis und cricket vas blayed. to pe oudt on de land it seems good, vere dose onions and cabbages grow, vere de pigs fall ashleep in de mud und de ducks in de vater vill go; but i vork so hard now efry day, und i gets so beeg tired py night, to dose friends dat i luf far avay den i hafn't no courage to write. i shoost vork, und i shleep, und i eat, so i hafn't much news for to send; you vould hear of de sherman redreat, vell i hopes dis beeg var vill soon end. all mine troubles i hardly can't bear, how is tings in de faderland now? if ve lose yet, or vin, i don't care, so i only get back to mine frau. yours ever. fritz. index to war rhymes foreword page modern diplomacy the allied forces the modern good samaritan satan's soliloquy the canadian way the english woman's complaint unemployed the hate of hans hans begins to wonder =recruiting appeals= jack canuck what owest thou? a call to the colors choose ye the slacker's son blasted hopes langemark the canadian army fight or pay =rhymes for children= hunting the were-wolf johnnie's grouch the trench that fritz built =nursery rhymes--up-to-date= ten little slackers jingles =miscellaneous= bedlam the certainties the friendly spies jack canuck to uncle sam sammy france to columbia jim's sacrifice the orgy of thor motes and beams nurse cavell 'twas ever thus ego freedom twenty years after faith everybody helping the world's overdraft slackers the loyal blacks the troubles of tino has the world gone mad? the trees who knows afterwards german securities fall trouble in the trenches the worshippers to jean baptiste the lost tribes reliability the mcleans farmer john speaks when the game isn't fair heinies' holler what we won the home coming =the opinions of fritz= fritz finds fault fritz has another grouch the kaiser consults fritz fritz in the hospital fritz philosophizes fritz writes to his frau katrina's reply fritz writes again katrina replies fritz learns about canada fritz can't furshtay fritz is learning fritz hears from the kaiser fritz advises the kaiser fritz admits ignorance fritz on the english when will it end the kaiser again consults fritz fritz warns the kaiser fritz goes farming * * * * * transcriber's notes: "wayfarer" is a pseudonym of abner cosens. left one instance of alsace-lorraine and one of alsace-loraine left one instance of out-classed and one of outclassed left one instance of saur-kraut and four of saurkraut page : changed isproud to is proud page : changed belicose to bellicose page : changed englishamn to englishman page : changed infull to in full page : changed kaser to kaiser page : changed birth to birch page : changed popluation to population page : changed gun tha killed to gun that killed page : changed killed he hun to killed the hun page : added title jingles to match index page : changed stanza to the correct line ordering page : changed silient to silent page : changed your to you page : changed briitsh to british page : changed parents to parent page : changed blathersi to blatherski page : changed shart to shtart page : changed vat's the us to vot's the use page : changed dont' to don't page : changed under to und [note on text: italicized words or phrases are capitalized, placed in single quotes, or otherwise marked as needed. lines longer than characters are broken and the continuation is indented two spaces. some obvious errors have been corrected.] [alan seeger, american (new york) poet. june - july .] poems by alan seeger with an introduction by william archer contents introduction by william archer juvenilia an ode to natural beauty the deserted garden the torture of cuauhtemoc the nympholept the wanderer the need to love el extraviado la nue all that's not love . . . paris the sultan's palace fragments thirty sonnets: sonnet i sonnet ii sonnet iii sonnet iv sonnet v sonnet vi sonnet vii sonnet viii sonnet ix sonnet x sonnet xi sonnet xii sonnet xiii sonnet xiv sonnet xv sonnet xvi kyrenaikos antinous vivien i loved . . . virginibus puerisque . . . with a copy of shakespeare's sonnets on leaving college written in a volume of the comtesse de noailles coucy tezcotzinco the old lowe house, staten island oneata on the cliffs, newport to england at the outbreak of the balkan war at the tomb of napoleon before the elections in america--november, the rendezvous do you remember once . . . the bayadere eudaemon broceliande lyonesse tithonus an ode to antares translations dante. inferno, canto xxvi ariosto. orlando furioso, canto x, - on a theme in the greek anthology after an epigram of clement marot last poems the aisne ( - ) champagne ( - ) the hosts maktoob i have a rendezvous with death . . . sonnets: - sonnet i - - sonnet ii - - sonnet iii - - sonnet iv - - sonnet v - - sonnet vi - - sonnet vii - - sonnet viii - - sonnet ix - - sonnet x - - sonnet xi - - sonnet xii - bellinglise liebestod resurgam a message to america introduction and conclusion of a long poem ode in memory of the american volunteers fallen for france introduction by william archer this book contains the undesigned, but all the more spontaneous and authentic, biography of a very rare spirit. it contains the record of a short life, into which was crowded far more of keen experience and high aspiration--of the thrill of sense and the rapture of soul--than it is given to most men, even of high vitality, to extract from a life of twice the length. alan seeger had barely passed his twenty-eighth birthday, when, charging up to the german trenches on the field of belloy-en-santerre, his "escouade" of the foreign legion was caught in a deadly flurry of machine-gun fire, and he fell, with most of his comrades, on the blood-stained but reconquered soil. to his friends the loss was grievous, to literature it was--we shall never know how great, but assuredly not small. yet this was a case, if ever there was one, in which we may not only say "nothing is here for tears," but may add to the well-worn phrase its less familiar sequel: nothing to wail or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, dispraise, or blame,--nothing but well and fair, and what may quiet us in a death so noble. of all the poets who have died young, none has died so happily. without suggesting any parity of stature, one cannot but think of the group of english poets who, about a hundred years ago, were cut off in the flower of their age. keats, coughing out his soul by the spanish steps; shelley's spirit of flame snuffed out by a chance capful of wind from the hills of carrara; byron, stung by a fever-gnat on the very threshold of his great adventure--for all these we can feel nothing but poignant unrelieved regret. alan seeger, on the other hand, we can very truly envy. youth had given him all that it had to give; and though he would fain have lived on--though no one was ever less world-weary than he--yet in the plenitude of his exultant strength, with eye undimmed and pulse unslackening, he met the death he had voluntarily challenged, in the cause of the land he loved, and in the moment of victory. again and again, both in prose and in verse, he had said that this seemed to him a good death to die; and two years of unflinching endurance of self-imposed hardship and danger had proved that he meant what he said. i do not, i repeat, pretend to measure him with shelley, byron or keats, though i think none of them would have disdained his gift of song. but assuredly he is of their fellowship in virtue, not only of his early death, but of his whole-hearted devotion to the spirit of romance, as they understood it. from his boyhood upward, his one passion was for beauty; and it was in the guise of romance that beauty revealed itself to him. he was from the first determined not only to write but to live romance, and when fate threw in his way a world-historic opportunity, he seized it with delight. he knew that he was dicing with death, but that was the very essence of his ideal; and he knew that if death won the throw, his ideal was crowned and consummated, for ever safe from the withering touch of time, or accidental soilure. if it had been given to swinburne to fall, rifle in hand, on, say, the field of mentana, we should have been the poorer by many splendid verses, but the richer by a heroic life-story. and would his lot have been the less enviable? nay, surely, much the more. that is the thought which may well bring solace to those who loved alan seeger, and who may at first have felt as an unmixed cruelty the cutting short of so eager, so generous, so gallant a life. the description "juvenilia" attached to the first series of these poems is of his own choosing. it is for the reader to judge what allowance is to be made for unripeness, whether of substance or of form. criticism is none of my present business. but i think no discerning reader can fail to be impressed by one great virtue pervading all the poet's work--its absolute sincerity. there is no pose, no affectation of any sort. there are marks of the loving study of other poets, and these the best. we are frequently reminded of this singer and of that. the young american is instinctively loyal to the long tradition of english literature. he is content to undergo the influence of the great masters, and does not seek for premature originality on the by-paths of eccentricity. but while he is the disciple of many, he is the vassal of none. his matter is always his own, the fruit of personal vision, experience, imagination, even if he may now and then unconsciously pour it into a mould provided by another. he is no mere echo of the rhythms of this poet, or mimic of that other's attitude and outlook. the great zest of living which inspires him is far too real and intense to clothe itself in the trappings of any alien individuality. he is too straightforward to be even dramatic. it is not his instinct to put on a mask, even for purposes of artistic personation, and much less of affectation. if ever there was a being who said "yea" to life, accepted it as a glorious gift, and was determined to live it with all his might, it was alan seeger. such a frame of mind is too instinctive and temperamental to be called optimism. it is not the result of a balancing of good and ill, and a reasoned decision that good preponderates. rather it is a direct perception, an intuition, of the beauty and wonder of the universe--an intuition too overpowering to be seriously disturbed by the existence of pain and evil, some of which, at any rate, has its value as a foil, a background, to joy. this was the message--not a philosophy but an irresistible emotion--which he sought to deliver through the medium of an art which he seriously studied and deeply loved. it spoke from the very depths of his being, and the poems in which it found utterance, whatever their purely literary qualities, have at least the value of a first-hand human document, the sincere self-portraiture of a vivid and virile soul. there are three more or less clearly-marked elements in a poet's equipment--observation, passion, reflection, or in simpler terms, seeing, feeling and thinking. the first two are richly represented in the following poems, the third, as was natural, much less so. the poet was too fully occupied in garnering impressions and experiences to think of co-ordinating and interpreting them. that would have come later; and later, too, would have come a general deepening of the spiritual content of his work. there had been nothing in either his outward or his inward life that could fairly be called suffering or struggle. he had not sounded the depths of human experience, which is as much as to say that neither had he risen to the heights. this he no doubt recognised himself, and was not thinking merely of the date of composition when he called his pre-war poems "juvenilia". great emotions, and perhaps great sorrows, would have come to him in due time, and would have deepened and enriched his vein of song. the first great emotion which found him, when he rallied to the trumpet-call of france and freedom, did, as a matter of fact, lend new reality and poignancy to his verse; but the soldier's life left him small leisure for composition. we must regard his work, then, as a fragment, a mere foretaste of what he might have achieved had his life been prolonged. but, devoted though he was to his art, he felt that to live greatly is better than to write greatly. the unfulfilment of his poetic hopes and dreams meant the fulfilment of a higher ambition. alan seeger was born in new york on june nd, . his father and his mother belonged to old new england families. when he was a year old his parents removed to staten island, which forms, as it were, the stopper to the bottle of new york harbour. there he remained until his tenth year, growing up along with a brother and a sister, the one a little older, the other a little younger, than himself. from their home on the heights of staten island, the children looked out day by day upon one of the most romantic scenes in the world--the gateway to the western hemisphere. they could see the great steamships of all the nations threading their way through the narrows and passing in procession up the glorious expanse of new york bay, to which the incessant local traffic of tug-boats, river steamers and huge steam-ferries lent an ever-shifting animation. in the foreground lay robbins reef lighthouse, in the middle distance the statue of liberty, in the background the giant curves of brooklyn bridge, and, range over range, the mountainous buildings of "down town" new york--not then as colossal as they are to-day, but already unlike anything else under the sun. and the incoming stream of tramps and liners met the outgoing stream which carried the imagination seaward, to the islands of the buccaneers, and the haunts of all the heroes and villains of history, in the old world. the children did not look with incurious eyes upon this stirring scene. they knew the names of all the great european liners and of the warships passing to and from the navy yard; and the walls of their nursery were covered with their drawings of the shipping, rude enough, no doubt, but showing accurate observation of such details as funnels, masts and rigging. they were of an age, before they left staten island, to realize something of the historic implications of their environment. in the family returned to new york, and there alan continued at the horace mann school the education begun at the staten island academy. the great delight of the ten-year-old schoolboy was to follow the rushing fire-engines which were an almost daily feature in the life of the new york streets. even in manhood he could never resist the lure of the fire-alarm. two years later ( ) came a new migration, which no doubt exercised a determining influence on the boy's development. the family removed to mexico, and there alan spent a great part of the most impressionable years of his youth. if new york embodies the romance of power, mexico represents to perfection the romance of picturesqueness. to pass from the united states to mexico is like passing at one bound from the new world to the old. wherever it has not been recently americanized, its beauty is that of sunbaked, somnolent decay. it is in many ways curiously like its mother--or rather its step-mother--country, spain. but spain can show nothing to equal the spacious magnificence of its scenery or the picturesqueness of its physiognomies and its costumes. and then it is the scene of the most fascinating adventure recorded in history--an exploit which puts to shame the imagination of the greatest masters of romance. it is true that the mexico city of to-day shows scanty traces (except in its museum) of the tenochtitlan of montezuma; but the vast amphitheatre on which it stands is still wonderfully impressive, and still the great silver cones of popocatepetl and ixtaccihuatl look down upon it from their immaculate altitudes. though well within the tropics, the great elevation of the city ( feet) renders its climate very attractive to those for whom height has no terrors; and the seegers soon became greatly attached to it. for two very happy years, it was the home of the whole family. the children had a tutor whom they respected and loved, and who helped to develop their taste for poetry and good literature. "one of our keenest pleasures," writes one of the family, "was to go in a body to the old book-shops, and on sunday morning to the 'thieves market', to rummage for treasures; and many were the elzevirs and worm-eaten, vellum-bound volumes from the old convent libraries that fell into our hands. at that time we issued a home magazine called 'the prophet', in honour of a large painting that we had acquired and chose to consider as the patron of our household. the magazine was supposed to appear monthly, but was always months behind its time. alan was the sporting editor, but his literary ability had even then begun to appear, and he overstepped his department with contributions of poetry and lengthy essays. no copies of this famous periodical are extant: they all went down in the wreck of the 'merida'." in the chilly days of winter, frequent visits were paid to the lower levels of the 'tierra templada', especially to cuernavaca, one of the "show" places of the country. the children learned to ride and to cycle, and were thus able to extend their excursions on all sides. when, after two years, they went back to the united states to school, they were already familiar with mexican nature and life; and they kept their impressions fresh by frequent vacation visits. it must have been a delightful experience to slip down every now and then to the tropics: first to pass under the pink walls of morro castle into the wide lagoon of havana; then to cross the spanish main to vera cruz; then, after skirting the giant escarpment of orizaba, to crawl zigzagging up the almost precipitous ascent that divides the 'tierra templada' from the 'tierra fria'; and finally to speed through the endless agave-fields of the upland haciendas, to mexico city and home. mexico, and the experiences associated with it, have left deep marks on alan seeger's poetry. the vacation voyages thither speak in this apostrophe from the "ode to antares": star of the south that now through orient mist at nightfall off tampico or belize greetest the sailor, rising from those seas where first in me, a fond romanticist, the tropic sunset's bloom on cloudy piles cast out industrious cares with dreams of fabulous isles. . . . the longest of his poems, "the deserted garden"--a veritable gallery of imaginative landscape--is entirely mexican in colouring. indeed we may conjecture without too much rashness that it is a mere expansion of the sonnet entitled "tezcotzinco", the fruit of a solitary excursion to the ruins of nezahualcoyotl's baths, in the hills beyond tezcoco. but even where there is no painting of definite mexican scenes, motives from the vast uplands with their cloud pageantry, and from the palm-fringed, incandescent coasts, frequently recur in his verse. for instance, he had not forgotten mexico when he wrote in a volume of the comtesse de noailles: be my companion under cool arcades that frame some drowsy street and dazzling square, beyond whose flowers and palm-tree promenades white belfries burn in the blue tropic air. and even when the tropics were finally left behind, he carried with him in his memory their profusion of colour, an ever-ready palette on which to draw. assuredly it was a fortunate chance that took this lover of sunlight and space and splendor, in his most receptive years, to regions where they superabound. perhaps, had he been confined to gloomier climates, he could not have written: from a boy i gloated on existence. earth to me seemed all-sufficient, and my sojourn there one trembling opportunity for joy. but the same good fortune pursued him throughout. he seemed predestined to environments of beauty. when, at fourteen, he left his mexican home, it was to go to the hackley school at tarrytown, n.y., an institution placed on a high hill overlooking that noblest of rivers, the hudson, and surrounded by a domain of its own, extending to many acres of meadow and woodland. an attack of scarlet fever in his childhood had left his health far from robust, and it was thought that the altitude of mexico city was too great for him. he therefore spent one of his vacations among the hills of new hampshire, and was afterwards given a year out of school, with the family of his former tutor, in southern california--again a region famed for its beauty. he returned much improved in health, and after a concluding year at hackley, he entered harvard college in . he now plunged into wide and miscellaneous reading, both at harvard, and at the magnificent boston library. during his first two years at college, his bent seemed to lie rather towards the studious and contemplative than towards the active life. his brother, at this time, appeared to him to be of a more pleasure-loving and adventurous disposition; and there exists a letter to his mother in which, after contrasting, with obvious allusion to chaucer's "prologue", the mediaeval ideals of the knight and the clerk, he adds: "c. is the knight and i the clerk, deriving more keen pleasure from the perusal of a musty old volume than in pursuing adventure out in the world." but about the middle of his harvard career, a marked change came over his habits of thought and of action. he emerged from his shell, made many friends, and threw himself with great zest into the social life of his comrades. it is evident, however, that this did not mean any slackening in his literary interests. his work gives ample proof of real, if not of systematic, culture. he genuinely loves and has made his own many of the great things of the past. his translations from dante and ariosto, for example, show no less sympathy than accomplishment. very characteristic is his selection of the twenty-sixth canto of the 'inferno', in which the narrative of ulysses brings with it a breath from the great romance of the antique world. it is noteworthy that before he graduated he took up with zeal and with distinction the study of celtic literature--a corrective, perhaps, in its cooler tones, to the tropical motives with which his mind was stored. he was one of the editors of the 'harvard monthly', to which he made frequent contributions of verse. there followed two years ( - ) in new york--probably the least satisfactory years of his life. the quest of beauty is scarcely a profession, and it caused his parents some concern to find him pausing irresolute on the threshold of manhood, instead of setting himself a goal and bracing his energies for its achievement. in his mother and sister left mexico, a week or two before porfirio diaz made his exit, and the maderists entered the capital. they returned to new york, to find alan still unsettled, and possessed with the thought, or perhaps rather the instinct, that the life he craved for was not to be found in america, but awaited him in europe. in the following year he carried his point, and set off for paris--a departure which may fairly be called his hegira, the turning-point of his history. that it shortened his span there can be little doubt. had he settled down to literary work, in his native city, he might have lived to old age. but it secured him four years of the tense and poignant joy of living on which his heart was set; and during two of these years the joy was of a kind which absolved him for ever from the reproach of mere hedonism and self-indulgence. he would certainly have said--or rather he was continually saying, in words full of passionate conviction -- one crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name. it was in the spirit of a romanticist of the eighteen-forties that he plunged into the life of paris. he had a room near the musee de cluny, and he found himself thoroughly at home among the artists and students of the latin quarter, though he occasionally varied the 'vie de boheme' by excursions into "society" of a more orthodox type. paris has had many lovers, but few more devoted than alan seeger. he accepted the life of "die singende, springende, schoene paris" with a curious whole-heartedness. here and there we find evidence -- for instance, in the first two sonnets--that he was not blind to its seamy side. but on the whole he appears to have seen beauty even in aspects of it for which it is almost as difficult to find aesthetic as moral justification. the truth is, no doubt, that the whole spectacle was plunged for him in the glamour of romance. paris did not belong to the working-day world, but was like baghdad or samarcand, a city of the arabian nights. how his imagination transfigured it we may see in such a passage as this: by silvery waters in the plains afar glimmers the inland city like a star, with gilded gates and sunny spires ablaze, and burnished domes half seen through luminous haze. lo, with what opportunity earth teems! how like a fair its ample beauty seems! fluttering with flags its proud pavilions rise: what bright bazaars, what marvellous merchandise, down seething alleys what melodious din, what clamor, importuning from every booth: at earth's great mart where joy is trafficked in buy while thy purse yet swells with golden youth! into this fair he sallied forth, not as one to the manner born, but with the eagerness of a traveller from a far country, who feels as though he were living in a dream. his attitude to the whole experience is curiously ingenuous, but perfectly sane and straightforward. it is the paris of murger in which he lives, not the paris of baudelaire and the second empire. he takes his experiences lightly. there is no sign either of any struggle of the soul or of any very rending tempest of the heart. there is no posing, self-conscious byronism, nor any of that morbid dallying with the idea of "sin" which gives such an unpleasant flavor to a good deal of romantic poetry, both french and english. there are traces of disappointment and disillusion, but they are accepted without a murmur as inevitable incidents of a great, absorbing experience. all this means, of course, that there is no tragic depth, and little analytic subtlety, in these poems. they are the work of a young man enamoured of his youth, enthusiastically grateful for the gift of life, and entirely at his ease within his own moral code. he had known none of what he himself calls "that kind of affliction which alone can unfold the profundities of the human spirit." it was in paris that he produced most of the "juvenilia". he included only a few of the pieces which he had written at harvard and in new york. thus all, or nearly all, the poems ranged under that title, are, as he said -- relics of the time when i too fared across the sweet fifth lustrum of my days. paris, however, did not absorb him entirely during these years. he would occasionally set forth on long tramps through the french provinces; for he loved every aspect of that gracious country. he once spent some weeks with a friend in switzerland; but this experience seems to have left no trace in his work. then came the fateful year . his "juvenilia" having grown to a passable bulk, he brought them in the early summer to london, with a view to finding a publisher for them; but it does not appear that he took any very active steps to that effect. his days were mainly spent in the british museum, and his evenings with a coterie of friends at the cafe royal. in the middle of july, his father came to england and spent a week with him. of this meeting mr. seeger writes: == we passed three days at canterbury--three days of such intimacy as we had hardly had since he was a boy in mexico. for four or five years i had only seen him a few days at a time, during my hurried visits to the united states. we explored the old town together, heard services in the cathedral, and had long talks in the close. after service in the cathedral on a monday morning, the last of our stay at canterbury, alan was particularly enthusiastic over the reading of the psalms, and said "was there ever such english written as that of the bible?" i said good-bye to alan on july th. == two days earlier, the austrian ultimatum had been presented to serbia; on that very day the time limit expired, the serbian reply was rejected, and the austrian minister left belgrade. the wheels of fate were already whirling. as soon as it became evident that a european war was inevitable alan returned to paris. he took bruges on his way, and there left the manuscript of his poems in the keeping of a printer, not foreseeing the risks to which he was thus exposing them. the war was not three weeks old when, along with forty or fifty of his fellow-countrymen, he enlisted in the foreign legion of france. why did he take this step? fundamentally, no doubt, because he felt war to be one of the supreme experiences of life, from which, when it offered itself, he could not shrink without disloyalty to his ideal. long before the war was anything more than a vague possibility, he had imagined the time . . . when courted death shall claim my limbs and find them laid in some desert place alone, or where the tides of war's tumultuous waves on the wet sands behind them leave rifts of gasping life when their red flood subsides. so far back indeed as may, , he had written to his mother from paris: "is it not fine the way the balkan states are triumphing? i have been so excited over the war, it would have needed a very small opportunity to have taken me over there." it is evident, then, that the soldier's life had long been included among the possibilities which fascinated him. but apart from this general proclivity to adventure, this desire to "live dangerously", he was impelled by a simple sentiment of loyalty to the country and city of his heart, which he himself explained in a letter written from the aisne trenches to 'the new republic' (new york, may , ): == i have talked with so many of the young volunteers here. their case is little known, even by the french, yet altogether interesting and appealing. they are foreigners on whom the outbreak of war laid no formal compulsion. but they had stood on the butte in springtime perhaps, as julian and louise stood, and looked out over the myriad twinkling lights of the beautiful city. paris--mystic, maternal, personified, to whom they owed the happiest moments of their lives--paris was in peril. were they not under a moral obligation, no less binding than [that by which] their comrades were bound legally, to put their breasts between her and destruction? without renouncing their nationality, they had yet chosen to make their homes here beyond any other city in the world. did not the benefits and blessings they had received point them a duty that heart and conscience could not deny? "why did you enlist?" in every case the answer was the same. that memorable day in august came. suddenly the old haunts were desolate, the boon companions had gone. it was unthinkable to leave the danger to them and accept only the pleasures oneself, to go on enjoying the sweet things of life in defence of which they were perhaps even then shedding their blood in the north. some day they would return, and with honor--not all, but some. the old order of things would have irrevocably vanished. there would be a new companionship whose bond would be the common danger run, the common sufferings borne, the common glory shared. "and where have you been all the time, and what have you been doing?" the very question would be a reproach, though none were intended. how could they endure it? face to face with a situation like that, a man becomes reconciled, justifies easily the part he is playing, and comes to understand, in a universe where logic counts for so little and sentiment and the impulse of the heart for so much, the inevitableness and naturalness of war. suddenly the world is up in arms. all mankind takes sides. the same faith that made him surrender himself to the impulses of normal living and of love, forces him now to make himself the instrument through which a greater force works out its inscrutable ends through the impulses of terror and repulsion. and with no less a sense of moving in harmony with a universe where masses are in continual conflict and new combinations are engendered out of eternal collisions, he shoulders arms and marches forth with haste. == already in this passage we can discern the fatalistic acceptance of war which runs through many of his utterances on the subject, and may be read especially in the noble conclusion of his poem, "the hosts": there was a stately drama writ by the hand that peopled the earth & air and set the stars in the infinite and made night gorgeous & morning fair; and all that had sense to reason knew that bloody drama must be gone through. some sat & watched how the action veered -- waited, profited, trembled, cheered -- we saw not clearly nor understood, but, yielding ourselves to the master hand, each in his part, as best he could, we played it through as the author planned. it was not, in his own conception, a "war against war" that he was waging; it was simply a fight for freedom and for france. some of us may hope and believe that, in after years, when he was at leisure to view history in perspective and carry his psychology a little deeper, he would have allowed, if not more potency, at any rate more adaptability, to the human will. in order to do so, it would not have been necessary to abandon his fatalistic creed. he would have seen, perhaps, that even if we only will what we have to will, the factors which shape the will--of the individual, the nation, or the race--are always changing, and that it is not only possible but probable that the factors which make for peace may one day gain the upper hand of those which (for perfectly definite and tangible reasons) have hitherto made for war. the fact remains, however, that he shouldered his knapsack without any theoretic distaste for the soldier's calling. in so far he was more happily situated than thousands who have made all the better soldiers for their intense detestation of the stupidity of war. but this in no way detracts from his loyalty to his personal ideal, or from the high chivalry of his devotion to france. the story of his life as a soldier shall be told, so far as possible, in his own words. after some brief preliminary training at rouen he was sent to toulouse. thence, on september , , he wrote as follows: == me regiment etranger, bataillon c., re. cie, me section. toulouse, sept. , . dear mother, . . . we have been putting in our time here at very hard drilling, and are supposed to have learned in six weeks what the ordinary recruit, in times of peace, takes all his two years at. we rise at , and work stops in the afternoon at . a twelve hours day at one sou a day. i hope to earn higher wages than this in time to come, but i never expect to work harder. the early rising hour is splendid for it gives one the chance to see the most beautiful part of these beautiful autumn days in the south. we march up to a lovely open field on the end of the ridge behind the barracks, walking right into the rising sun. from this panorama, spread about on three sides is incomparably fine -- yellow cornfields, vineyards, harvest-fields where the workers and their teams can be seen moving about in tiny figures -- poplars, little hamlets and church-towers, and far away to the south the blue line of the pyrenees, the high peaks capped with snow. it makes one in love with life, it is all so peaceful and beautiful. but nature to me is not only hills and blue skies and flowers, but the universe, the totality of things, reality as it most obviously presents itself to us; and in this universe strife and sternness play as big a part as love and tenderness, and cannot be shirked by one whose will it is to rule his life in accordance with the cosmic forces he sees in play about him. i hope you see the thing as i do, and think that i have done well, being without responsibilities and with no one to suffer materially by my decision, in taking upon my shoulders, too, the burden that so much of humanity is suffering under, and, rather than stand ingloriously aside when the opportunity was given me, doing my share for the side that i think right. . . . == the battalion must have left toulouse almost immediately after this was written, for in a post-card of october , from the camp de mailly, aube, he says that they have been there ten days. a week later he wrote: == . . . after two weeks here and less than two months from enlistment, we are actually going at last to the firing line. by the time you receive this we shall already perhaps have had our 'bapteme de feu'. we have been engaged in the hardest kind of hard work -- two weeks of beautiful autumn weather on the whole, frosty nights and sunny days and beautiful coloring on the sparse foliage that breaks here and there the wide rolling expanses of open country. every day, from the distance to the north, has come the booming of the cannon around reims and the lines along the meuse. . . . but imagine how thrilling it will be tomorrow and the following days, marching toward the front with the noise of battle growing continually louder before us. i could tell you where we are going, but i do not want to run any risk of having this letter stopped by the censor. the whole regiment is going, four battalions, about men. you have no idea how beautiful it is to see the troops undulating along the road in front of one, in 'colonnes par quatre' as far as the eye can see, with the captains and lieutenants on horseback at the head of their companies. . . . tomorrow the real hardship and privations begin. but i go into action with the lightest of light hearts. the hard work and moments of frightful fatigue have not broken but hardened me, and i am in excellent health and spirits. . . . i am happy and full of excitement over the wonderful days that are ahead. it was such a comfort to receive your letter, and know that you approved of my action. == in a post-card of october , postmarked "vertus", he says: == this is the second night's halt of our march to the front. all our way has been one immense battlefield. it was a magnificent victory for the french that the world does not fully realize. i think we are marching to victory too, but whatever we are going to we are going triumphantly. == on october , he writes from " kil. south-east of reims". == dear mother. . . . i am sitting on the curbstone of a street at the edge of the town. the houses end abruptly and the yellow vineyards begin here. the view is broad and uninterrupted to the crest ten kilometers or so across the valley. between this and ourselves are the lines of the two armies. a fierce cannonading is going on continually, and i lift my eyes from the sheet at each report, to see the puffs of smoke two or three miles off. the germans have been firing salvoes of four shots over a little village where the french batteries are stationed, shrapnel that burst in little puffs of white smoke; the french reply with explosive shells that raise columns of dust over the german lines. half of our regiment have left already for the trenches. we may go tonight. we have made a march of about kilometers in four days, and are now on the front, ready to be called on at any moment. i am feeling fine, in my element, for i have always thirsted for this kind of thing, to be present always where the pulsations are liveliest. every minute here is worth weeks of ordinary experience. how beautiful the view is here, over the sunny vineyards! and what a curious anomaly. on this slope the grape pickers are singing merrily at their work, on the other the batteries are roaring. boom! boom! this will spoil one for any other kind of life. the yellow afternoon sunlight is sloping gloriously across this beautiful valley of champagne. aeroplanes pass continually overhead on reconnaissance. i must mail this now. there is too much to be said and too little time to say it. so glad to get your letter. love and lots of it to all. alan. == alas! the hopes of swift, decisive action with which the legion advanced were destined to disappointment. they soon settled down for the winter into the monotonous hardships of trench warfare. alan described this experience in admirably vivid letters published in the new york 'sun', from which a few extracts must suffice. he writes on december , during his fourth period of service in the trenches: == we left our camp in the woods before daybreak this morning, and marched up the hill in single file, under the winter stars. . . . through openings in the woods we could see that we were marching along a high ridge, and on either hand vaporous depths and distances expanded, the darkness broken sometimes by a far light or the momentary glow of a magnesium rocket sent up from the german lines. there is something fascinating if one is stationed on sentry-duty immediately after arrival, in watching the dawn slowly illumine one of these new landscapes, from a position taken up under cover of darkness. the other section has been relieved and departs. we are given the 'consigne', by the preceding sentinel, and are left alone behind a mound of dirt, facing the north and the blank, perilous night. slowly the mystery that it shrouds resolves as the grey light steals over the eastern hills. like a photograph in the washing, its high lights and shadows come gradually forth. the light splash in the foreground becomes a ruined chateau, the grey street a demolished village. the details come out on the hillside opposite, where the silent trenches of the enemy are hidden a few hundred metres away. we find ourselves in a woody, mountainous country, with broad horizons and streaks of mist in the valleys. our position is excellent this time, a high crest, with open land sloping down from the trenches and plenty of barbed wire strung along immediately in front. it would be a hard task to carry such a line, and there is not much danger that the enemy will try. with increasing daylight the sentinel takes a sheltered position, and surveys his new environment through little gaps where the mounds have been crenellated and covered with branches. suddenly he starts as a metallic bang rings out from the woods immediately behind him. it is of the unmistakable voice of a french starting the day's artillery duel. by the time the sentinel is relieved, in broad daylight, the cannonade is general all along the line. he surrenders his post to a comrade, and crawls down into his bombproof dugout almost reluctantly, for the long day of inactive waiting has commenced. == though he never expresses even a momentary regret for the choice he has made, he freely admits that trench warfare is "anything but romantic". for the artilleryman it is "doubtless very interesting" but "the poor common soldier" has a pretty mean time of it: == his rule is simply to dig himself a hole in the ground and to keep hidden in it as tightly as possible. continually under the fire of the opposing batteries, he is yet never allowed to get a glimpse of the enemy. exposed to all the dangers of war, but with none of its enthusiasm or splendid elan, he is condemned to sit like an animal in its burrow, and hear the shells whistle over his head, and take their little daily toll from his comrades. the winter morning dawns with grey skies and the hoar frost on the fields. his feet are numb, his canteen frozen, but he is not allowed to make a fire. the winter night falls, with its prospect of sentry-duty, and the continual apprehension of the hurried call to arms; he is not even permitted to light a candle, but must fold himself in his blanket and lie down cramped in the dirty straw to sleep as best he may. how different from the popular notion of the evening campfire, the songs and good cheer. == of the commissariat arrangements he gives, on the whole, a very good account; but he admits that "to supplement the regular rations with luxuries such as butter, cheese, preserves, & especially chocolate, is a matter that occupies more of the young soldier's thoughts than the invisible enemy. our corporal told us the other day that there wasn't a man in the squad that wouldn't exchange his rifle for a jar of jam." but "though modern warfare allows us to think more about eating than fighting, still we do not actually forget that we are in a battle line." == ever over our heads goes on the precise and scientific struggle of the artillery. packed elbow to elbow in these obscure galleries, one might be content to squat all day long, auditor of the magnificent orchestra of battle, were it not that one becomes so soon habituated to it that it is no longer magnificent. we hear the voices of cannon of all calibres and at all distances. we learn to read the score & distinguish the instruments. near us are field batteries; far away are siege guns. over all there is the unmistakable, sharp, metallic twang of the french , the whistle of its shell and the lesser report of its explosion. == and every now and then comes the bursting of a shell immediately overhead, and the rattle of its fragments on the roof of the bomb-proof dug-out. think what it must have meant to this eager, ardent, pleasure-loving spirit to sit out, day after day, in a chill, sodden, verminous trench, a grand orchestral concert of this music of human madness! the solitude of sentry-duty evidently comes to him as something of a relief. "it may," he says, "be all that is melancholy if the night is bad and the winter wind moans through the pines"; but it also "brings moments of exaltation, if the cloud-banks roll back, if the moonlight breaks over the windless hills, or the heavens blaze with the beauty of the northern stars." == the sentinel has ample time for reflection. alone under the stars, war in its cosmic rather than its moral aspect reveals itself to him. . . . he thrills with the sense of filling an appointed, necessary place in the conflict of hosts, and, facing the enemy's crest, above which the great bear wheels upward to the zenith, he feels, with a sublimity of enthusiasm that he has never before known, a kind of companionship with the stars. == six days in the trenches alternated with a three days' interval of rest "either billeted in the stables and haylofts of the village or encamped in the woods and around the chateau." thus the winter of - wore away, with little to break its monotony. the heaviest fighting was all to the northward. one gathers from his poem "the aisne" that at craonne he took part in the repulse of a serious enemy attack; but there is no mention of this in the letters before me. on march , , he writes to his mother in fierce indignation over something that has appeared in an american paper as to life in the foreign legion. the writer of the "disgraceful article", he says, "like many others of his type, was long ago eliminated from our ranks, for a person buoyed up by no noble purpose is the first to succumb to the hardships of the winter that we have been through. . . . if his lies did nothing worse than belittle his comrades, who are here for motives that he is unable to conceive, it would be only dishonourable. but when it comes to throwing discredit on the french government, that in all its treatment of us has been generous beyond anything that one would think possible, it is too shameful for any words to characterize." with the coming of spring, there was of course some mitigation of the trials of the winter. here is an almost idyllic passage from a letter to his sister, written on the fly-leaves of 'les confessions de j. j. rousseau', geneve, mdcclxxxii: == we put in a very pleasant week here--nine hours of guard at night in our outposts up on the hillside; in the daytime sleep, or foraging in the ruined villages, loafing in the pretty garden of the chateau, or reading up in the library. we have cleaned this up now, and it is an altogether curious sensation to recline here in an easy-chair, reading some fine old book, and just taking the precaution not to stay in front of the glassless windows through which the sharpshooters can snipe at you from their posts in the thickets on the slopes of the plateau, not six hundred metres away. sometimes our artillery opens up and then you lay down your book for a while, and, looking through a peek-hole, watch the 's and 's throw up fountains of dirt and debris all along the line of the enemy's trenches. == "spring has come here at last," so the letter closes, "and we are having beautiful weather. i am going in swimming in the aisne this afternoon for the first time. in fine health and spirits." during the summer, the legion was moved about a good deal from sector to sector, and alan often found himself in pleasant places, and got a good deal of positive enjoyment out of his life. on june , , he wrote to his mother: == you must not be anxious about my not coming back. the chances are about ten to one that i will. but if i should not, you must be proud, like a spartan mother, and feel that it is your contribution to the triumph of the cause whose righteousness you feel so keenly. everybody should take part in this struggle which is to have so decisive an effect, not only on the nations engaged but on all humanity. there should be no neutrals, but everyone should bear some part of the burden. if so large a part should fall to your share, you would be in so far superior to other women and should be correspondingly proud. there would be nothing to regret, for i could not have done otherwise than i did, and i think i could not have done better. death is nothing terrible after all. it may mean something even more wonderful than life. it cannot possibly mean anything worse to the good soldier. == the same note recurs in a letter of two weeks later (july ): == whether i am on the winning or losing side is not the point with me: it is being on the side where my sympathies lie that matters, and i am ready to see it through to the end. success in life means doing that thing than which nothing else conceivable seems more noble or satisfying or remunerative, and this enviable state i can truly say that i enjoy, for had i the choice i would be nowhere else in the world than where i am. == in this letter he says that an article about rupert brooke in which his name was mentioned "gave him rather more pain than pleasure, for it rubbed in the matter which most rankled in his heart, that he never could get his book of poems published before the war." however he consoles himself with the reflection that the m.s. is probably as safe at bruges as anywhere else. "we have finished our eighth month on the firing line," he says, "and rumors are going round of an imminent return to the rear for reorganization." these rumors proved to be well founded, and on july , he wrote on a picture-postcard representing the lion of belfort: == we have finally come to the rear for a little rest and reorganization, and are cantoned in a valley not far from belfort, in the extreme east of france, very near the swiss frontier. since i wrote you last, all the americans in the regiment received hours permission in paris, and it was a great happiness to get back even for so short a while and to see again old scenes and faces after almost a year's absence. we shall be here several weeks perhaps. == three weeks later (august ) he wrote to his mother: == . . . i have always had the passion to play the biggest part within my reach, and it is really in a sense a supreme success to be allowed to play this. if i do not come out, i will share the good fortune of those who disappear at the pinnacle of their careers. come to love france and understand the almost unexampled nobility of the effort this admirable people is making, for that will be the surest way of your finding comfort for anything that i am ready to suffer in their cause. == the spell of rest lasted some two months, and then the legion returned to the front in time for the battle in champagne "in which" he writes "we took part from the beginning, the morning of the memorable th. september." i cannot resist quoting at some length from the admirably vivid letter in which he gave an account of this experience: == the part we played in the battle is briefly as follows. we broke camp about o'clock the night of the th, and marched up through ruined souain to our place in one of the numerous 'boyaux' where the 'troupes d'attaque' were massed. the cannonade was pretty violent all that night, as it had been for several days previous, but toward dawn it reached an intensity unimaginable to anyone who has not seen a modern battle. a little before . the fire lessened suddenly, and the crackle of the fusillade between the reports of the cannon told us that the first wave of assault had left and the attack begun. at the same time we received the order to advance. the german artillery had now begun to open upon us in earnest. amid the most infernal roar of every kind of fire-arms, and through an atmosphere heavy with dust and smoke, we marched up through the 'boyaux' to the 'tranchees de depart'. at shallow places and over breaches that shells had made in the bank, we caught momentary glimpses of the blue lines sweeping up the hillside or silhouetted on the crest where they poured into the german trenches. when the last wave of the colonial brigade had left, we followed. 'bayonette au canon', in lines of 'tirailleurs', we crossed the open space between the lines, over the barbed wire, where not so many of our men were lying as i had feared, (thanks to the efficacy of the bombardment) and over the german trench, knocked to pieces and filled with their dead. in some places they still resisted in isolated groups. opposite us, all was over, and the herds of prisoners were being already led down as we went up. we cheered, more in triumph than in hate; but the poor devils, terror-stricken, held up their hands, begged for their lives, cried "kamerad", "bon francais", even "vive la france". we advanced and lay down in columns by twos behind the second crest. meanwhile, bridges had been thrown across trenches and 'boyaux', and the artillery, leaving the emplacements where they had been anchored a whole year, came across and took position in the open, a magnificent spectacle. squadrons of cavalry came up. suddenly the long, unpicturesque 'guerre de tranchees' was at an end, and the field really presented the aspect of the familiar battle pictures, -- the battalions in manoeuvre, the officers, superbly indifferent to danger, galloping about on their chargers. but now the german guns, moved back, began to get our range, and the shells to burst over and around batteries and troops, many with admirable precision. here my best comrade was struck down by shrapnel at my side,--painfully but not mortally wounded. i often envied him after that. for now our advanced troops were in contact with the german second-line defenses, and these proved to be of a character so formidable that all further advance without a preliminary artillery preparation was out of the question. and our role, that of troops in reserve, was to lie passive in an open field under a shell fire that every hour became more terrific, while aeroplanes and captive balloons, to which we were entirely exposed, regulated the fire. that night we spent in the rain. with portable picks and shovels each man dug himself in as well as possible. the next day our concentrated artillery again began the bombardment, and again the fusillade announced the entrance of the infantry into action. but this time only the wounded appeared coming back, no prisoners. i went out and gave water to one of these, eager to get news. it was a young soldier, wounded in the hand. his face and voice bespoke the emotion of the experience he had been through, in a way that i will never forget. "ah, les salauds!" he cried, "they let us come right up to the barbed wire without firing. then a hail of grenades and balls. my comrade fell, shot through the leg, got up, and the next moment had his head taken off by a grenade before my eyes." "and the barbed wire, wasn't it cut down by the bombardment?" "not at all in front of us." i congratulated him on having a 'blessure heureuse' and being well out of the affair. but he thought only of his comrade and went on down the road toward souain nursing his mangled hand, with the stream of wounded seeking their 'postes de secours'. == he then tells how, in spite of substantial gains, it gradually "became more and more evident that the german second line of defence presented obstacles too serious to attempt overcoming for the moment, and we began going up at night to work at consolidating our advanced trenches and turning them into a new permanent line." to this time, perhaps, belongs the incident related by rif baer, an egyptian, who was his comrade and best friend in the regiment. a piece of difficult trench work was allotted to the men, to be finished in one night. "each was given the limit, that he was supposed to be able to complete in the time. it happened that rif baer was ill, and, after working a while, his strength gave out. alan completed his own job and r. b.'s also, and although he was quite exhausted by the extra labour, his eyes glowed with happiness, and he said he had never done anything in his life that gave him such entire satisfaction." summing up the results of the battle, alan wrote (still in the same letter, october ): "it was a satisfaction at least to get out of the trenches, to meet the enemy face to face and to see german arrogance turned into suppliance. we knew many splendid moments, worth having endured many trials for. but in our larger aim, of piercing their line, of breaking the long deadlock, of entering vouziers in triumph, of course we failed." then he proceeds: == this affair only deepened my admiration for, my loyalty to, the french. if we did not entirely succeed, it was not the fault of the french soldier. he is a better man, man for man, than the german. anyone who had seen the charge of the marsouins at souain would acknowledge it. never was anything more magnificent. i remember a captain, badly wounded in the leg, as he passed us, borne back on a litter by four german prisoners. he asked us what regiment we were, and when we told him, he cried "vive la legion," and kept repeating "nous les avons en. nous les avons en." he was suffering, but, oblivious of his wound, was still fired with the enthusiasm of the assault and all radiant with victory. what a contrast with the german wounded on whose faces was nothing but terror and despair. what is the stimulus in their slogans of "gott mit uns" and "fuer koenig und vaterland" beside that of men really fighting in defense of their country? whatever be the force in international conflicts of having justice and all the principles of personal morality on one's side, it at least gives the french soldier a strength that's like the strength of ten against an adversary whose weapon is only brute violence. it is inconceivable that a frenchman, forced to yield, could behave as i saw german prisoners behave, trembling, on their knees, for all the world like criminals at length overpowered and brought to justice. such men have to be driven to the assault, or intoxicated. but the frenchman who goes up is possessed with a passion beside which any of the other forms of experience that are reckoned to make life worth while seem pale in comparison. == a report appeared in the american newspapers that he had been killed in the battle of champagne. on learning of it, he wrote to his mother: == i am 'navre' to think of your having suffered so. i should have arranged to cable after the attack, had i known that any such absurd rumours had been started. here one has a wholesome notion of the unimportance of the individual. it needs an effort of imagination to conceive of its making any particular difference to anyone or anything if one goes under. so many better men have gone, and yet the world rolls on just the same. == after champagne, his regiment passed to the rear and did not return to the front until may . on february st he writes: "i am in hospital for the first time, not for a wound, unfortunately, but for sickness." hitherto his health, since he joined the army, had been superb. as a youth he had never been robust; but the soldier's life suited him to perfection, and all remnants of any mischief left behind by the illness of his childhood seemed to have vanished. it was now a sharp attack of bronchitis that sent him to hospital. on his recovery he obtained two months 'conge de convalescence', part of which he spent at biarritz and part in paris. about this time, much to his satisfaction, he once more came into the possession of "juvenilia". on april th he wrote to his mother: == did i tell you that the embassy have managed to get my m.s. for me? it was very interesting to re-read this work, which i had almost forgotten. i found much that was good in it, but much that was juvenile too, and am not so anxious to publish it as it stands. i shall probably make extracts from it and join it with what i have done since. i shall go back to the front on the first of may without regrets. these visits to the rear only confirm me in my conviction that the work up there on the front is so far the most interesting work a man can be doing at this moment, that nothing else counts in comparison. == on may th he wrote to his "marraine", mrs. weeks: "the chateau in the grounds of which we are barracked, has a most beautiful name -- bellinglise. isn't it pretty? i shall have to write a sonnet to enclose it, as a ring is made express for a jewel. it is a wonderful old seventeenth-century manor, surrounded by a lordly estate. what is that exquisite stanza in 'maud' about 'in the evening through the lilacs (or laurels) of the old manorial home'?* look it up and send it to me." ten days later he wrote to the same lady: -- * he was doubtless thinking of this: alas for her that met me, that heard me softly call, came glimmering thro' the laurels in the quiet evenfall, in the garden by the turrets of the old manorial hall. -- == the week in the trenches was a week of the most beautiful weather. . . . these days were saddened by the death of poor colette in the bombardment, and by the suffering of his brother who has now returned after the burial. they were marked on the other hand by two afternoons of rather memorable emotion. exasperated by the inactivity of the sector here, and tempted by danger, i stole off twice after guard, and made a patrol all by myself through the wood paths and trails between the lines. in the front of these, at a crossing of paths not far from one of our posts, i found a burnt rocket-stick planted in the ground, and a scrap of paper stuck in the top, placed there by the boches to guide their little mischief-making parties when they come to visit us in the night. the scrap of paper was nothing else than a bit of the 'berliner tageblatt'. this seemed so interesting to me that i reported it to the captain, though my going out alone this way is a thing strictly forbidden. he was very decent about it though, and seemed really interested in the information. yesterday afternoon i repeated this exploit, following another trail, and i went so far that i came clear up to the german barbed wire, where i left a card with my name. it was very thrilling work, "courting destruction with taunts, with invitations" as whitman would say. i have never been in a sector like this, where patrols could be made in daylight. here the deep forest permits it. it also greatly facilitates ambushes, for one must keep to the paths, owing to the underbrush. i and a few others are going to try to get permission to go out on 'patrouilles d'embuscade' and bring in some live prisoners. it would be quite an extraordinary feat if we could pull it off. in our present existence it is the only way i can think of to get the croix de guerre. and to be worthy of my marraine i think that i ought to have the croix de guerre. == he had hoped to have been in paris on decoration day, may th, to read, before the statue of lafayette and washington, the "ode in memory of the american volunteers fallen for france", which he had written at the request of a committee of american residents; but his "permission" unfortunately did not arrive in time. completed in two days, during which he was engaged in the hardest sort of labour in the trenches, this ode is certainly the crown of the poet's achievement. it is entirely admirable, entirely adequate to the historic occasion. if the war has produced a nobler utterance, it has not come my way. on june th, he again wrote, giving an account of a march, which was "without exception the hardest he had ever made" -- " kilometers through the blazing sun and in a cloud of dust. something around kilograms on the back. about per cent dropped by the way. by making a supreme effort, i managed to get in at the finish, with the fifteen men that were all that was left of the section." he now knew that the great offensive was imminent. "the situation," he wrote, "is most interesting and exciting, but i am not at liberty to say anything about it. my greatest preoccupation now is whether this affair is coming off before or after the th of july. the indications are that it is going to break very soon. in that case nothing doing in the way of permission. but i still have hopes of getting in." his hopes of getting to paris were frustrated, as were all his other hopes save one--the hope of that rare privilege of dying well. on july st, the great advance began. at six in the evening of july th, the legion was ordered to clear the enemy out of the village of belloy-en-santerre. alan seeger advanced in the first rush, and his squad was enfiladed by the fire of six german machine guns, concealed in a hollow way. most of them went down, and alan among them -- wounded in several places. but the following waves of attack were more fortunate. as his comrades came up to him, alan cheered them on; and as they left him behind, they heard him singing a marching-song in english: -- accents of ours were in the fierce melee. they took the village, they drove the invaders out; but for some reason unknown--perhaps a very good one -- the battlefield was left unvisited that night. next morning, alan seeger lay dead. there is little to add. he wrote his own best epitaph in the "ode": -- and on those furthest rims of hallowed ground where the forlorn, the gallant charge expires, when the slain bugler has long ceased to sound, and on the tangled wires the last wild rally staggers, crumbles, stops, withered beneath the shrapnel's iron showers: -- now heaven be thanked, we gave a few brave drops, now heaven be thanked, a few brave drops were ours. his death was briefly noticed in one or two french papers. the 'matin' published a translation of part of the poem, "champagne, - ", and remarked that "cyrano de bergerac would have signed it." but france had no time, even if she had had the knowledge, to realize the greatness of the sacrifice that had been made for her. that will come later. one day france will know that this unassuming soldier of the legion, who, not unmindful of the antique debt, came back the generous path of lafayette, was one whom even she may be proud to have reckoned among her defenders. the "last poems" speak for themselves. they contain lines which he would doubtless have remodelled had he lived to review them in tranquillity -- perhaps one or two pieces, sprung from a momentary mood, which, on reflection he would have rejected.* but they not only show a great advance on his earlier work: they rank high, or i am much mistaken, among the hitherto not very numerous poems in the english language produced, not in mere memory or imagination of war, but in its actual stress and under its haunting menace. -- * neither in the "juvenilia" nor in the "last poems" has anything been suppressed that he himself ever thought of publishing. indeed nothing at all has been omitted, except two early poems on which he had written "these are worthless." -- again and again in the "last poems"--notably in "maktoob" with its tribute to the resignation and the calm and wisdom of the east, he returns to the note of fatalism. here he has not only the wisdom of the east but the logic of the west on his side. necessity is as incontrovertible to thought as it is incredible to feeling. but in the potent illusion of free-will (if illusion it be) rests all morality and all the admiration that we feel for good and evil deeds. not even at alan seeger's bidding can we quite persuade ourselves that, when he took up arms for france, he was exercising no brave, no generous choice, but was the conscript of destiny. william archer. poems by alan seeger juvenilia an ode to natural beauty there is a power whose inspiration fills nature's fair fabric, sun- and star-inwrought, like airy dew ere any drop distils, like perfume in the laden flower, like aught unseen which interfused throughout the whole becomes its quickening pulse and principle and soul. now when, the drift of old desire renewing, warm tides flow northward over valley and field, when half-forgotten sound and scent are wooing from their deep-chambered recesses long sealed such memories as breathe once more of childhood and the happy hues it wore, now, with a fervor that has never been in years gone by, it stirs me to respond, -- not as a force whose fountains are within the faculties of the percipient mind, subject with them to darkness and decay, but something absolute, something beyond, oft met like tender orbs that seem to peer from pale horizons, luminous behind some fringe of tinted cloud at close of day; and in this flood of the reviving year, when to the loiterer by sylvan streams, deep in those cares that make youth loveliest, nature in every common aspect seems to comment on the burden in his breast -- the joys he covets and the dreams he dreams -- one then with all beneath the radiant skies that laughs with him or sighs, it courses through the lilac-scented air, a blessing on the fields, a wonder everywhere. spirit of beauty, whose sweet impulses, flung like the rose of dawn across the sea, alone can flush the exalted consciousness with shafts of sensible divinity -- light of the world, essential loveliness: him whom the muse hath made thy votary not from her paths and gentle precepture shall vulgar ends engage, nor break the spell that taught him first to feel thy secret charms and o'er the earth, obedient to their lure, their sweet surprise and endless miracle, to follow ever with insatiate arms. on summer afternoons, when from the blue horizon to the shore, casting faint silver pathways like the moon's across the ocean's glassy, mottled floor, far clouds uprear their gleaming battlements drawn to the crest of some bleak eminence, when autumn twilight fades on the sere hill and autumn winds are still; to watch the east for some emerging sign, wintry capella or the pleiades or that great huntsman with the golden gear; ravished in hours like these before thy universal shrine to feel the invoked presence hovering near, he stands enthusiastic. star-lit hours spent on the roads of wandering solitude have set their sober impress on his brow, and he, with harmonies of wind and wood and torrent and the tread of mountain showers, has mingled many a dedicative vow that holds him, till thy last delight be known, bound in thy service and in thine alone. i, too, among the visionary throng who choose to follow where thy pathway leads, have sold my patrimony for a song, and donned the simple, lowly pilgrim's weeds. from that first image of beloved walls, deep-bowered in umbrage of ancestral trees, where earliest thy sweet enchantment falls, tingeing a child's fantastic reveries with radiance so fair it seems to be of heavens just lost the lingering evidence from that first dawn of roseate infancy, so long beneath thy tender influence my breast has thrilled. as oft for one brief second the veil through which those infinite offers beckoned has seemed to tremble, letting through some swift intolerable view of vistas past the sense of mortal seeing, so oft, as one whose stricken eyes might see in ferny dells the rustic deity, i stood, like him, possessed, and all my being, flooded an instant with unwonted light, quivered with cosmic passion; whether then on woody pass or glistening mountain-height i walked in fellowship with winds and clouds, whether in cities and the throngs of men, a curious saunterer through friendly crowds, enamored of the glance in passing eyes, unuttered salutations, mute replies, -- in every character where light of thine has shed on earthly things the hue of things divine i sought eternal loveliness, and seeking, if ever transport crossed my brow bespeaking such fire as a prophetic heart might feel where simple worship blends in fervent zeal, it was the faith that only love of thee needed in human hearts for earth to see surpassed the vision poets have held dear of joy diffused in most communion here; that whomsoe'er thy visitations warmed, lover of thee in all thy rays informed, needed no difficulter discipline to seek his right to happiness within than, sensible of nature's loveliness, to yield him to the generous impulses by such a sentiment evoked. the thought, bright spirit, whose illuminings i sought, that thou unto thy worshipper might be an all-sufficient law, abode with me, importing something more than unsubstantial dreams to vigils by lone shores and walks by murmuring streams. youth's flowers like childhood's fade and are forgot. fame twines a tardy crown of yellowing leaves. how swift were disillusion, were it not that thou art steadfast where all else deceives! solace and inspiration, power divine that by some mystic sympathy of thine, when least it waits and most hath need of thee, can startle the dull spirit suddenly with grandeur welled from unsuspected springs, -- long as the light of fulgent evenings, when from warm showers the pearly shades disband and sunset opens o'er the humid land, shows thy veiled immanence in orient skies, -- long as pale mist and opalescent dyes hung on far isle or vanishing mountain-crest, fields of remote enchantment can suggest so sweet to wander in it matters nought, they hold no place but in impassioned thought, long as one draught from a clear sky may be a scented luxury; be thou my worship, thou my sole desire, thy paths my pilgrimage, my sense a lyre aeolian for thine every breath to stir; oft when her full-blown periods recur, to see the birth of day's transparent moon far from cramped walls may fading afternoon find me expectant on some rising lawn; often depressed in dewy grass at dawn, me, from sweet slumber underneath green boughs, ere the stars flee may forest matins rouse, afoot when the great sun in amber floods pours horizontal through the steaming woods and windless fumes from early chimneys start and many a cock-crow cheers the traveller's heart eager for aught the coming day afford in hills untopped and valleys unexplored. give me the white road into the world's ends, lover of roadside hazard, roadside friends, loiterer oft by upland farms to gaze on ample prospects, lost in glimmering haze at noon, or where down odorous dales twilit, filled with low thundering of the mountain stream, over the plain where blue seas border it the torrid coast-towns gleam. i have fared too far to turn back now; my breast burns with the lust for splendors unrevealed, stars of midsummer, clouds out of the west, pallid horizons, winds that valley and field laden with joy, be ye my refuge still! what though distress and poverty assail! though other voices chide, yours never will. the grace of a blue sky can never fail. powers that my childhood with a spell so sweet, my youth with visions of such glory nursed, ye have beheld, nor ever seen my feet on any venture set, but 'twas the thirst for beauty willed them, yea, whatever be the faults i wanted wings to rise above; i am cheered yet to think how steadfastly i have been loyal to the love of love! the deserted garden i know a village in a far-off land where from a sunny, mountain-girdled plain with tinted walls a space on either hand and fed by many an olive-darkened lane the high-road mounts, and thence a silver band through vineyard slopes above and rolling grain, winds off to that dim corner of the skies where behind sunset hills a stately city lies. here, among trees whose overhanging shade strews petals on the little droves below, pattering townward in the morning weighed with greens from many an upland garden-row, runs an old wall; long centuries have frayed its scalloped edge, and passers to and fro heard never from beyond its crumbling height sweet laughter ring at noon or plaintive song at night. but here where little lizards bask and blink the tendrils of the trumpet-vine have run, at whose red bells the humming bird to drink stops oft before his garden feast is done; and rose-geraniums, with that tender pink that cloud-banks borrow from the setting sun, have covered part of this old wall, entwined with fair plumbago, blue as evening heavens behind. and crowning other parts the wild white rose rivals the honey-suckle with the bees. above the old abandoned orchard shows and all within beneath the dense-set trees, tall and luxuriant the rank grass grows, that settled in its wavy depth one sees grass melt in leaves, the mossy trunks between, down fading avenues of implicated green; wherein no lack of flowers the verdurous night with stars and pearly nebula o'erlay; azalea-boughs half rosy and half white shine through the green and clustering apple-spray, such as the fairy-queen before her knight waved in old story, luring him away where round lost isles hesperian billows break or towers loom up beneath the clear, translucent lake; and under the deep grass blue hare-bells hide, and myrtle plots with dew-fall ever wet, gay tiger-lilies flammulate and pied, sometime on pathway borders neatly set, now blossom through the brake on either side, where heliotrope and weedy mignonette, with vines in bloom and flower-bearing trees, mingle their incense all to swell the perfumed breeze, that sprung like hermes from his natal cave in some blue rampart of the curving west, comes up the valleys where green cornfields wave, ravels the cloud about the mountain crest, breathes on the lake till gentle ripples pave its placid floor; at length a long-loved guest, he steals across this plot of pleasant ground, waking the vocal leaves to a sweet vernal sound. here many a day right gladly have i sped, content amid the wavy plumes to lie, and through the woven branches overhead watch the white, ever-wandering clouds go by, and soaring birds make their dissolving bed far in the azure depths of summer sky, or nearer that small huntsman of the air, the fly-catcher, dart nimbly from his leafy lair; pillowed at ease to hear the merry tune of mating warblers in the boughs above and shrill cicadas whom the hottest noon keeps not from drowsy song; the mourning dove pours down the murmuring grove his plaintive croon that like the voice of visionary love oft have i risen to seek through this green maze (even as my feet thread now the great world's garden-ways); and, parting tangled bushes as i passed down beechen alleys beautiful and dim, perhaps by some deep-shaded pool at last my feet would pause, where goldfish poise and swim, and snowy callas' velvet cups are massed around the mossy, fern-encircled brim. here, then, that magic summoning would cease, or sound far off again among the orchard trees. and here where the blanched lilies of the vale and violets and yellow star-flowers teem, and pink and purple hyacinths exhale their heavy fume, once more to drowse and dream my head would sink, from many an olden tale drawing imagination's fervid theme, or haply peopling this enchanting spot only with fair creations of fantastic thought. for oft i think, in years long since gone by, that gentle hearts dwelt here and gentle hands stored all this bowery bliss to beautify the paradise of some unsung romance; here, safe from all except the loved one's eye, 'tis sweet to think white limbs were wont to glance, well pleased to wanton like the flowers and share their simple loveliness with the enamored air. thrice dear to them whose votive fingers decked the altars of first love were these green ways, -- these lawns and verdurous brakes forever flecked with the warm sunshine of midsummer days; oft where the long straight allies intersect and marble seats surround the open space, where a tiled pool and sculptured fountain stand, hath evening found them seated, silent, hand in hand. when twilight deepened, in the gathering shade beneath that old titanic cypress row, whose sombre vault and towering colonnade dwarfed the enfolded forms that moved below, oft with close steps these happy lovers strayed, till down its darkening aisle the sunset glow grew less and patterning the garden floor faint flakes of filtering moonlight mantled more and more. and the strange tempest that a touch imparts through the mid fibre of the molten frame, when the sweet flesh in early youth asserts its heyday verve and little hints enflame, disturbed them as they walked; from their full hearts welled the soft word, and many a tender name strove on their lips as breast to breast they strained and the deep joy they drank seemed never, never drained. love's soul that is the depth of starry skies set in the splendor of one upturned face to beam adorably through half-closed eyes; love's body where the breadth of summer days and all the beauty earth and air comprise come to the compass of an arm's embrace, to burn a moment on impassioned lips and yield intemperate joy to quivering finger-tips, they knew; and here where morning-glories cling round carven forms of carefullest artifice, they made a bower where every outward thing should comment on the cause of their own bliss; with flowers of liveliest hue encompassing that flower that the beloved body is -- that rose that for the banquet of love's bee has budded all the aeons of past eternity. but their choice seat was where the garden wall, crowning a little summit, far and near, looks over tufted treetops onto all the pleasant outer country; rising here from rustling foliage where cuckoos call on summer evenings, stands a belvedere, buff-hued, of antique plaster, overrun with flowering vines and weatherworn by rain and sun. still round the turrets of this antique tower the bougainvillea hangs a crimson crown, wistaria-vines and clematis in flower, wreathing the lower surface further down, hide the old plaster in a very shower of motley blossoms like a broidered gown. outside, ascending from the garden grove, a crumbling stairway winds to the one room above. and whoso mounts by this dismantled stair finds the old pleasure-hall, long disarrayed, brick-tiled and raftered, and the walls foursquare ringed all about with a twofold arcade. backward dense branches intercept the glare of afternoon with eucalyptus shade; eastward the level valley-plains expand, sweet as a queen's survey of her own fairyland. for through that frame the ivied arches make, wide tracts of sunny midland charm the eye, frequent with hamlet, grove, and lucent lake where the blue hills' inverted contours lie; far to the east where billowy mountains break in surf of snow against a sapphire sky, huge thunderheads loom up behind the ranges, changing from gold to pink as deepening sunset changes; and over plain and far sierra spread the fulgent rays of fading afternoon, showing each utmost peak and watershed all clarified, each tassel and festoon of floating cloud embroidered overhead, like lotus-leaves on bluest waters strewn, flushing with rose, while all breathes fresh and free in peace and amplitude and bland tranquillity. dear were such evenings to this gentle pair; love's tide that launched on with a blast too strong sweeps toward the foaming reef, the hidden snare, baffling with fond illusion's siren-song, too faint, on idle shoals, to linger there far from youth's glowing dream, bore them along, with purple sail and steered by seraph hands to isles resplendent in the sunset of romance. and out of this old house a flowery fane, a bridal bower, a pearly pleasure-dome, they built, and furnished it with gold and grain, and bade all spirits of beauty hither come, and winged love to enter with his train and bless their pillow, and in this his home make them his priests as hero was of yore in her sweet girlhood by the blue dardanian shore. tree-ferns, therefore, and potted palms they brought, tripods and urns in rare and curious taste, polychrome chests and cabinets inwrought with pearl and ivory etched and interlaced; pendant brocades with massive braid were caught, and chain-slung, oriental lamps so placed to light the lounger on some low divan, sunken in swelling down and silks from hindustan. and there was spread, upon the ample floors, work of the levantine's laborious loom, such as by euxine or ionian shores carpets the dim seraglio's scented gloom. each morn renewed, the garden's flowery stores blushed in fair vases, ochre and peach-bloom, and little birds through wicker doors left wide flew in to trill a space from the green world outside. and there was many a dainty attitude, bronze and eburnean. all but disarrayed, here in eternal doubt sweet psyche stood fain of the bath's delight, yet still afraid lest aught in that palatial solitude lurked of most menace to a helpless maid. therefore forever faltering she stands, nor yet the last loose fold slips rippling from her hands. close by upon a beryl column, clad in the fresh flower of adolescent grace, they set the dear bithynian shepherd lad, the nude antinous. that gentle face, forever beautiful, forever sad, shows but one aspect, moon-like, to our gaze, yet fancy pictures how those lips could smile at revelries in rome, and banquets on the nile. and there were shapes of beauty myriads more, clustering their rosy bridal bed around, whose scented breadth a silken fabric wore broidered with peacock hues on creamiest ground, fit to have graced the barge that cydnus bore or venus' bed in her enchanted mound, while pillows swelled in stuffs of orient dyes, all broidered with strange fruits and birds of paradise. 'twas such a bower as youth has visions of, thither with one fair spirit to retire, lie upon rose-leaves, sleep and wake with love and feast on kisses to the heart's desire; where by a casement opening on a grove, wide to the wood-winds and the sweet birds' choir, a girl might stand and gaze into green boughs, like credhe at the window of her golden house. or most like vivien, the enchanting fay, where with her friend, in the strange tower they planned, she lies and dreams eternity away, above the treetops in broceliande, sometimes at twilight when the woods are gray and wolf-packs howl far out across the lande, waking to love, while up behind the trees the large midsummer moon lifts--even so loved these. for here, their pleasure was to come and sit oft when the sun sloped midway to the west, watching with sweet enjoyment interknit the long light slant across the green earth's breast, and clouds upon the ranges opposite, rolled up into a gleaming thundercrest, topple and break and fall in purple rain, and mist of summer showers trail out across the plain. whereon the shafts of ardent light, far-flung across the luminous azure overhead, ofttimes in arcs of transient beauty hung the fragmentary rainbow's green and red. joy it was here to love and to be young, to watch the sun sink to his western bed, and streaming back out of their flaming core the vesperal aurora's glorious banners soar. tinging each altitude of heaven in turn, those fiery rays would sweep. the cumuli that peeped above the mountain-tops would burn carmine a space; the cirrus-whorls on high, more delicate than sprays of maiden fern, streak with pale rose the peacock-breasted sky, then blanch. as water-lilies fold at night, sank back into themselves those plumes of fervid light. and they would watch the first faint stars appear, the blue east blend with the blue hills below, as lovers when their shuddering bliss draws near into one pulse of fluid rapture grow. new fragrance on the freshening atmosphere would steal with evening, and the sunset glow draw deeper down into the wondrous west round vales of proserpine and islands of the blest. so dusk would come and mingle lake and shore, the snow-peaks fade to frosty opaline, to pearl the domed clouds the mountains bore, where late the sun's effulgent fire had been -- showing as darkness deepened more and more the incandescent lightnings flare within, and night that furls the lily in the glen and twines impatient arms would fall, and then--and then . . . sometimes the peasant, coming late from town with empty panniers on his little drove past the old lookout when the northern crown glittered with cygnus through the scented grove, would hear soft noise of lute-strings wafted down and voices singing through the leaves above those songs that well from the warm heart that woos at balconies in merida or vera cruz. and he would pause under the garden wall, caught in the spell of that voluptuous strain, with all the sultry south in it, and all its importunity of love and pain; and he would wait till the last passionate fall died on the night, and all was still again, -- then to his upland village wander home, marvelling whence that flood of elfin song might come. o lyre that love's white holy hands caress, youth, from thy bosom welled their passionate lays -- sweet opportunity for happiness so brief, so passing beautiful--o days, when to the heart's divine indulgences all earth in smiling ministration pays -- thine was the source whose plenitude, past over, what prize shall rest to pluck, what secret to discover! the wake of color that follows her when may walks on the hills loose-haired and daisy-crowned, the deep horizons of a summer's day, fair cities, and the pleasures that abound where music calls, and crowds in bright array gather by night to find and to be found; what were these worth or all delightful things without thine eyes to read their true interpretings! for thee the mountains open glorious gates, to thee white arms put out from orient skies, earth, like a jewelled bride for one she waits, decks but to be delicious in thine eyes, thou guest of honor for one day, whose fetes eternity has travailed to devise; ah, grace them well in the brief hour they last! another's turn prepares, another follows fast. yet not without one fond memorial let my sun set who found the world so fair! frail verse, when time the singer's coronal has rent, and stripped the rose-leaves from his hair, be thou my tablet on the temple wall! among the pious testimonials there, witness how sweetly on my heart as well the miracles of dawn and starry evening fell! speak of one then who had the lust to feel, and, from the hues that far horizons take, and cloud and sunset, drank the wild appeal, too deep to live for aught but life's sweet sake, whose only motive was the will to kneel where beauty's purest benediction spake, who only coveted what grove and field and sunshine and green earth and tender arms could yield -- a nympholept, through pleasant days and drear seeking his faultless adolescent dream, a pilgrim down the paths that disappear in mist and rainbows on the world's extreme, a helpless voyager who all too near the mouth of life's fair flower-bordered stream, clutched at love's single respite in his need more than the drowning swimmer clutches at a reed -- that coming one whose feet in other days shall bleed like mine for ever having, more than any purpose, felt the need to praise and seek the angelic image to adore, in love with love, its wonderful, sweet ways counting what most makes life worth living for, that so some relic may be his to see how i loved these things too and they were dear to me. i sometimes think a conscious happiness mantles through all the rose's sentient vine when summer winds with myriad calyces of bloom its clambering height incarnadine; i sometimes think that cleaving lips, no less, and limbs that crowned desires at length entwine are nerves through which that being drinks delight, whose frame is the green earth robed round with day and night. and such were theirs: the traveller without, pausing at night under the orchard trees, wondered and crossed himself in holy doubt, for through their song and in the murmuring breeze it seemed angelic choirs were all about mingling in universal harmonies, as though, responsive to the chords they woke, all nature into sweet epithalamium broke. and still they think a spirit haunts the place: 'tis said, when night has drawn her jewelled pall and through the branches twinkling fireflies trace their mimic constellations, if it fall that one should see the moon rise through the lace of blossomy boughs above the garden wall, that surely would he take great ill thereof and famish in a fit of unexpressive love. but this i know not, for what time the wain was loosened and the lily's petal furled, then i would rise, climb the old wall again, and pausing look forth on the sundown world, scan the wide reaches of the wondrous plain, the hamlet sites where settling smoke lay curled, the poplar-bordered roads, and far away fair snowpeaks colored with the sun's last ray. waves of faint sound would pulsate from afar -- faint song and preludes of the summer night; deep in the cloudless west the evening star hung 'twixt the orange and the emerald light; from the dark vale where shades crepuscular dimmed the old grove-girt belfry glimmering white, throbbing, as gentlest breezes rose or fell, came the sweet invocation of the evening bell. the torture of cuauhtemoc their strength had fed on this when death's white arms came sleeved in vapors and miasmal dew, curling across the jungle's ferny floor, becking each fevered brain. on bleak divides, where sleep grew niggardly for nipping cold that twinged blue lips into a mouthed curse, not back to seville and its sunny plains winged their brief-biding dreams, but once again, lords of a palace in tenochtitlan, they guarded montezuma's treasure-hoard. gold, like some finny harvest of the sea, poured out knee deep around the rifted floors, shiny and sparkling,--arms and crowns and rings: gold, sweet to toy with as beloved hair, -- to plunge the lustful, crawling fingers down, arms elbow deep, and draw them out again, and watch the glinting metal trickle off, even as at night some fisherman, home bound with speckled cargo in his hollow keel caught off campeche or the isle of pines, dips in his paddle, lifts it forth again, and laughs to see the luminous white drops fall back in flakes of fire. . . . gold was the dream that cheered that desperate enterprise. and now? . . . victory waited on the arms of spain, fallen was the lovely city by the lake, the sunny venice of the western world; there many corpses, rotting in the wind, poked up stiff limbs, but in the leprous rags no jewel caught the sun, no tawny chain gleamed, as the prying halberds raked them o'er. pillage that ran red-handed through the streets came railing home at evening empty-palmed; and they, on that sad night a twelvemonth gone, who, ounce by ounce, dear as their own life's blood retreating, cast the cumbrous load away: they, when brown foemen lopped the bridges down, who tipped thonged chests into the stream below and over wealth that might have ransomed kings passed on to safety;--cheated, guerdonless -- found (through their fingers the bright booty slipped) a city naked, of that golden dream shorn in one moment like a sunset sky. deep in a chamber that no cheerful ray purged of damp air, where in unbroken night black scorpions nested in the sooty beams, helpless and manacled they led him down -- cuauhtemotzin--and other lords beside -- all chieftains of the people, heroes all -- and stripped their feathered robes and bound them there on short stone settles sloping to the head, but where the feet projected, underneath heaped the red coals. their swarthy fronts illumed, the bearded spaniards, helmed and haubergeoned, paced up and down beneath the lurid vault. some kneeling fanned the glowing braziers; some stood at the sufferers' heads and all the while hissed in their ears: "the gold . . . the gold . . . the gold. where have ye hidden it--the chested gold? speak--and the torments cease!" they answered not. past those proud lips whose key their sovereign claimed no accent fell to chide or to betray, only it chanced that bound beside the king lay one whom nature, more than other men framing for delicate and perfumed ease, not yet, along the happy ways of youth, had weaned from gentle usages so far to teach that fortitude that warriors feel and glory in the proof. he answered not, but writhing with intolerable pain, convulsed in every limb, and all his face wrought to distortion with the agony, turned on his lord a look of wild appeal, the secret half atremble on his lips, livid and quivering, that waited yet for leave--for leave to utter it--one sign -- one word--one little word--to ease his pain. as one reclining in the banquet hall, propped on an elbow, garlanded with flowers, saw lust and greed and boisterous revelry surge round him on the tides of wine, but he, staunch in the ethic of an antique school -- stoic or cynic or of pyrrho's mind -- with steady eyes surveyed the unbridled scene, himself impassive, silent, self-contained: so sat the indian prince, with brow unblanched, amid the tortured and the torturers. he who had seen his hopes made desolate, his realm despoiled, his early crown deprived him, and watched while pestilence and famine piled his stricken people in their reeking doors, whence glassy eyes looked out and lean brown arms stretched up to greet him in one last farewell as back and forth he paced along the streets with words of hopeless comfort--what was this that one should weaken now? he weakened not. whate'er was in his heart, he neither dealt in pity nor in scorn, but, turning round, met that racked visage with his own unmoved, bent on the sufferer his mild calm eyes, and while the pangs smote sharper, in a voice, as who would speak not all in gentleness nor all disdain, said: "yes! and am -i- then upon a bed of roses?" stung with shame -- shame bitterer than his anguish--to betray such cowardice before the man he loved, and merit such rebuke, the boy grew calm; and stilled his struggling limbs and moaning cries, and shook away his tears, and strove to smile, and turned his face against the wall--and died. the nympholept there was a boy--not above childish fears -- with steps that faltered now and straining ears, timid, irresolute, yet dauntless still, who one bright dawn, when each remotest hill stood sharp and clear in heaven's unclouded blue and all earth shimmered with fresh-beaded dew, risen in the first beams of the gladdening sun, walked up into the mountains. one by one each towering trunk beneath his sturdy stride fell back, and ever wider and more wide the boundless prospect opened. long he strayed, from dawn till the last trace of slanting shade had vanished from the canyons, and, dismayed at that far length to which his path had led, he paused--at such a height where overhead the clouds hung close, the air came thin and chill, and all was hushed and calm and very still, save, from abysmal gorges, where the sound of tumbling waters rose, and all around the pines, by those keen upper currents blown, muttered in multitudinous monotone. here, with the wind in lovely locks laid bare, with arms oft raised in dedicative prayer, lost in mute rapture and adoring wonder, he stood, till the far noise of noontide thunder, rolled down upon the muffled harmonies of wind and waterfall and whispering trees, made loneliness more lone. some panic fear would seize him then, as they who seemed to hear in tracian valleys or thessalian woods the god's hallooing wake the leafy solitudes; i think it was the same: some piercing sense of deity's pervasive immanence, the life that visible nature doth indwell grown great and near and all but palpable . . . he might not linger, but with winged strides like one pursued, fled down the mountain-sides -- down the long ridge that edged the steep ravine, by glade and flowery lawn and upland green, and never paused nor felt assured again but where the grassy foothills opened. then, while shadows lengthened on the plain below and the sun vanished and the sunset-glow looked back upon the world with fervid eye through the barred windows of the western sky, homeward he fared, while many a look behind showed the receding ranges dim-outlined, highland and hollow where his path had lain, veiled in deep purple of the mountain rain. the wanderer to see the clouds his spirit yearned toward so over new mountains piled and unploughed waves, back of old-storied spires and architraves to watch arcturus rise or fomalhaut, and roused by street-cries in strange tongues when day flooded with gold some domed metropolis, between new towers to waken and new bliss spread on his pillow in a wondrous way: these were his joys. oft under bulging crates, coming to market with his morning load, the peasant found him early on his road to greet the sunrise at the city-gates, -- there where the meadows waken in its rays, golden with mist, and the great roads commence, and backward, where the chimney-tops are dense, cathedral-arches glimmer through the haze. white dunes that breaking show a strip of sea, a plowman and his team against the blue, swiss pastures musical with cowbells, too, and poplar-lined canals in picardie, and coast-towns where the vultures back and forth sail in the clear depths of the tropic sky, and swallows in the sunset where they fly over gray gothic cities in the north, and the wine-cellar and the chorus there, the dance-hall and a face among the crowd, -- were all delights that made him sing aloud for joy to sojourn in a world so fair. back of his footsteps as he journeyed fell range after range; ahead blue hills emerged. before him tireless to applaud it surged the sweet interminable spectacle. and like the west behind a sundown sea shone the past joys his memory retraced, and bright as the blue east he always faced beckoned the loves and joys that were to be. from every branch a blossom for his brow he gathered, singing down life's flower-lined road, and youth impelled his spirit as he strode like winged victory on the galley's prow. that loveliness whose being sun and star, green earth and dawn and amber evening robe, that lamp whereof the opalescent globe the season's emulative splendors are, that veiled divinity whose beams transpire from every pore of universal space, as the fair soul illumes the lovely face -- that was his guest, his passion, his desire. his heart the love of beauty held as hides one gem most pure a casket of pure gold. it was too rich a lesser thing to hold; it was not large enough for aught besides. the need to love the need to love that all the stars obey entered my heart and banished all beside. bare were the gardens where i used to stray; faded the flowers that one time satisfied. before the beauty of the west on fire, the moonlit hills from cloister-casements viewed, cloud-like arose the image of desire, and cast out peace and maddened solitude. i sought the city and the hopes it held: with smoke and brooding vapors intercurled, as the thick roofs and walls close-paralleled shut out the fair horizons of the world -- a truant from the fields and rustic joy, in my changed thought that image even so shut out the gods i worshipped as a boy and all the pure delights i used to know. often the veil has trembled at some tide of lovely reminiscence and revealed how much of beauty nature holds beside sweet lips that sacrifice and arms that yield: clouds, window-framed, beyond the huddled eaves when summer cumulates their golden chains, or from the parks the smell of burning leaves, fragrant of childhood in the country lanes, an organ-grinder's melancholy tune in rainy streets, or from an attic sill the blue skies of a windy afternoon where our kites climbed once from some grassy hill: and my soul once more would be wrapped entire in the pure peace and blessing of those years before the fierce infection of desire had ravaged all the flesh. through starting tears shone that lost paradise; but, if it did, again ere long the prison-shades would fall that youth condemns itself to walk amid, so narrow, but so beautiful withal. and i have followed fame with less devotion, and kept no real ambition but to see rise from the foam of nature's sunlit ocean my dream of palpable divinity; and aught the world contends for to mine eye seemed not so real a meaning of success as only once to clasp before i die my vision of embodied happiness. el extraviado over the radiant ridges borne out on the offshore wind, i have sailed as a butterfly sails whose priming wings unfurled leave the familiar gardens and visited fields behind to follow a cloud in the east rose-flushed on the rim of the world. i have strayed from the trodden highway for walking with upturned eyes on the way of the wind in the treetops, and the drift of the tinted rack. for the will to be losing no wonder of sunny or starlit skies i have chosen the sod for my pillow and a threadbare coat for my back. evening of ample horizons, opaline, delicate, pure, shadow of clouds on green valleys, trailed over meadows and trees, cities of ardent adventure where the harvests of joy mature, forests whose murmuring voices are amorous prophecies, world of romance and profusion, still round my journey spread the glamours, the glints, the enthralments, the nurture of one whose feet from hours unblessed by beauty nor lighted by love have fled as the shade of the tomb on his pathway and the scent of the winding-sheet. i never could rest from roving nor put from my heart this need to be seeing how lovably nature in flower and face hath wrought, -- in flower and meadow and mountain and heaven where the white clouds breed and the cunning of silken meshes where the heart's desire lies caught. over the azure expanses, on the offshore breezes borne, i have sailed as a butterfly sails, nor recked where the impulse led, sufficed with the sunshine and freedom, the warmth and the summer morn, the infinite glory surrounding, the infinite blue ahead. la nue oft when sweet music undulated round, like the full moon out of a perfumed sea thine image from the waves of blissful sound rose and thy sudden light illumined me. and in the country, leaf and flower and air would alter and the eternal shape emerge; because they spoke of thee the fields seemed fair, and joy to wait at the horizon's verge. the little cloud-gaps in the east that filled gray afternoons with bits of tenderest blue were windows in a palace pearly-silled that thy voluptuous traits came glimmering through. and in the city, dominant desire for which men toil within its prison-bars, i watched thy white feet moving in the mire and thy white forehead hid among the stars. mystical, feminine, provoking, nude, radiant there with rosy arms outspread, sum of fulfillment, sovereign attitude, sensual with laughing lips and thrown-back head, draped in the rainbow on the summer hills, hidden in sea-mist down the hot coast-line, couched on the clouds that fiery sunset fills, blessed, remote, impersonal, divine; the gold all color and grace are folded o'er, the warmth all beauty and tenderness embower, -- thou quiverest at nature's perfumed core, the pistil of a myriad-petalled flower. round thee revolves, illimitably wide, the world's desire, as stars around their pole. round thee all earthly loveliness beside is but the radiate, infinite aureole. thou art the poem on the cosmic page -- in rubric written on its golden ground -- that nature paints her flowers and foliage and rich-illumined commentary round. thou art the rose that the world's smiles and tears hover about like butterflies and bees. thou art the theme the music of the spheres echoes in endless, variant harmonies. thou art the idol in the altar-niche faced by love's congregated worshippers, thou art the holy sacrament round which the vast cathedral is the universe. thou art the secret in the crystal where, for the last light upon the mystery man, in his lone tower and ultimate despair, searched the gray-bearded zoroastrian. and soft and warm as in the magic sphere, deep-orbed as in its erubescent fire, so in my heart thine image would appear, curled round with the red flames of my desire. all that's not love . . . all that's not love is the dearth of my days, the leaves of the volume with rubric unwrit, the temple in times without prayer, without praise, the altar unset and the candle unlit. let me survive not the lovable sway of early desire, nor see when it goes the courts of life's abbey in ivied decay, whence sometime sweet anthems and incense arose. the delicate hues of its sevenfold rings the rainbow outlives not; their yellow and blue the butterfly sees not dissolve from his wings, but even with their beauty life fades from them too. no more would i linger past love's ardent bounds nor live for aught else but the joy that it craves, that, burden and essence of all that surrounds, is the song in the wind and the smile on the waves. paris i first, london, for its myriads; for its height, manhattan heaped in towering stalagmite; but paris for the smoothness of the paths that lead the heart unto the heart's delight. . . . fair loiterer on the threshold of those days when there's no lovelier prize the world displays than, having beauty and your twenty years, you have the means to conquer and the ways, and coming where the crossroads separate and down each vista glories and wonders wait, crowning each path with pinnacles so fair you know not which to choose, and hesitate -- oh, go to paris. . . . in the midday gloom of some old quarter take a little room that looks off over paris and its towers from saint gervais round to the emperor's tomb, -- so high that you can hear a mating dove croon down the chimney from the roof above, see notre dame and know how sweet it is to wake between our lady and our love. and have a little balcony to bring fair plants to fill with verdure and blossoming, that sparrows seek, to feed from pretty hands, and swallows circle over in the spring. there of an evening you shall sit at ease in the sweet month of flowering chestnut-trees, there with your little darling in your arms, your pretty dark-eyed manon or louise. and looking out over the domes and towers that chime the fleeting quarters and the hours, while the bright clouds banked eastward back of them blush in the sunset, pink as hawthorn flowers, you cannot fail to think, as i have done, some of life's ends attained, so you be one who measures life's attainment by the hours that joy has rescued from oblivion. ii come out into the evening streets. the green light lessens in the west. the city laughs and liveliest her fervid pulse of pleasure beats. the belfry on saint severin strikes eight across the smoking eaves: come out under the lights and leaves to the reine blanche on saint germain. . . . now crowded diners fill the floor of brasserie and restaurant. shrill voices cry "l'intransigeant," and corners echo "paris-sport." where rows of tables from the street are screened with shoots of box and bay, the ragged minstrels sing and play and gather sous from those that eat. and old men stand with menu-cards, inviting passers-by to dine on the bright terraces that line the latin quarter boulevards. . . . but, having drunk and eaten well, 'tis pleasant then to stroll along and mingle with the merry throng that promenades on saint michel. here saunter types of every sort. the shoddy jostle with the chic: turk and roumanian and greek; student and officer and sport; slavs with their peasant, christ-like heads, and courtezans like powdered moths, and peddlers from algiers, with cloths bright-hued and stitched with golden threads; and painters with big, serious eyes go rapt in dreams, fantastic shapes in corduroys and spanish capes and locks uncut and flowing ties; and lovers wander two by two, oblivious among the press, and making one of them no less, all lovers shall be dear to you: all laughing lips you move among, all happy hearts that, knowing what makes life worth while, have wasted not the sweet reprieve of being young. "comment ca va!" "mon vieux!" "mon cher!" friends greet and banter as they pass. 'tis sweet to see among the mass comrades and lovers everywhere, a law that's sane, a love that's free, and men of every birth and blood allied in one great brotherhood of art and joy and poverty. . . . the open cafe-windows frame loungers at their liqueurs and beer, and walking past them one can hear fragments of tosca and boheme. and in the brilliant-lighted door of cinemas the barker calls, and lurid posters paint the walls with scenes of love and crime and war. but follow past the flaming lights, borne onward with the stream of feet, where bullier's further up the street is marvellous on thursday nights. here all bohemia flocks apace; you could not often find elsewhere so many happy heads and fair assembled in one time and place. under the glare and noise and heat the galaxy of dancing whirls, smokers, with covered heads, and girls dressed in the costume of the street. from tables packed around the wall the crowds that drink and frolic there spin serpentines into the air far out over the reeking hall, that, settling where the coils unroll, tangle with pink and green and blue the crowds that rag to "hitchy-koo" and boston to the "barcarole". . . . here mimi ventures, at fifteen, to make her debut in romance, and join her sisters in the dance and see the life that they have seen. her hair, a tight hat just allows to brush beneath the narrow brim, docked, in the model's present whim, 'frise' and banged above the brows. uncorseted, her clinging dress with every step and turn betrays, in pretty and provoking ways her adolescent loveliness, as guiding gaby or lucile she dances, emulating them in each disturbing stratagem and each lascivious appeal. each turn a challenge, every pose an invitation to compete, along the maze of whirling feet the grave-eyed little wanton goes, and, flaunting all the hue that lies in childish cheeks and nubile waist, she passes, charmingly unchaste, illumining ignoble eyes. . . . but now the blood from every heart leaps madder through abounding veins as first the fascinating strains of "el irresistible" start. caught in the spell of pulsing sound, impatient elbows lift and yield the scented softnesses they shield to arms that catch and close them round, surrender, swift to be possessed, the silken supple forms beneath to all the bliss the measures breathe and all the madness they suggest. crowds congregate and make a ring. four deep they stand and strain to see the tango in its ecstasy of glowing lives that clasp and cling. lithe limbs relaxed, exalted eyes fastened on vacancy, they seem to float upon the perfumed stream of some voluptuous paradise, or, rapt in some arabian night, to rock there, cradled and subdued, in a luxurious lassitude of rhythm and sensual delight. and only when the measures cease and terminate the flowing dance they waken from their magic trance and join the cries that clamor "bis!" . . . midnight adjourns the festival. the couples climb the crowded stair, and out into the warm night air go singing fragments of the ball. close-folded in desire they pass, or stop to drink and talk awhile in the cafes along the mile from bullier's back to montparnasse: the "closerie" or "la rotonde", where smoking, under lamplit trees, sit art's enamored devotees, chatting across their 'brune' and 'blonde'. . . . make one of them and come to know sweet paris--not as many do, seeing but the folly of the few, the froth, the tinsel, and the show -- but taking some white proffered hand that from earth's barren every day can lead you by the shortest way into love's florid fairyland. and that divine enchanted life that lurks under life's common guise -- that city of romance that lies within the city's toil and strife -- shall, knocking, open to your hands, for love is all its golden key, and one's name murmured tenderly the only magic it demands. and when all else is gray and void in the vast gulf of memory, green islands of delight shall be all blessed moments so enjoyed: when vaulted with the city skies, on its cathedral floors you stood, and, priest of a bright brotherhood, performed the mystic sacrifice, at love's high altar fit to stand, with fire and incense aureoled, the celebrant in cloth of gold with spring and youth on either hand. iii choral song have ye gazed on its grandeur or stood where it stands with opal and amber adorning the lands, and orcharded domes of the hue of all flowers? sweet melody roams through its blossoming bowers, sweet bells usher in from its belfries the train of the honey-sweet hour. a city resplendent, fulfilled of good things, on its ramparts are pendent the bucklers of kings. broad banners unfurled are afloat in its air. the lords of the world look for harborage there. none finds save he comes as a bridegroom, having roses and vine in his hair. 'tis the city of lovers, there many paths meet. blessed he above others, with faltering feet, who past its proud spires intends not nor hears the noise of its lyres grow faint in his ears! men reach it through portals of triumph, but leave through a postern of tears. it was thither, ambitious, we came for youth's right, when our lips yearned for kisses as moths for the light, when our souls cried for love as for life-giving rain wan leaves of the grove, withered grass of the plain, and our flesh ached for love-flesh beside it with bitter, intolerable pain. under arbor and trellis, full of flutes, full of flowers, what mad fortunes befell us, what glad orgies were ours! in the days of our youth, in our festal attire, when the sweet flesh was smooth, when the swift blood was fire, and all earth paid in orange and purple to pavilion the bed of desire! the sultan's palace my spirit only lived to look on beauty's face, as only when they clasp the arms seem served aright; as in their flesh inheres the impulse to embrace, to gaze on loveliness was my soul's appetite. i have roamed far in search; white road and plunging bow were keys in the blue doors where my desire was set; obedient to their lure, my lips and laughing brow the hill-showers and the spray of many seas have wet. hot are enamored hands, the fragrant zone unbound, to leave no dear delight unfelt, unfondled o'er, the will possessed my heart to girdle earth around with their insatiate need to wonder and adore. the flowers in the fields, the surf upon the sands, the sunset and the clouds it turned to blood and wine, were shreds of the thin veil behind whose beaded strands a radiant visage rose, serene, august, divine. a noise of summer wind astir in starlit trees, a song where sensual love's delirium rose and fell, were rites that moved my soul more than the devotee's when from the blazing choir rings out the altar bell. i woke amid the pomp of a proud palace; writ in tinted arabesque on walls that gems o'erlay, the names of caliphs were who once held court in it, their baths and bowers were mine to dwell in for a day. their robes and rings were mine to draw from shimmering trays -- brocades and broidered silks, topaz and tourmaline -- their turban-cloths to wind in proud capricious ways, and fasten plumes and pearls and pendent sapphires in. i rose; far music drew my steps in fond pursuit down tessellated floors and towering peristyles: through groves of colonnades fair lamps were blushing fruit, on seas of green mosaic soft rugs were flowery isles. and there were verdurous courts that scalloped arches wreathed, where fountains plashed in bowls of lapis lazuli. through enigmatic doors voluptuous accents breathed, and having youth i had their open sesame. i paused where shadowy walls were hung with cloths of gold, and tinted twilight streamed through storied panes above. in lamplit alcoves deep as flowers when they unfold soft cushions called to rest and fragrant fumes to love. i hungered; at my hand delicious dainties teemed -- fair pyramids of fruit; pastry in sugared piles. i thirsted; in cool cups inviting vintage beamed -- sweet syrups from the south; brown muscat from the isles. i yearned for passionate love; faint gauzes fell away. pillowed in rosy light i found my heart's desire. over the silks and down her florid beauty lay, as over orient clouds the sunset's coral fire. joys that had smiled afar, a visionary form, behind the ranges hid, remote and rainbow-dyed, drew near unto my heart, a wonder soft and warm, to touch, to stroke, to clasp, to sleep and wake beside. joy, that where summer seas and hot horizons shone had been the outspread arms i gave my youth to seek, drew near; awhile its pulse strove sweetly with my own, awhile i felt its breath astir upon my cheek. i was so happy there; so fleeting was my stay, -- what wonder if, assailed with vistas so divine, i only lived to search and sample them the day when between dawn and dusk the sultan's courts were mine! speak not of other worlds of happiness to be, as though in any fond imaginary sphere lay more to tempt man's soul to immortality than ripens for his bliss abundant now and here! flowerlike i hope to die as flowerlike was my birth. rooted in nature's just benignant law like them, i want no better joys than those that from green earth my spirit's blossom drew through the sweet body's stem. i see no dread in death, no horror to abhor. i never thought it else than but to cease to dwell spectator, and resolve most naturally once more into the dearly loved eternal spectacle. unto the fields and flowers this flesh i found so fair i yield; do you, dear friend, over your rose-crowned wine, murmur my name some day as though my lips were there, and frame your mouth as though its blushing kiss were mine. yea, where the banquet-hall is brilliant with young men, you whose bright youth it might have thrilled my breast to know, drink . . . and perhaps my lips, insatiate even then of lips to hang upon, may find their loved ones so. unto the flush of dawn and evening i commend this immaterial self and flamelike part of me, -- unto the azure haze that hangs at the world's end, the sunshine on the hills, the starlight on the sea, -- unto angelic earth, whereof the lives of those who love and dream great dreams and deeply feel may be the elemental cells and nervules that compose its divine consciousness and joy and harmony. fragments i in that fair capital where pleasure, crowned amidst her myriad courtiers, riots and rules, i too have been a suitor. radiant eyes were my life's warmth and sunshine, outspread arms my gilded deep horizons. i rejoiced in yielding to all amorous influence and multiple impulsion of the flesh, to feel within my being surge and sway the force that all the stars acknowledge too. amid the nebulous humanity where i an atom crawled and cleaved and sundered, i saw a million motions, but one law; and from the city's splendor to my eyes the vapors passed and there was nought but love, a ferment turbulent, intensely fair, where beauty beckoned and where strength pursued. ii there was a time when i thought much of fame, and laid the golden edifice to be that in the clear light of eternity should fitly house the glory of my name. but swifter than my fingers pushed their plan, over the fair foundation scarce begun, while i with lovers dallied in the sun, the ivy clambered and the rose-vine ran. and now, too late to see my vision, rise, in place of golden pinnacles and towers, only some sunny mounds of leaves and flowers, only beloved of birds and butterflies. my friends were duped, my favorers deceived; but sometimes, musing sorrowfully there, that flowered wreck has seemed to me so fair i scarce regret the temple unachieved. iii for there were nights . . . my love to him whose brow has glistened with the spoils of nights like those, home turning as a conqueror turns home, what time green dawn down every street uprears arches of triumph! he has drained as well joy's perfumed bowl and cried as i have cried: be fame their mistress whom love passes by. this only matters: from some flowery bed, laden with sweetness like a homing bee, if one have known what bliss it is to come, bearing on hands and breast and laughing lips the fragrance of his youth's dear rose. to him the hills have bared their treasure, the far clouds unveiled the vision that o'er summer seas drew on his thirsting arms. this last thing known, he can court danger, laugh at perilous odds, and, pillowed on a memory so sweet, unto oblivious eternity without regret yield his victorious soul, the blessed pilgrim of a vow fulfilled. iv what is success? out of the endless ore of deep desire to coin the utmost gold of passionate memory; to have lived so well that the fifth moon, when it swims up once more through orchard boughs where mating orioles build and apple flowers unfold, find not of that dear need that all things tell the heart unburdened nor the arms unfilled. o love, whereof my boyhood was the dream, my youth the beautiful novitiate, life was so slight a thing and thou so great, how could i make thee less than all-supreme! in thy sweet transports not alone i thought mingled the twain that panted breast to breast. the sun and stars throbbed with them; they were caught into the pulse of nature and possessed by the same light that consecrates it so. love!--'tis the payment of the debt we owe the beauty of the world, and whensoe'er in silks and perfume and unloosened hair the loveliness of lovers, face to face, lies folded in the adorable embrace, doubt not as of a perfect sacrifice that soul partakes whose inspiration fills the springtime and the depth of summer skies, the rainbow and the clouds behind the hills, that excellence in earth and air and sea that makes things as they are the real divinity. thirty sonnets: sonnet i down the strait vistas where a city street fades in pale dust and vaporous distances, stained with far fumes the light grows less and less and the sky reddens round the day's retreat. now out of orient chambers, cool and sweet, like nature's pure lustration, dusk comes down. now the lamps brighten and the quickening town rings with the trample of returning feet. and pleasure, risen from her own warm mould sunk all the drowsy and unloved daylight in layers of odorous softness, paphian girls cover with gauze, with satin, and with pearls, crown, and about her spangly vestments fold the ermine of the empire of the night. sonnet ii her courts are by the flux of flaming ways, between the rivers and the illumined sky whose fervid depths reverberate from on high fierce lustres mingled in a fiery haze. they mark it inland; blithe and fair of face her suitors follow, guessing by the glare beyond the hilltops in the evening air how bright the cressets at her portals blaze. on the pure fronts defeat ere many a day falls like the soot and dirt on city-snow; there hopes deferred lie sunk in piteous seams. her paths are disillusion and decay, with ruins piled and unapparent woe, the graves of beauty and the wreck of dreams. sonnet iii there was a youth around whose early way white angels hung in converse and sweet choir, teaching in summer clouds his thought to stray, -- in cloud and far horizon to desire. his life was nursed in beauty, like the stream born of clear showers and the mountain dew, close under snow-clad summits where they gleam forever pure against heaven's orient blue. within the city's shades he walked at last. faint and more faint in sad recessional down the dim corridors of time outworn, a chorus ebbed from that forsaken past, a hymn of glories fled beyond recall with the lost heights and splendor of life's morn. sonnet iv up at his attic sill the south wind came and days of sun and storm but never peace. along the town's tumultuous arteries he heard the heart-throbs of a sentient frame: each night the whistles in the bay, the same whirl of incessant wheels and clanging cars: for smoke that half obscured, the circling stars burnt like his youth with but a sickly flame. up to his attic came the city cries -- the throes with which her iron sinews heave -- and yet forever behind prison doors welled in his heart and trembled in his eyes the light that hangs on desert hills at eve and tints the sea on solitary shores. . . . sonnet v a tide of beauty with returning may floods the fair city; from warm pavements fume odors endeared; down avenues in bloom the chestnut-trees with phallic spires are gay. over the terrace flows the thronged cafe; the boulevards are streams of hurrying sound; and through the streets, like veins when they abound, the lust for pleasure throbs itself away. here let me live, here let me still pursue phantoms of bliss that beckon and recede, -- thy strange allurements, city that i love, maze of romance, where i have followed too the dream youth treasures of its dearest need and stars beyond thy towers bring tidings of. sonnet vi give me the treble of thy horns and hoofs, the ponderous undertones of 'bus and tram, a garret and a glimpse across the roofs of clouds blown eastward over notre dame, the glad-eyed streets and radiant gatherings where i drank deep the bliss of being young, the strife and sweet potential flux of things i sought youth's dream of happiness among! it walks here aureoled with the city-light, forever through the myriad-featured mass flaunting not far its fugitive embrace, -- heard sometimes in a song across the night, caught in a perfume from the crowds that pass, and when love yields to love seen face to face. sonnet vii to me, a pilgrim on that journey bound whose stations beauty's bright examples are, as of a silken city famed afar over the sands for wealth and holy ground, came the report of one--a woman crowned with all perfection, blemishless and high, as the full moon amid the moonlit sky, with the world's praise and wonder clad around. and i who held this notion of success: to leave no form of nature's loveliness unworshipped, if glad eyes have access there, -- beyond all earthly bounds have made my goal to find where that sweet shrine is and extol the hand that triumphed in a work so fair. sonnet viii oft as by chance, a little while apart the pall of empty, loveless hours withdrawn, sweet beauty, opening on the impoverished heart, beams like the jewel on the breast of dawn: not though high heaven should rend would deeper awe fill me than penetrates my spirit thus, nor all those signs the patmian prophet saw seem a new heaven and earth so marvelous; but, clad thenceforth in iridescent dyes, the fair world glistens, and in after days the memory of kind lips and laughing eyes lives in my step and lightens all my face, -- so they who found the earthly paradise still breathed, returned, of that sweet, joyful place. sonnet ix amid the florid multitude her face was like the full moon seen behind the lace of orchard boughs where clouded blossoms part when spring shines in the world and in the heart. as the full-moon-beams to the ferny floor of summer woods through flower and foliage pour, so to my being's innermost recess flooded the light of so much loveliness; she held as in a vase of priceless ware the wine that over arid ways and bare my youth was the pathetic thirsting for, and where she moved the veil of nature grew diaphanous and that radiance mantled through which, when i see, i tremble and adore. sonnet x a splendor, flamelike, born to be pursued, with palms extent for amorous charity and eyes incensed with love for all they see, a wonder more to be adored than wooed, on whom the grace of conscious womanhood adorning every little thing she does sits like enchantment, making glorious a careless pose, a casual attitude; around her lovely shoulders mantle-wise hath come the realm of those old fabulous queens whose storied loves are art's rich heritage, to keep alive in this our latter age that force that moving through sweet beauty's means lifts up man's soul to towering enterprise. sonnet xi * a paraphrase of petrarca, 'quando fra l'altre donne . . .' when among creatures fair of countenance love comes enformed in such proud character, so far as other beauty yields to her, so far the breast with fiercer longing pants; i bless the spot, and hour, and circumstance, that wed desire to a thing so high, and say, glad soul, rejoice, for thou and i of bliss unpaired are made participants; hence have come ardent thoughts and waking dreams that, feeding fancy from so sweet a cup, leave it no lust for gross imaginings. through her the woman's perfect beauty gleams that while it gazes lifts the spirit up to that high source from which all beauty springs. sonnet xii like as a dryad, from her native bole coming at dusk, when the dim stars emerge, to a slow river at whose silent verge tall poplars tremble and deep grasses roll, come thou no less and, kneeling in a shoal of the freaked flag and meadow buttercup, bend till thine image from the pool beam up arched with blue heaven like an aureole. see how adorable in fancy then lives the fair face it mirrors even so, o thou whose beauty moving among men is like the wind's way on the woods below, filling all nature where its pathway lies with arms that supplicate and trembling sighs. sonnet xiii i fancied, while you stood conversing there, superb, in every attitude a queen, her ermine thus boadicea bare, so moved amid the multitude faustine. my life, whose whole religion beauty is, be charged with sin if ever before yours a lesser feeling crossed my mind than his who owning grandeur marvels and adores. nay, rather in my dream-world's ivory tower i made your image the high pearly sill, and mounting there in many a wistful hour, burdened with love, i trembled and was still, seeing discovered from that azure height remote, untrod horizons of delight. sonnet xiv it may be for the world of weeds and tares and dearth in nature of sweet beauty's rose that oft as fortune from ten thousand shows one from the train of love's true courtiers straightway on him who gazes, unawares, deep wonder seizes and swift trembling grows, reft by that sight of purpose and repose, hardly its weight his fainting breast upbears. then on the soul from some ancestral place floods back remembrance of its heavenly birth, when, in the light of that serener sphere, it saw ideal beauty face to face that through the forms of this our meaner earth shines with a beam less steadfast and less clear. sonnet xv above the ruin of god's holy place, where man-forsaken lay the bleeding rood, whose hands, when men had craved substantial food, gave not, nor folded when they cried, embrace, i saw exalted in the latter days her whom west winds with natal foam bedewed, wafted toward cyprus, lily-breasted, nude, standing with arms out-stretched and flower-like face. and, sick with all those centuries of tears shed in the penance for factitious woe, once more i saw the nations at her feet, for love shone in their eyes, and in their ears come unto me, love beckoned them, for lo! the breast your lips abjured is still as sweet. sonnet xvi who shall invoke her, who shall be her priest, with single rites the common debt to pay? on some green headland fronting to the east our fairest boy shall kneel at break of day. naked, uplifting in a laden tray new milk and honey and sweet-tinctured wine, not without twigs of clustering apple-spray to wreath a garland for our lady's shrine. the morning planet poised above the sea shall drop sweet influence through her drowsing lid; dew-drenched, his delicate virginity shall scarce disturb the flowers he kneels amid, that, waked so lightly, shall lift up their eyes, cushion his knees, and nod between his thighs. kyrenaikos lay me where soft cyrene rambles down in grove and garden to the sapphire sea; twine yellow roses for the drinker's crown; let music reach and fair heads circle me, watching blue ocean where the white sails steer fruit-laden forth or with the wares and news of merchant cities seek our harbors here, careless how corinth fares, how syracuse; but here, with love and sleep in her caress, warm night shall sink and utterly persuade the gentle doctrine aristippus bare, -- night-winds, and one whose white youth's loveliness, in a flowered balcony beside me laid, dreams, with the starlight on her fragrant hair. antinous stretched on a sunny bank he lay at rest, ferns at his elbow, lilies round his knees, with sweet flesh patterned where the cool turf pressed, flowerlike crept o'er with emerald aphides. single he couched there, to his circling flocks piping at times some happy shepherd's tune, nude, with the warm wind in his golden locks, and arched with the blue asian afternoon. past him, gorse-purpled, to the distant coast rolled the clear foothills. there his white-walled town, there, a blue band, the placid euxine lay. beyond, on fields of azure light embossed he watched from noon till dewy eve came down the summer clouds pile up and fade away. vivien her eyes under their lashes were blue pools fringed round with lilies; her bright hair unfurled clothed her as sunshine clothes the summer world. her robes were gauzes--gold and green and gules, all furry things flocked round her, from her hand nibbling their foods and fawning at her feet. two peacocks watched her where she made her seat beside a fountain in broceliande. sometimes she sang. . . . whoever heard forgot errand and aim, and knights at noontide here, riding from fabulous gestes beyond the seas, would follow, tranced, and seek . . . and find her not . . . but wake that night, lost, by some woodland mere, powdered with stars and rimmed with silent trees. i loved . . . i loved illustrious cities and the crowds that eddy through their incandescent nights. i loved remote horizons with far clouds girdled, and fringed about with snowy heights. i loved fair women, their sweet, conscious ways of wearing among hands that covet and plead the rose ablossom at the rainbow's base that bounds the world's desire and all its need. nature i worshipped, whose fecundity embraces every vision the most fair, of perfect benediction. from a boy i gloated on existence. earth to me seemed all-sufficient and my sojourn there one trembling opportunity for joy. virginibus puerisque . . . i care not that one listen if he lives for aught but life's romance, nor puts above all life's necessities the need to love, nor counts his greatest wealth what beauty gives. but sometime on an afternoon in spring, when dandelions dot the fields with gold, and under rustling shade a few weeks old 'tis sweet to stroll and hear the bluebirds sing, do you, blond head, whom beauty and the power of being young and winsome have prepared for life's last privilege that really pays, make the companion of an idle hour these relics of the time when i too fared across the sweet fifth lustrum of my days. with a copy of shakespeare's sonnets on leaving college as one of some fat tillage dispossessed, weighing the yield of these four faded years, if any ask what fruit seems loveliest, what lasting gold among the garnered ears, -- ah, then i'll say what hours i had of thine, therein i reaped time's richest revenue, read in thy text the sense of david's line, through thee achieved the love that shakespeare knew. take then his book, laden with mine own love as flowers made sweeter by deep-drunken rain, that when years sunder and between us move wide waters, and less kindly bonds constrain, thou may'st turn here, dear boy, and reading see some part of what thy friend once felt for thee. written in a volume of the comtesse de noailles be my companion under cool arcades that frame some drowsy street and dazzling square beyond whose flowers and palm-tree promenades white belfries burn in the blue tropic air. lie near me in dim forests where the croon of wood-doves sounds and moss-banked water flows, or musing late till the midsummer moon breaks through some ruined abbey's empty rose. sweetest of those to-day whose pious hands tend the sequestered altar of romance, where fewer offerings burn, and fewer kneel, pour there your passionate beauty on my heart, and, gladdening such solitudes, impart how sweet the fellowship of those who feel! coucy the rooks aclamor when one enters here startle the empty towers far overhead; through gaping walls the summer fields appear, green, tan, or, poppy-mingled, tinged with red. the courts where revel rang deep grass and moss cover, and tangled vines have overgrown the gate where banners blazoned with a cross rolled forth to toss round tyre and ascalon. decay consumes it. the old causes fade. and fretting for the contest many a heart waits their tyrtaeus to chant on the new. oh, pass him by who, in this haunted shade musing enthralled, has only this much art, to love the things the birds and flowers love too. tezcotzinco though thou art now a ruin bare and cold, thou wert sometime the garden of a king. the birds have sought a lovelier place to sing. the flowers are few. it was not so of old. it was not thus when hand in hand there strolled through arbors perfumed with undying spring bare bodies beautiful, brown, glistening, decked with green plumes and rings of yellow gold. do you suppose the herdsman sometimes hears vague echoes borne beneath the moon's pale ray from those old, old, far-off, forgotten years? who knows? here where his ancient kings held sway he stands. their names are strangers to his ears. even their memory has passed away. the old lowe house, staten island another prospect pleased the builder's eye, and fashion tenanted (where fashion wanes) here in the sorrowful suburban lanes when first these gables rose against the sky. relic of a romantic taste gone by, this stately monument alone remains, vacant, with lichened walls and window-panes blank as the windows of a skull. but i, on evenings when autumnal winds have stirred in the porch-vines, to this gray oracle have laid a wondering ear and oft-times heard, as from the hollow of a stranded shell, old voices echoing (or my fancy erred) things indistinct, but not insensible. oneata a hilltop sought by every soothing breeze that loves the melody of murmuring boughs, cool shades, green acreage, and antique house fronting the ocean and the dawn; than these old monks built never for the spirit's ease cloisters more calm--not cluny nor clairvaux; sweet are the noises from the bay below, and cuckoos calling in the tulip-trees. here, a yet empty suitor in thy train, beloved poesy, great joy was mine to while a listless spell of summer days, happier than hoarder in each evening's gain, when evenings found me richer by one line, one verse well turned, or serviceable phrase. on the cliffs, newport tonight a shimmer of gold lies mantled o'er smooth lovely ocean. through the lustrous gloom a savor steals from linden trees in bloom and gardens ranged at many a palace door. proud walls rise here, and, where the moonbeams pour their pale enchantment down the dim coast-line, terrace and lawn, trim hedge and flowering vine, crown with fair culture all the sounding shore. how sweet, to such a place, on such a night, from halls with beauty and festival a-glare, to come distract and, stretched on the cool turf, yield to some fond, improbable delight, while the moon, reddening, sinks, and all the air sighs with the muffled tumult of the surf! to england at the outbreak of the balkan war a cloud has lowered that shall not soon pass o'er. the world takes sides: whether for impious aims with tyranny whose bloody toll enflames a generous people to heroic war; whether with freedom, stretched in her own gore, whose pleading hands and suppliant distress still offer hearts that thirst for righteousness a glorious cause to strike or perish for. england, which side is thine? thou hast had sons would shrink not from the choice however grim, were justice trampled on and courage downed; which will they be--cravens or champions? oh, if a doubt intrude, remember him whose death made missolonghi holy ground. at the tomb of napoleon before the elections in america--november, i stood beside his sepulchre whose fame, hurled over europe once on bolt and blast, now glows far off as storm-clouds overpast glow in the sunset flushed with glorious flame. has nature marred his mould? can art acclaim no hero now, no man with whom men side as with their hearts' high needs personified? there are will say, one such our lips could name; columbia gave him birth. him genius most gifted to rule. against the world's great man lift their low calumny and sneering cries the pharisaic multitude, the host of piddling slanderers whose little eyes know not what greatness is and never can. the rendezvous he faints with hope and fear. it is the hour. distant, across the thundering organ-swell, in sweet discord from the cathedral-tower, fall the faint chimes and the thrice-sequent bell. over the crowd his eye uneasy roves. he sees a plume, a fur; his heart dilates -- soars . . . and then sinks again. it is not hers he loves. she will not come, the woman that he waits. braided with streams of silver incense rise the antique prayers and ponderous antiphones. 'gloria patri' echoes to the skies; 'nunc et in saecula' the choir intones. he marks not the monotonous refrain, the priest that serves nor him that celebrates, but ever scans the aisle for his blonde head. . . . in vain! she will not come, the woman that he waits. how like a flower seemed the perfumed place where the sweet flesh lay loveliest to kiss; and her white hands in what delicious ways, with what unfeigned caresses, answered his! each tender charm intolerable to lose, each happy scene his fancy recreates. and he calls out her name and spreads his arms . . . no use! she will not come, the woman that he waits. but the long vespers close. the priest on high raises the thing that christ's own flesh enforms; and down the gothic nave the crowd flows by and through the portal's carven entry swarms. maddened he peers upon each passing face till the long drab procession terminates. no princess passes out with proud majestic pace. she has not come, the woman that he waits. back in the empty silent church alone he walks with aching heart. a white-robed boy puts out the altar-candles one by one, even as by inches darkens all his joy. he dreams of the sweet night their lips first met, and groans--and turns to leave--and hesitates . . . poor stricken heart, he will, he can not fancy yet she will not come, the woman that he waits. but in an arch where deepest shadows fall he sits and studies the old, storied panes, and the calm crucifix that from the wall looks on a world that quavers and complains. hopeless, abandoned, desolate, aghast, on modes of violent death he meditates. and the tower-clock tolls five, and he admits at last, she will not come, the woman that he waits. through the stained rose the winter daylight dies, and all the tide of anguish unrepressed swells in his throat and gathers in his eyes; he kneels and bows his head upon his breast, and feigns a prayer to hide his burning tears, while the satanic voice reiterates 'tonight, tomorrow, nay, nor all the impending years, she will not come,' the woman that he waits. fond, fervent heart of life's enamored spring, so true, so confident, so passing fair, that thought of love as some sweet, tender thing, and not as war, red tooth and nail laid bare, how in that hour its innocence was slain, how from that hour our disillusion dates, when first we learned thy sense, ironical refrain, she will not come, the woman that he waits. do you remember once . . . i do you remember once, in paris of glad faces, the night we wandered off under the third moon's rays and, leaving far behind bright streets and busy places, stood where the seine flowed down between its quiet quais? the city's voice was hushed; the placid, lustrous waters mirrored the walls across where orange windows burned. out of the starry south provoking rumors brought us far promise of the spring already northward turned. and breast drew near to breast, and round its soft desire my arm uncertain stole and clung there unrepelled. i thought that nevermore my heart would hover nigher to the last flower of bliss that nature's garden held. there, in your beauty's sweet abandonment to pleasure, the mute, half-open lips and tender, wondering eyes, i saw embodied first smile back on me the treasure long sought across the seas and back of summer skies. dear face, when courted death shall claim my limbs and find them laid in some desert place, alone or where the tides of war's tumultuous waves on the wet sands behind them leave rifts of gasping life when their red flood subsides, out of the past's remote delirious abysses shine forth once more as then you shone,--beloved head, laid back in ecstasy between our blinding kisses, transfigured with the bliss of being so coveted. and my sick arms will part, and though hot fever sear it, my mouth will curve again with the old, tender flame. and darkness will come down, still finding in my spirit the dream of your brief love, and on my lips your name. ii you loved me on that moonlit night long since. you were my queen and i the charming prince elected from a world of mortal men. you loved me once. . . . what pity was it, then, you loved not love. . . . deep in the emerald west, like a returning caravel caressed by breezes that load all the ambient airs with clinging fragrance of the bales it bears from harbors where the caravans come down, i see over the roof-tops of the town the new moon back again, but shall not see the joy that once it had in store for me, nor know again the voice upon the stair, the little studio in the candle-glare, and all that makes in word and touch and glance the bliss of the first nights of a romance when will to love and be beloved casts out the want to question or the will to doubt. you loved me once. . . . under the western seas the pale moon settles and the pleiades. the firelight sinks; outside the night-winds moan -- the hour advances, and i sleep alone.* -- * <greek> d|/eduke m|\en |'a sel|/anna ka|\i plh|/iadec, m|/essai de n|/uktec, p|/ara d' |'/erxet' |'/wra |'/egw de m|/ona kate|/udw. <endgreek>--sappho. <see appendix for an ascii to greek mapping.> -- iii farewell, dear heart, enough of vain despairing! if i have erred i plead but one excuse -- the jewel were a lesser joy in wearing that cost a lesser agony to lose. i had not bid for beautifuller hours had i not found the door so near unsealed, nor hoped, had you not filled my arms with flowers, for that one flower that bloomed too far afield. if i have wept, it was because, forsaken, i felt perhaps more poignantly than some the blank eternity from which we waken and all the blank eternity to come. and i betrayed how sweet a thing and tender (in the regret with which my lip was curled) seemed in its tragic, momentary splendor my transit through the beauty of the world. the bayadere flaked, drifting clouds hide not the full moon's rays more than her beautiful bright limbs were hid by the light veils they burned and blushed amid, skilled to provoke in soft, lascivious ways, and there was invitation in her voice and laughing lips and wonderful dark eyes, as though above the gates of paradise fair verses bade, be welcome and rejoice! o'er rugs where mottled blue and green and red blent in the patterns of the orient loom, like a bright butterfly from bloom to bloom, she floated with delicious arms outspread. there was no pose she took, no move she made, but all the feverous, love-envenomed flesh wrapped round as in the gladiator's mesh and smote as with his triple-forked blade. i thought that round her sinuous beauty curled fierce exhalations of hot human love, -- around her beauty valuable above the sunny outspread kingdoms of the world; flowing as ever like a dancing fire flowed her belled ankles and bejewelled wrists, around her beauty swept like sanguine mists the nimbus of a thousand hearts' desire. eudaemon o happiness, i know not what far seas, blue hills and deep, thy sunny realms surround, that thus in music's wistful harmonies and concert of sweet sound a rumor steals, from some uncertain shore, of lovely things outworn or gladness yet in store: whether thy beams be pitiful and come, across the sundering of vanished years, from childhood and the happy fields of home, like eyes instinct with tears felt through green brakes of hedge and apple-bough round haunts delightful once, desert and silent now; or yet if prescience of unrealized love startle the breast with each melodious air, and gifts that gentle hands are donors of still wait intact somewhere, furled up all golden in a perfumed place within the folded petals of forthcoming days. only forever, in the old unrest of winds and waters and the varying year, a litany from islands of the blessed answers, not here . . . not here! and over the wide world that wandering cry shall lead my searching heart unsoothed until i die. broceliande broceliande! in the perilous beauty of silence and menacing shade, thou art set on the shores of the sea down the haze of horizons untravelled, unscanned. untroubled, untouched with the woes of this world are the moon-marshalled hosts that invade broceliande. only at dusk, when lavender clouds in the orient twilight disband, vanishing where all the blue afternoon they have drifted in solemn parade, sometimes a whisper comes down on the wind from the valleys of fairyland ---- sometimes an echo most mournful and faint like the horn of a huntsman strayed, faint and forlorn, half drowned in the murmur of foliage fitfully fanned, breathes in a burden of nameless regret till i startle, disturbed and affrayed: broceliande -- broceliande -- broceliande. . . . lyonesse in lyonesse was beauty enough, men say: long summer loaded the orchards to excess, and fertile lowlands lengthening far away, in lyonesse. came a term to that land's old favoredness: past the sea-walls, crumbled in thundering spray, rolled the green waves, ravening, merciless. through bearded boughs immobile in cool decay, where sea-bloom covers corroding palaces, the mermaid glides with a curious glance to-day, in lyonesse. tithonus so when the verdure of his life was shed, with all the grace of ripened manlihead, and on his locks, but now so lovable, old age like desolating winter fell, leaving them white and flowerless and forlorn: then from his bed the goddess of the morn softly withheld, yet cherished him no less with pious works of pitying tenderness; till when at length with vacant, heedless eyes, and hoary height bent down none otherwise than burdened willows bend beneath their weight of snow when winter winds turn temperate, -- so bowed with years--when still he lingered on: then to the daughter of hyperion this counsel seemed the best: for she, afar by dove-gray seas under the morning star, where, on the wide world's uttermost extremes, her amber-walled, auroral palace gleams, high in an orient chamber bade prepare an everlasting couch, and laid him there, and leaving, closed the shining doors. but he, deathless by jove's compassionless decree, found not, as others find, a dreamless rest. there wakeful, with half-waking dreams oppressed, still in an aural, visionary haze float round him vanished forms of happier days; still at his side he fancies to behold the rosy, radiant thing beloved of old; and oft, as over dewy meads at morn, far inland from a sunrise coast is borne the drowsy, muffled moaning of the sea, even so his voice flows on unceasingly, -- lisping sweet names of passion overblown, breaking with dull, persistent undertone the breathless silence that forever broods round those colossal, lustrous solitudes. times change. man's fortune prospers, or it falls. change harbors not in those eternal halls and tranquil chamber where tithonus lies. but through his window there the eastern skies fall palely fair to the dim ocean's end. there, in blue mist where air and ocean blend, the lazy clouds that sail the wide world o'er falter and turn where they can sail no more. there singing groves, there spacious gardens blow -- cedars and silver poplars, row on row, through whose black boughs on her appointed night, flooding his chamber with enchanted light, lifts the full moon's immeasurable sphere, crimson and huge and wonderfully near. an ode to antares at dusk, when lowlands where dark waters glide robe in gray mist, and through the greening hills the hoot-owl calls his mate, and whippoorwills clamor from every copse and orchard-side, i watched the red star rising in the east, and while his fellows of the flaming sign from prisoning daylight more and more released, lift their pale lamps, and, climbing higher, higher, out of their locks the waters of the line shaking in clouds of phosphorescent fire, rose in the splendor of their curving flight, their dolphin leap across the austral night, from windows southward opening on the sea what eyes, i wondered, might be watching, too, orbed in some blossom-laden balcony. where, from the garden to the rail above, as though a lover's greeting to his love should borrow body and form and hue and tower in torrents of floral flame, the crimson bougainvillea grew, what starlit brow uplifted to the same majestic regress of the summering sky, what ultimate thing--hushed, holy, throned as high above the currents that tarnish and profane as silver summits are whose pure repose no curious eyes disclose nor any footfalls stain, but round their beauty on azure evenings only the oreads go on gauzy wings, only the oreads troop with dance and song and airy beings in rainbow mists who throng out of those wonderful worlds that lie afar betwixt the outmost cloud and the nearest star. like the moon, sanguine in the orient night shines the red flower in her beautiful hair. her breasts are distant islands of delight upon a sea where all is soft and fair. those robes that make a silken sheath for each lithe attitude that flows beneath, shrouding in scented folds sweet warmths and tumid flowers, call them far clouds that half emerge beyond a sunset ocean's utmost verge, hiding in purple shade and downpour of soft showers enchanted isles by mortal foot untrod, and there in humid dells resplendent orchids nod; there always from serene horizons blow soul-easing gales and there all spice-trees grow that phoenix robbed to line his fragrant nest each hundred years in araby the blest. star of the south that now through orient mist at nightfall off tampico or belize greetest the sailor rising from those seas where first in me, a fond romanticist, the tropic sunset's bloom on cloudy piles cast out industrious cares with dreams of fabulous isles -- thou lamp of the swart lover to his tryst, o'er planted acres at the jungle's rim reeking with orange-flower and tuberose, dear to his eyes thy ruddy splendor glows among the palms where beauty waits for him; bliss too thou bringst to our greening north, red scintillant through cherry-blossom rifts, herald of summer-heat, and all the gifts and all the joys a summer can bring forth ---- be thou my star, for i have made my aim to follow loveliness till autumn-strown sunder the sinews of this flower-like frame as rose-leaves sunder when the bud is blown. ay, sooner spirit and sense disintegrate than reconcilement to a common fate strip the enchantment from a world so dressed in hues of high romance. i cannot rest while aught of beauty in any path untrod swells into bloom and spreads sweet charms abroad unworshipped of my love. i cannot see in life's profusion and passionate brevity how hearts enamored of life can strain too much in one long tension to hear, to see, to touch. now on each rustling night-wind from the south far music calls; beyond the harbor mouth each outbound argosy with sail unfurled may point the path through this fortuitous world that holds the heart from its desire. away! where tinted coast-towns gleam at close of day, where squares are sweet with bells, or shores thick set with bloom and bower, with mosque and minaret. blue peaks loom up beyond the coast-plains here, white roads wind up the dales and disappear, by silvery waters in the plains afar glimmers the inland city like a star, with gilded gates and sunny spires ablaze and burnished domes half-seen through luminous haze, lo, with what opportunity earth teems! how like a fair its ample beauty seems! fluttering with flags its proud pavilions rise: what bright bazaars, what marvelous merchandise, down seething alleys what melodious din, what clamor importuning from every booth! at earth's great market where joy is trafficked in buy while thy purse yet swells with golden youth! translations dante. inferno, canto xxvi florence, rejoice! for thou o'er land and sea so spread'st thy pinions that the fame of thee hath reached no less into the depths of hell. so noble were the five i found to dwell therein--thy sons--whence shame accrues to me and no great praise is thine; but if it be that truth unveil in dreamings before dawn, then is the vengeful hour not far withdrawn when prato shall exult within her walls to see thy suffering. whate'er befalls, let it come soon, since come it must, for later, each year would see my grief for thee the greater. we left; and once more up the craggy side by the blind steps of our descent, my guide, remounting, drew me on. so we pursued the rugged path through that steep solitude, where rocks and splintered fragments strewed the land so thick, that foot availed not without hand. grief filled me then, and still great sorrow stirs my heart as oft as memory recurs to what i saw; that more and more i rein my natural powers, and curb them lest they strain where virtue guide not,--that if some good star, or better thing, have made them what they are, that good i may not grudge, nor turn to ill. as when, reclining on some verdant hill -- what season the hot sun least veils his power that lightens all, and in that gloaming hour the fly resigns to the shrill gnat--even then, as rustic, looking down, sees, o'er the glen, vineyard, or tilth where lies his husbandry, fireflies innumerable sparkle: so to me, come where its mighty depth unfolded, straight with flames no fewer seemed to scintillate the shades of the eighth pit. and as to him whose wrongs the bears avenged, dim and more dim elijah's chariot seemed, when to the skies uprose the heavenly steeds; and still his eyes strained, following them, till naught remained in view but flame, like a thin cloud against the blue: so here, the melancholy gulf within, wandered these flames, concealing each its sin, yet each, a fiery integument, wrapped round a sinner. on the bridge intent, gazing i stood, and grasped its flinty side, or else, unpushed, had fallen. and my guide, observing me so moved, spake, saying: "behold where swathed each in his unconsuming fold, the spirits lie confined." whom answering, "master," i said, "thy words assurance bring to that which i already had supposed; and i was fain to ask who lies enclosed in the embrace of that dividing fire, which seems to curl above the fabled pyre, where with his twin-born brother, fiercely hated, eteocles was laid." he answered, "mated in punishment as once in wrath they were, ulysses there and diomed incur the eternal pains; there groaning they deplore the ambush of the horse, which made the door for rome's imperial seed to issue: there in anguish too they wail the fatal snare whence dead deidamia still must grieve, reft of achilles; likewise they receive due penalty for the palladium." "master," i said, "if in that martyrdom the power of human speech may still be theirs, i pray--and think it worth a thousand prayers -- that, till this horned flame be come more nigh, we may abide here; for thou seest that i with great desire incline to it." and he: "thy prayer deserves great praise; which willingly i grant; but thou refrain from speaking; leave that task to me; for fully i conceive what thing thou wouldst, and it might fall perchance that these, being greeks, would scorn thine utterance." so when the flame had come where time and place seemed not unfitting to my guide with grace to question, thus he spoke at my desire: "o ye that are two souls within one fire, if in your eyes some merit i have won -- merit, or more or less--for tribute done when in the world i framed my lofty verse: move not; but fain were we that one rehearse by what strange fortunes to his death he came." the elder crescent of the antique flame began to wave, as in the upper air a flame is tempest-tortured, here and there tossing its angry height, and in its sound as human speech it suddenly had found, rolled forth a voice of thunder, saying: "when, the twelvemonth past in circe's halls, again i left gaeta's strand (ere thither came aeneas, and had given it that name) not love of son, nor filial reverence, nor that affection that might recompense the weary vigil of penelope, could so far quench the hot desire in me to prove more wonders of the teeming earth, -- of human frailty and of manly worth. in one small bark, and with the faithful band that all awards had shared of fortune's hand, i launched once more upon the open main. both shores i visited as far as spain, -- sardinia, and morocco, and what more the midland sea upon its bosom wore. the hour of our lives was growing late when we arrived before that narrow strait where hercules had set his bounds to show that there man's foot shall pause, and further none shall go. borne with the gale past seville on the right, and on the left now swept by ceuta's site, 'brothers,' i cried, 'that into the far west through perils numberless are now addressed, in this brief respite that our mortal sense yet hath, shrink not from new experience; but sailing still against the setting sun, seek we new worlds where man has never won before us. ponder your proud destinies: born were ye not like brutes for swinish ease, but virtue and high knowledge to pursue.' my comrades with such zeal did i imbue by these brief words, that scarcely could i then have turned them from their purpose; so again we set out poop against the morning sky, and made our oars as wings wherewith to fly into the unknown. and ever from the right our course deflecting, in the balmy night all southern stars we saw, and ours so low, that scarce above the sea-marge it might show. so five revolving periods the soft, pale light had robbed of cynthia, and as oft replenished since our start, when far and dim over the misty ocean's utmost rim, rose a great mountain, that for very height passed any i had seen. boundless delight filled us--alas, and quickly turned to dole: for, springing from our scarce-discovered goal, a whirlwind struck the ship; in circles three it whirled us helpless in the eddying sea; high on the fourth the fragile stern uprose, the bow drove down, and, as another chose, over our heads we heard the surging billows close." ariosto. orlando furioso, canto x, - ruggiero, to amaze the british host, and wake more wonder in their wondering ranks, the bridle of his winged courser loosed, and clapped his spurs into the creature's flanks; high in the air, even to the topmost banks of crudded cloud, uprose the flying horse, and now above the welsh, and now the manx, and now across the sea he shaped his course, till gleaming far below lay erin's emerald shores. there round hibernia's fabled realm he coasted, where the old saint had left the holy cave, sought for the famous virtue that it boasted to purge the sinful visitor and save. thence back returning over land and wave, ruggiero came where the blue currents flow, the shores of lesser brittany to lave, and, looking down while sailing to and fro, he saw angelica chained to the rock below. 'twas on the island of complaint--well named, for there to that inhospitable shore, a savage people, cruel and untamed, brought the rich prize of many a hateful war. to feed a monster that bestead them sore, they of fair ladies those that loveliest shone, of tender maidens they the tenderest bore, and, drowned in tears and making piteous moan, left for that ravening beast, chained on the rocks alone. thither transported by enchanter's art, angelica from dreams most innocent (as the tale mentioned in another part) awoke, the victim for that sad event. beauty so rare, nor birth so excellent, nor tears that make sweet beauty lovelier still, could turn that people from their harsh intent. alas, what temper is conceived so ill but, pity moving not, love's soft enthralment will? on the cold granite at the ocean's rim these folk had chained her fast and gone their way; fresh in the softness of each delicate limb the pity of their bruising violence lay. over her beauty, from the eye of day to hide its pleading charms, no veil was thrown. only the fragments of the salt sea-spray rose from the churning of the waves, wind-blown, to dash upon a whiteness creamier than their own. carved out of candid marble without flaw, or alabaster blemishless and rare, ruggiero might have fancied what he saw, for statue-like it seemed, and fastened there by craft of cunningest artificer; save in the wistful eyes ruggiero thought a teardrop gleamed, and with the rippling hair the ocean breezes played as if they sought in its loose depths to hide that which her hand might not. pity and wonder and awakening love strove in the bosom of the moorish knight. down from his soaring in the skies above he urged the tenor of his courser's flight. fairer with every foot of lessening height shone the sweet prisoner. with tightening reins he drew more nigh, and gently as he might: "o lady, worthy only of the chains with which his bounden slaves the god of love constrains, "and least for this or any ill designed, oh, what unnatural and perverted race could the sweet flesh with flushing stricture bind, and leave to suffer in this cold embrace that the warm arms so hunger to replace?" into the damsel's cheeks such color flew as by the alchemy of ancient days if whitest ivory should take the hue of coral where it blooms deep in the liquid blue. nor yet so tightly drawn the cruel chains clasped the slim ankles and the wounded hands, but with soft, cringing attitudes in vain she strove to shield her from that ardent glance. so, clinging to the walls of some old manse, the rose-vine strives to shield her tender flowers, when the rude wind, as autumn weeks advance, beats on the walls and whirls about the towers and spills at every blast her pride in piteous showers. and first for choking sobs she might not speak, and then, "alas!" she cried, "ah, woe is me!" and more had said in accents faint and weak, pleading for succor and sweet liberty. but hark! across the wide ways of the sea rose of a sudden such a fierce affray that any but the brave had turned to flee. ruggiero, turning, looked. to his dismay, lo, where the monster came to claim his quivering prey! on a theme in the greek anthology thy petals yet are closely curled, rose of the world, around their scented, golden core; nor yet has summer purpled o'er thy tender clusters that begin to swell within the dewy vine-leaves' early screen of sheltering green. o hearts that are love's helpless prey, while yet you may, fly, ere the shaft is on the string! the fire that now is smouldering shall be the conflagration soon whose paths are strewn with torment of blanched lips and eyes that agonize. after an epigram of clement marot the lad i was i longer now nor am nor shall be evermore. spring's lovely blossoms from my brow have shed their petals on the floor. thou, love, hast been my lord, thy shrine above all gods' best served by me. dear love, could life again be mine how bettered should that service be! last poems the aisne ( - ) we first saw fire on the tragic slopes where the flood-tide of france's early gain, big with wrecked promise and abandoned hopes, broke in a surf of blood along the aisne. the charge her heroes left us, we assumed, what, dying, they reconquered, we preserved, in the chill trenches, harried, shelled, entombed, winter came down on us, but no man swerved. winter came down on us. the low clouds, torn in the stark branches of the riven pines, blurred the white rockets that from dusk till morn traced the wide curve of the close-grappling lines. in rain, and fog that on the withered hill froze before dawn, the lurking foe drew down; or light snows fell that made forlorner still the ravaged country and the ruined town; or the long clouds would end. intensely fair, the winter constellations blazing forth -- perseus, the twins, orion, the great bear -- gleamed on our bayonets pointing to the north. and the lone sentinel would start and soar on wings of strong emotion as he knew that kinship with the stars that only war is great enough to lift man's spirit to. and ever down the curving front, aglow with the pale rockets' intermittent light, he heard, like distant thunder, growl and grow the rumble of far battles in the night, -- rumors, reverberant, indistinct, remote, borne from red fields whose martial names have won the power to thrill like a far trumpet-note, -- vic, vailly, soupir, hurtelise, craonne . . . craonne, before thy cannon-swept plateau, where like sere leaves lay strewn september's dead, i found for all dear things i forfeited a recompense i would not now forego. for that high fellowship was ours then with those who, championing another's good, more than dull peace or its poor votaries could, taught us the dignity of being men. there we drained deeper the deep cup of life, and on sublimer summits came to learn, after soft things, the terrible and stern, after sweet love, the majesty of strife; there where we faced under those frowning heights the blast that maims, the hurricane that kills; there where the watchlights on the winter hills flickered like balefire through inclement nights; there where, firm links in the unyielding chain, where fell the long-planned blow and fell in vain -- hearts worthy of the honor and the trial, we helped to hold the lines along the aisne. champagne ( - ) in the glad revels, in the happy fetes, when cheeks are flushed, and glasses gilt and pearled with the sweet wine of france that concentrates the sunshine and the beauty of the world, drink sometimes, you whose footsteps yet may tread the undisturbed, delightful paths of earth, to those whose blood, in pious duty shed, hallows the soil where that same wine had birth. here, by devoted comrades laid away, along our lines they slumber where they fell, beside the crater at the ferme d'alger and up the bloody slopes of la pompelle, and round the city whose cathedral towers the enemies of beauty dared profane, and in the mat of multicolored flowers that clothe the sunny chalk-fields of champagne. under the little crosses where they rise the soldier rests. now round him undismayed the cannon thunders, and at night he lies at peace beneath the eternal fusillade. . . . that other generations might possess -- from shame and menace free in years to come -- a richer heritage of happiness, he marched to that heroic martyrdom. esteeming less the forfeit that he paid than undishonored that his flag might float over the towers of liberty, he made his breast the bulwark and his blood the moat. obscurely sacrificed, his nameless tomb, bare of the sculptor's art, the poet's lines, summer shall flush with poppy-fields in bloom, and autumn yellow with maturing vines. there the grape-pickers at their harvesting shall lightly tread and load their wicker trays, blessing his memory as they toil and sing in the slant sunshine of october days. . . . i love to think that if my blood should be so privileged to sink where his has sunk, i shall not pass from earth entirely, but when the banquet rings, when healths are drunk, and faces that the joys of living fill glow radiant with laughter and good cheer, in beaming cups some spark of me shall still brim toward the lips that once i held so dear. so shall one coveting no higher plane than nature clothes in color and flesh and tone, even from the grave put upward to attain the dreams youth cherished and missed and might have known; and that strong need that strove unsatisfied toward earthly beauty in all forms it wore, not death itself shall utterly divide from the beloved shapes it thirsted for. alas, how many an adept for whose arms life held delicious offerings perished here, how many in the prime of all that charms, crowned with all gifts that conquer and endear! honor them not so much with tears and flowers, but you with whom the sweet fulfilment lies, where in the anguish of atrocious hours turned their last thoughts and closed their dying eyes, rather when music on bright gatherings lays its tender spell, and joy is uppermost, be mindful of the men they were, and raise your glasses to them in one silent toast. drink to them--amorous of dear earth as well, they asked no tribute lovelier than this -- and in the wine that ripened where they fell, oh, frame your lips as though it were a kiss. __ champagne, france, july, . the hosts purged, with the life they left, of all that makes life paltry and mean and small, in their new dedication charged with something heightened, enriched, enlarged, that lends a light to their lusty brows and a song to the rhythm of their tramping feet, these are the men that have taken vows, these are the hardy, the flower, the elite, -- these are the men that are moved no more by the will to traffic and grasp and store and ring with pleasure and wealth and love the circles that self is the center of; but they are moved by the powers that force the sea forever to ebb and rise, that hold arcturus in his course, and marshal at noon in tropic skies the clouds that tower on some snow-capped chain and drift out over the peopled plain. they are big with the beauty of cosmic things. mark how their columns surge! they seem to follow the goddess with outspread wings that points toward glory, the soldier's dream. with bayonets bare and flags unfurled, they scale the summits of the world and fade on the farthest golden height in fair horizons full of light. comrades in arms there--friend or foe -- that trod the perilous, toilsome trail through a world of ruin and blood and woe in the years of the great decision--hail! friend or foe, it shall matter nought; this only matters, in fine: we fought. for we were young and in love or strife sought exultation and craved excess: to sound the wildest debauch in life we staked our youth and its loveliness. let idlers argue the right and wrong and weigh what merit our causes had. putting our faith in being strong -- above the level of good and bad -- for us, we battled and burned and killed because evolving nature willed, and it was our pride and boast to be the instruments of destiny. there was a stately drama writ by the hand that peopled the earth and air and set the stars in the infinite and made night gorgeous and morning fair, and all that had sense to reason knew that bloody drama must be gone through. some sat and watched how the action veered -- waited, profited, trembled, cheered -- we saw not clearly nor understood, but yielding ourselves to the masterhand, each in his part as best he could, we played it through as the author planned. maktoob a shell surprised our post one day and killed a comrade at my side. my heart was sick to see the way he suffered as he died. i dug about the place he fell, and found, no bigger than my thumb, a fragment of the splintered shell in warm aluminum. i melted it, and made a mould, and poured it in the opening, and worked it, when the cast was cold, into a shapely ring. and when my ring was smooth and bright, holding it on a rounded stick, for seal, i bade a turco write 'maktoob' in arabic. 'maktoob!' "'tis written!" . . . so they think, these children of the desert, who from its immense expanses drink some of its grandeur too. within the book of destiny, whose leaves are time, whose cover, space, the day when you shall cease to be, the hour, the mode, the place, are marked, they say; and you shall not by taking thought or using wit alter that certain fate one jot, postpone or conjure it. learn to drive fear, then, from your heart. if you must perish, know, o man, 'tis an inevitable part of the predestined plan. and, seeing that through the ebon door once only you may pass, and meet of those that have gone through before the mighty, the elite ---- guard that not bowed nor blanched with fear you enter, but serene, erect, as you would wish most to appear to those you most respect. so die as though your funeral ushered you through the doors that led into a stately banquet hall where heroes banqueted; and it shall all depend therein whether you come as slave or lord, if they acclaim you as their kin or spurn you from their board. so, when the order comes: "attack!" and the assaulting wave deploys, and the heart trembles to look back on life and all its joys; or in a ditch that they seem near to find, and round your shallow trough drop the big shells that you can hear coming a half mile off; when, not to hear, some try to talk, and some to clean their guns, or sing, and some dig deeper in the chalk -- i look upon my ring: and nerves relax that were most tense, and death comes whistling down unheard, as i consider all the sense held in that mystic word. and it brings, quieting like balm my heart whose flutterings have ceased, the resignation and the calm and wisdom of the east. i have a rendezvous with death . . . i have a rendezvous with death at some disputed barricade, when spring comes back with rustling shade and apple-blossoms fill the air -- i have a rendezvous with death when spring brings back blue days and fair. it may be he shall take my hand and lead me into his dark land and close my eyes and quench my breath -- it may be i shall pass him still. i have a rendezvous with death on some scarred slope of battered hill, when spring comes round again this year and the first meadow-flowers appear. god knows 'twere better to be deep pillowed in silk and scented down, where love throbs out in blissful sleep, pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, where hushed awakenings are dear . . . but i've a rendezvous with death at midnight in some flaming town, when spring trips north again this year, and i to my pledged word am true, i shall not fail that rendezvous. sonnets: - sonnet i - sidney, in whom the heyday of romance came to its precious and most perfect flower, whether you tourneyed with victorious lance or brought sweet roundelays to stella's bower, i give myself some credit for the way i have kept clean of what enslaves and lowers, shunned the ideals of our present day and studied those that were esteemed in yours; for, turning from the mob that buys success by sacrificing all life's better part, down the free roads of human happiness i frolicked, poor of purse but light of heart, and lived in strict devotion all along to my three idols--love and arms and song. - sonnet ii - not that i always struck the proper mean of what mankind must give for what they gain, but, when i think of those whom dull routine and the pursuit of cheerless toil enchain, who from their desk-chairs seeing a summer cloud race through blue heaven on its joyful course sigh sometimes for a life less cramped and bowed, i think i might have done a great deal worse; for i have ever gone untied and free, the stars and my high thoughts for company; wet with the salt-spray and the mountain showers, i have had the sense of space and amplitude, and love in many places, silver-shoed, has come and scattered all my path with flowers. - sonnet iii - why should you be astonished that my heart, plunged for so long in darkness and in dearth, should be revived by you, and stir and start as by warm april now, reviving earth? i am the field of undulating grass and you the gentle perfumed breath of spring, and all my lyric being, when you pass, is bowed and filled with sudden murmuring. i asked you nothing and expected less, but, with that deep, impassioned tenderness of one approaching what he most adores, i only wished to lose a little space all thought of my own life, and in its place to live and dream and have my joy in yours. - sonnet iv - to . . . in church if i was drawn here from a distant place, 'twas not to pray nor hear our friend's address, but, gazing once more on your winsome face, to worship there ideal loveliness. on that pure shrine that has too long ignored the gifts that once i brought so frequently i lay this votive offering, to record how sweet your quiet beauty seemed to me. enchanting girl, my faith is not a thing by futile prayers and vapid psalm-singing to vent in crowded nave and public pew. my creed is simple: that the world is fair, and beauty the best thing to worship there, and i confess it by adoring you. __ biarritz, sunday, march , . - sonnet v - seeing you have not come with me, nor spent this day's suggestive beauty as we ought, i have gone forth alone and been content to make you mistress only of my thought. and i have blessed the fate that was so kind in my life's agitations to include this moment's refuge where my sense can find refreshment, and my soul beatitude. oh, be my gentle love a little while! walk with me sometimes. let me see you smile. watching some night under a wintry sky, before the charge, or on the bed of pain, these blessed memories shall revive again and be a power to cheer and fortify. - sonnet vi - oh, you are more desirable to me than all i staked in an impulsive hour, making my youth the sport of chance, to be blighted or torn in its most perfect flower; for i think less of what that chance may bring than how, before returning into fire, to make my dearest memory of the thing that is but now my ultimate desire. and in old times i should have prayed to her whose haunt the groves of windy cyprus were, to prosper me and crown with good success my will to make of you the rose-twined bowl from whose inebriating brim my soul shall drink its last of earthly happiness. - sonnet vii - there have been times when i could storm and plead, but you shall never hear me supplicate. these long months that have magnified my need have made my asking less importunate, for now small favors seem to me so great that not the courteous lovers of old time were more content to rule themselves and wait, easing desire with discourse and sweet rhyme. nay, be capricious, willful; have no fear to wound me with unkindness done or said, lest mutual devotion make too dear my life that hangs by a so slender thread, and happy love unnerve me before may for that stern part that i have yet to play. - sonnet viii - oh, love of woman, you are known to be a passion sent to plague the hearts of men; for every one you bring felicity bringing rebuffs and wretchedness to ten. i have been oft where human life sold cheap and seen men's brains spilled out about their ears and yet that never cost me any sleep; i lived untroubled and i shed no tears. fools prate how war is an atrocious thing; i always knew that nothing it implied equalled the agony of suffering of him who loves and loves unsatisfied. war is a refuge to a heart like this; love only tells it what true torture is. - sonnet ix - well, seeing i have no hope, then let us part; having long taught my flesh to master fear, i should have learned by now to rule my heart, although, heaven knows, 'tis not so easy near. oh, you were made to make men miserable and torture those who would have joy in you, but i, who could have loved you, dear, so well, take pride in being a good loser too; and it has not been wholly unsuccess, for i have rescued from forgetfulness some moments of this precious time that flies, adding to my past wealth of memory the pretty way you once looked up at me, your low, sweet voice, your smile, and your dear eyes. - sonnet x - i have sought happiness, but it has been a lovely rainbow, baffling all pursuit, and tasted pleasure, but it was a fruit more fair of outward hue than sweet within. renouncing both, a flake in the ferment of battling hosts that conquer or recoil, there only, chastened by fatigue and toil, i knew what came the nearest to content. for there at least my troubled flesh was free from the gadfly desire that plagued it so; discord and strife were what i used to know, heartaches, deception, murderous jealousy; by war transported far from all of these, amid the clash of arms i was at peace. - sonnet xi - on returning to the front after leave apart sweet women (for whom heaven be blessed), comrades, you cannot think how thin and blue look the leftovers of mankind that rest, now that the cream has been skimmed off in you. war has its horrors, but has this of good -- that its sure processes sort out and bind brave hearts in one intrepid brotherhood and leave the shams and imbeciles behind. now turn we joyful to the great attacks, not only that we face in a fair field our valiant foe and all his deadly tools, but also that we turn disdainful backs on that poor world we scorn yet die to shield -- that world of cowards, hypocrites, and fools. - sonnet xii - clouds rosy-tinted in the setting sun, depths of the azure eastern sky between, plains where the poplar-bordered highways run, patched with a hundred tints of brown and green, -- beauty of earth, when in thy harmonies the cannon's note has ceased to be a part, i shall return once more and bring to these the worship of an undivided heart. of those sweet potentialities that wait for my heart's deep desire to fecundate i shall resume the search, if fortune grants; and the great cities of the world shall yet be golden frames for me in which to set new masterpieces of more rare romance. bellinglise i deep in the sloping forest that surrounds the head of a green valley that i know, spread the fair gardens and ancestral grounds of bellinglise, the beautiful chateau. through shady groves and fields of unmown grass, it was my joy to come at dusk and see, filling a little pond's untroubled glass, its antique towers and mouldering masonry. oh, should i fall to-morrow, lay me here, that o'er my tomb, with each reviving year, wood-flowers may blossom and the wood-doves croon; and lovers by that unrecorded place, passing, may pause, and cling a little space, close-bosomed, at the rising of the moon. ii here, where in happier times the huntsman's horn echoing from far made sweet midsummer eves, now serried cannon thunder night and morn, tearing with iron the greenwood's tender leaves. yet has sweet spring no particle withdrawn of her old bounty; still the song-birds hail, even through our fusillade, delightful dawn; even in our wire bloom lilies of the vale. you who love flowers, take these; their fragile bells have trembled with the shock of volleyed shells, and in black nights when stealthy foes advance they have been lit by the pale rockets' glow that o'er scarred fields and ancient towns laid low trace in white fire the brave frontiers of france. __ may , . liebestod i who, conceived beneath another star, had been a prince and played with life, instead have been its slave, an outcast exiled far from the fair things my faith has merited. my ways have been the ways that wanderers tread and those that make romance of poverty -- soldier, i shared the soldier's board and bed, and joy has been a thing more oft to me whispered by summer wind and summer sea than known incarnate in the hours it lies all warm against our hearts and laughs into our eyes. i know not if in risking my best days i shall leave utterly behind me here this dream that lightened me through lonesome ways and that no disappointment made less dear; sometimes i think that, where the hilltops rear their white entrenchments back of tangled wire, behind the mist death only can make clear, there, like brunhilde ringed with flaming fire, lies what shall ease my heart's immense desire: there, where beyond the horror and the pain only the brave shall pass, only the strong attain. truth or delusion, be it as it may, yet think it true, dear friends, for, thinking so, that thought shall nerve our sinews on the day when to the last assault our bugles blow: reckless of pain and peril we shall go, heads high and hearts aflame and bayonets bare, and we shall brave eternity as though eyes looked on us in which we would seem fair -- one waited in whose presence we would wear, even as a lover who would be well-seen, our manhood faultless and our honor clean. resurgam exiled afar from youth and happy love, if death should ravish my fond spirit hence i have no doubt but, like a homing dove, it would return to its dear residence, and through a thousand stars find out the road back into earthly flesh that was its loved abode. a message to america you have the grit and the guts, i know; you are ready to answer blow for blow you are virile, combative, stubborn, hard, but your honor ends with your own back-yard; each man intent on his private goal, you have no feeling for the whole; what singly none would tolerate you let unpunished hit the state, unmindful that each man must share the stain he lets his country wear, and (what no traveller ignores) that her good name is often yours. you are proud in the pride that feels its might; from your imaginary height men of another race or hue are men of a lesser breed to you: the neighbor at your southern gate you treat with the scorn that has bred his hate. to lend a spice to your disrespect you call him the "greaser". but reflect! the greaser has spat on you more than once; he has handed you multiple affronts; he has robbed you, banished you, burned and killed; he has gone untrounced for the blood he spilled; he has jeering used for his bootblack's rag the stars and stripes of the gringo's flag; and you, in the depths of your easy-chair -- what did you do, what did you care? did you find the season too cold and damp to change the counter for the camp? were you frightened by fevers in mexico? i can't imagine, but this i know -- you are impassioned vastly more by the news of the daily baseball score than to hear that a dozen countrymen have perished somewhere in darien, that greasers have taken their innocent lives and robbed their holdings and raped their wives. not by rough tongues and ready fists can you hope to jilt in the modern lists. the armies of a littler folk shall pass you under the victor's yoke, sobeit a nation that trains her sons to ride their horses and point their guns -- sobeit a people that comprehends the limit where private pleasure ends and where their public dues begin, a people made strong by discipline who are willing to give--what you've no mind to -- and understand--what you are blind to -- the things that the individual must sacrifice for the good of all. you have a leader who knows--the man most fit to be called american, a prophet that once in generations is given to point to erring nations brighter ideals toward which to press and lead them out of the wilderness. will you turn your back on him once again? will you give the tiller once more to men who have made your country the laughing-stock for the older peoples to scorn and mock, who would make you servile, despised, and weak, a country that turns the other cheek, who care not how bravely your flag may float, who answer an insult with a note, whose way is the easy way in all, and, seeing that polished arms appal their marrow of milk-fed pacifist, would tell you menace does not exist? are these, in the world's great parliament, the men you would choose to represent your honor, your manhood, and your pride, and the virtues your fathers dignified? oh, bury them deeper than the sea in universal obloquy; forget the ground where they lie, or write for epitaph: "too proud to fight." i have been too long from my country's shores to reckon what state of mind is yours, but as for myself i know right well i would go through fire and shot and shell and face new perils and make my bed in new privations, if roosevelt led; but i have given my heart and hand to serve, in serving another land, ideals kept bright that with you are dim; here men can thrill to their country's hymn, for the passion that wells in the marseillaise is the same that fires the french these days, and, when the flag that they love goes by, with swelling bosom and moistened eye they can look, for they know that it floats there still by the might of their hands and the strength of their will, and through perils countless and trials unknown its honor each man has made his own. they wanted the war no more than you, but they saw how the certain menace grew, and they gave two years of their youth or three the more to insure their liberty when the wrath of rifles and pennoned spears should roll like a flood on their wrecked frontiers. they wanted the war no more than you, but when the dreadful summons blew and the time to settle the quarrel came they sprang to their guns, each man was game; and mark if they fight not to the last for their hearths, their altars, and their past: yea, fight till their veins have been bled dry for love of the country that will not die. o friends, in your fortunate present ease (yet faced by the self-same facts as these), if you would see how a race can soar that has no love, but no fear, of war, how each can turn from his private role that all may act as a perfect whole, how men can live up to the place they claim and a nation, jealous of its good name, be true to its proud inheritance, oh, look over here and learn from france! introduction and conclusion of a long poem i have gone sometimes by the gates of death and stood beside the cavern through whose doors enter the voyagers into the unseen. from that dread threshold only, gazing back, have eyes in swift illumination seen life utterly revealed, and guessed therein what things were vital and what things were vain. know then, like a vast ocean from my feet spreading away into the morning sky, i saw unrolled my vanished days, and, lo, oblivion like a morning mist obscured toils, trials, ambitions, agitations, ease, and like green isles, sun-kissed, with sweet perfume loading the airs blown back from that dim gulf, gleamed only through the all-involving haze the hours when we have loved and been beloved. therefore, sweet friends, as often as by love you rise absorbed into the harmony of planets singing round magnetic suns, let not propriety nor prejudice nor the precepts of jealous age deny what sense so incontestably affirms; cling to the blessed moment and drink deep of the sweet cup it tends, as there alone were that which makes life worth the pain to live. what is so fair as lovers in their joy that dies in sleep, their sleep that wakes in joy? caressing arms are their light pillows. they that like lost stars have wandered hitherto lonesome and lightless through the universe, now glow transfired at nature's flaming core; they are the centre; constellated heaven is the embroidered panoply spread round their bridal, and the music of the spheres rocks them in hushed epithalamium. . . . . . i know that there are those whose idle tongues blaspheme the beauty of the world that was so wondrous and so worshipful to me. i call them those that, in the palace where down perfumed halls the sleeping beauty lay, wandered without the secret or the key. i know that there are those, of gentler heart, broken by grief or by deception bowed, who in some realm beyond the grave conceive the bliss they found not here; but, as for me, in the soft fibres of the tender flesh i saw potentialities of joy ten thousand lifetimes could not use. dear earth, in this dark month when deep as morning dew on thy maternal breast shall fall the blood of those that were thy loveliest and thy best, if it be fate that mine shall mix with theirs, hear this my natural prayer, for, purified by that lethean agony and clad in more resplendent powers, i ask nought else than reincarnate to retrace my path, be born again of woman, walk once more through childhood's fragrant, flowery wonderland and, entered in the golden realm of youth, fare still a pilgrim toward the copious joys i savored here yet scarce began to sip; yea, with the comrades that i loved so well resume the banquet we had scarce begun when in the street we heard the clarion-call and each man sprang to arms--ay, even myself who loved sweet youth too truly not to share its pain no less than its delight. if prayers are to be prayed, lo, here is mine! be this my resurrection, this my recompense! ode in memory of the american volunteers fallen for france (to have been read before the statue of lafayette and washington in paris, on decoration day, may , .) i ay, it is fitting on this holiday, commemorative of our soldier dead, when--with sweet flowers of our new england may hiding the lichened stones by fifty years made gray -- their graves in every town are garlanded, that pious tribute should be given too to our intrepid few obscurely fallen here beyond the seas. those to preserve their country's greatness died; but by the death of these something that we can look upon with pride has been achieved, nor wholly unreplied can sneerers triumph in the charge they make that from a war where freedom was at stake america withheld and, daunted, stood aside. ii be they remembered here with each reviving spring, not only that in may, when life is loveliest, around neuville-saint-vaast and the disputed crest of vimy, they, superb, unfaltering, in that fine onslaught that no fire could halt, parted impetuous to their first assault; but that they brought fresh hearts and springlike too to that high mission, and 'tis meet to strew with twigs of lilac and spring's earliest rose the cenotaph of those who in the cause that history most endears fell in the sunny morn and flower of their young years. iii yet sought they neither recompense nor praise, nor to be mentioned in another breath than their blue coated comrades whose great days it was their pride to share--ay, share even to the death! nay, rather, france, to you they rendered thanks (seeing they came for honor, not for gain), who, opening to them your glorious ranks, gave them that grand occasion to excel, that chance to live the life most free from stain and that rare privilege of dying well. iv o friends! i know not since that war began from which no people nobly stands aloof if in all moments we have given proof of virtues that were thought american. i know not if in all things done and said all has been well and good, or if each one of us can hold his head as proudly as he should, or, from the pattern of those mighty dead whose shades our country venerates to-day, if we've not somewhat fallen and somewhat gone astray. but you to whom our land's good name is dear, if there be any here who wonder if her manhood be decreased, relaxed its sinews and its blood less red than that at shiloh and antietam shed, be proud of these, have joy in this at least, and cry: "now heaven be praised that in that hour that most imperilled her, menaced her liberty who foremost raised europe's bright flag of freedom, some there were who, not unmindful of the antique debt, came back the generous path of lafayette; and when of a most formidable foe she checked each onset, arduous to stem -- foiled and frustrated them -- on those red fields where blow with furious blow was countered, whether the gigantic fray rolled by the meuse or at the bois sabot, accents of ours were in the fierce melee; and on those furthest rims of hallowed ground where the forlorn, the gallant charge expires, when the slain bugler has long ceased to sound, and on the tangled wires the last wild rally staggers, crumbles, stops, withered beneath the shrapnel's iron showers: -- now heaven be thanked, we gave a few brave drops; now heaven be thanked, a few brave drops were ours." v there, holding still, in frozen steadfastness, their bayonets toward the beckoning frontiers, they lie--our comrades--lie among their peers, clad in the glory of fallen warriors, grim clusters under thorny trellises, dry, furthest foam upon disastrous shores, leaves that made last year beautiful, still strewn even as they fell, unchanged, beneath the changing moon; and earth in her divine indifference rolls on, and many paltry things and mean prate to be heard and caper to be seen. but they are silent, calm; their eloquence is that incomparable attitude; no human presences their witness are, but summer clouds and sunset crimson-hued, and showers and night winds and the northern star. nay, even our salutations seem profane, opposed to their elysian quietude; our salutations calling from afar, from our ignobler plane and undistinction of our lesser parts: hail, brothers, and farewell; you are twice blest, brave hearts. double your glory is who perished thus, for you have died for france and vindicated us. [end of original text.] appendix: ascii to greek character map a,a alpha b,b beta g,g gamma d,d delta e,e epsilon z,z zeta h,h eta q,q theta i,i iota k,k kappa l,l lambda m,m mi/mu n,n ni/nu j,j ksi/xi o,o omikron/omicron p,p pi r,r rho s,s,c sigma t,t tau u,u ypsilon/upsilon f,f phi x,x chi/khi y,y psi w,w omega the ascii character | (pipe) precedes the following symbols: ''/\^ to mark accents in greek. these in turn precede the vowel they refer to. appendix: corrections made to original text. the following corrections have been made: in "the deserted garden", 'down beechen allies' has been corrected to read 'down beechen alleys', as the former is more than doubtful. one occurrence each of "bazar" and "twelve-month" have been corrected to read "bazaar" and "twelvemonth", to be consistent both with other mentions in the text, and with the most common usage. generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) alan l. strang born august th, died january th, [illustration: alan l. strang] our boys and other poems [illustration] by alan l. strang california's boy poet copyrighted, by j. l. strang introduction alan l. strang was born in spokane, washington, august , . living there until he was four years old, he came to california in with his parents, making their home in redwood city. he had a gentle, loving disposition, was always frail and delicate and possessed a mental development far in advance of his years. he was taken to the great beyond january , . the poems contained in this book were written prior to his tenth birthday. considering the age of the author we feel that the work contains real merit, while the sentiment expressed betokens that patriotic spirit which never fails or hesitates when our country calls for men. j. l. s. to the reader of this book this little book's a letter, i send direct to you; i hope that you will like it, and read it thru and thru. and after you have read it, just send a thot to me; your thots will help to make me the "poet" i would be. yours very truly, alan l. strang, redwood city, california. our boys written after the united states entered the war, fighting on the side of the entente allies. halt! attention! salute the flag, the boys are marching by; they're going forth to win the war for us to do or die. our country needed fighting men, her liberty to save; these boys responded to the call, and all they had they gave. all loyal hearts are beating fast, and hope our bosoms fill; for liberty shall reign supreme o'er ocean, dale and hill. with no regrets for parted hopes or futures cast aside, our soldier boys are marching by; they are our country's pride. our soldier boy written as a tribute to my brother, w. m. strang, with the engineers. he said, "i'm daddy's soldier boy," when he was five years old; and then went out and built snow forts, although the day was cold. the snowballs were his hand grenades, a stick his bayonette; and with a home-made wooden gun the foe he bravely met. in five more years he joined the "scouts" and hiked across the hills; he learned to wear a khaki suit, and do military drills. and so the years passed swiftly on, and now he is a man; he's in the trenches over there, fighting for uncle sam. i know he'll make the huns regret they started this big fight, for he knows the cause he's fighting for is liberty and right. a small boy's desire written for the first thrift stamp drive. i want to be a soldier and march away to france; i want to find a wicked "hun," and shoot him in the pants. i want to be a soldier, and wear a khaki suit; i want to have a sword and gun and all the "boches" shoot. i want to be a soldier, and have an aeroplane to drop bombs on the german towns, and fly back home again. i want to be a soldier and do my little bit; my country needs brave fighting men, while here at home i sit. some day i'll be a big, big man; i'll go to war and fight the wicked hun, or any one who does not do what's right. but now the only way for me to help my country win, is save my coin and buy thrift stamps, so, boys, let's save our tin. the storm the rough old mr. storm is whirling, swirling past he makes the treetops bow their heads and trembles at his blast. he never stops to think of the damage he may do, he's always rushing in and out and hitting, batting you. he pushes big, black clouds against the mountain tops; the rain and hail comes rushing down in large, round crystal drops. the storm will soon be over; see the rainbow in the sky. the birds will sing on airy wing, and the bright sun shine on high. do not worry do not worry over trifles, though to you they may seem great, all your fretting will not help you, or your troubles dissipate. if your sky is dark and gloomy, and the sun is hid from view, bravely smile and keep on smiling, and your friends will smile with you. happiness is so contagious, and a smile is never lost; then why worry over trifles, tho your heart seems tempest tossed. therefore go on life's journey with an optimistic smile, see the world is good to live in, and that living is worth while. how can we fool the rooster? written when the clock was set ahead one hour on april , . our rooster wakes at half-past five and crows with all his might, he tries to wake the people up before the day is light. when daddy hears the rooster crow he knows he should awake and light the kitchen fire, so ma can cook the johnny cake. now, maybe we can fool my dad that it's half-past five when it's half-past four, and maybe the system's the best we have had to fool some thousands of people or more; but, how can we fool that rooster? i have always thought our rooster had a clock inside of his head, and i don't know how we can fix it so we can set the clock ahead. i asked my dad, and he said to me, "why, son, you surely know a rooster's instinct wakens him and tells him when to crow." now the hands of the clock we can turn ahead, we can fool the people and feel content; but the thing that worries me night and day, and on which my entire thought is bent is, how can we fool that rooster? a wreath of flowers written for decoration day, may , . i wove me a wreath of flowers to place in memories hall, in honor of the brave and fearless men who had answered our country's call. the men who had answered, and fought, and died for the cause of freedom, our country's pride! i wove me a wreath of flowers with many a sigh and tear, as a tribute to all the good and true who were given few honors here. the man of humble piety who lived and died in obscurity. a wreath of flowers, a little thing for flowers wither and fade; but the fragrance they shed is not soon forgot by me, who the wreath has made. so the virtues of those who have gone before, will always be treasured in memory's store. epitaph our loved ones lay them down to sleep and leave us here to grieve and mourn, while we, our silent watches keep, o'er their low graves whence they are bourne. some heroes are in battle slain, their names are honored far and near, while others die on beds of pain and no sad mourner sheds a tear. this day we honor each and all whose soul has left its temporal case; and be he great, or be he small, we'll reverence his resting place. part second the poems and story of masata in part second of this book were written during the last month of the young author's life. he was taken to the spirit land, january , . the lily of the valley i've a lily of the valley that i'm keeping here for you; i care for and protect it, and water it with dew. it is a living emblem of the wonderful domain, where all is pure and love-like, and where we feel no pain. yes, the lily of the valley is a tie twixt you and me; for every time you see one think how happy i must be. i'm an atom of the infinite, how wonderful it seems; yet from your sphere the finite but a thin veil intervenes. the roses i have roses in my garden, and their fragrance fills the air. how i love to watch them blooming; for they all are very fair. some have deep red velvet petals, some again are snowy white; and the little baby pink ones, surely give you such delight. pretty birds come to my garden, and sing there the live-long day; yes the birds and pretty flowers help and cheer us on our way. the seasons spring spring time is here with its sunshine and showers, all nature is waking from its long winter sleep. the gardens are blooming with beautiful flowers, the song-birds are carolling melodies sweet. summer the summer comes with glaring heat, and we will have vacation; we pack our grips for the seashore trips, or other recreation. autumn the harvest moon is shining bright, the leaves are falling everywhere; how glorious is the autumn night, how cool and bracing is the air. winter jack frost is stalking through the land, the ground is covered white, with snow. we like to sit beside the fire and tell the tales of long ago. wishes a birthday wish. i'm wishing a happy birthday, to you my dear sweet friend; and may every day be a happy day is the wish i will always send. a christmas wish. a merry christmas wish to you, and may your heart be gay; may santa bring you many things, this merry christmas day. a new year wish a happy happy, new year, we all are wishing you; we hope no sorrow you shall know this whole year through. dreams away o'er the hills in the valley green away from the noise of the busy town; i dream sweet dreams of the olden days of you in your beautiful wedding gown. i dream that you come and sit by me and you hold my hand and ruff my hair; your eyes shine with a sweet delight that i used to see so often there. then my heart is filled with a hallowed love and i know t'is but a little way to the spirit land, and i know that i shall meet you there some glad sweet day. then our wedding day in the spirit land will be filled with love and joy serene; and the infinite hand will guide us where the waters are still and the valleys green. masata masata was an indian boy, he lived on the banks of the ohio river in kentucky. during the revolutionary war in , the americans were taking over the land very fast, and when masata was ten years old his parents moved to the wild regions of the dakotas, taking masata with them. here he enjoyed life although it was much colder than in his native kentucky, and in the winter months he wore coats of fur made from bear skin. the days soon became filled with interesting things for masata. one day when he was roaming through the wilds, he heard a wild buffalo approaching. he seemed almost helpless, as he had nothing but a small bow and a few arrows, and the buffalo was only a short distance from him. he began to run in what he thought was the direction of his home, but instead he was going in the opposite way. in a few minutes he saw the smoke of a camp fire and ran toward it. by this time the beast was very close to him and he was almost in despair, when the buffalo lurched forward, then rolled over dead. three indians hunting near by had hit him in a vital spot with an arrow. the indians belonged to a tribe which was his father's most bitter enemy, and they took him before their chief. the chief ordered that he be let live for two moons, and he was given a bed of dry twigs to sleep on as the night was drawing near. time passed quietly for masata until the approach of the morning of the second moon. he had been planning how he would escape from his father's enemies. finally one morning he slipped into a bear skin and hopped bravely off toward the woods. the indians thinking he was a bear, shot arrows at him and wounded him in the right arm, but masata kept bravely on and was soon out of range of the arrows. then he bandaged his wounded arm the best he could and set out for his father's wigwam. he arrived safely the same evening, and his parents were overjoyed to see him and know he was safe once more, and the tribe made a great feast, or as they call it, pow wow, as a welcome to his home coming. while masata was still a young "brave" their chief died and after a great ceremony, masata was made chief of the tribes, and was known as great and good ruler. two fishers _we are the music-makers and we are the dreamers of dreams, wandering by lone sea-breakers and sitting by desolate streams._ arthur w. e. o'shaughnessy. two fishers and other poems by herbert e. palmer london elkin mathews, cork street dedicated to three friends captain l. w. charley h. t. p. and professor l. o'b. two fishers when the war is over, charley, we'll go fishing once again. you'll be a new man, charley, when you walk with fishermen. for we'll seek a leaping river i know far among the fells; you'll forget the war there, charley, where the springing water wells. it's god's own land for the nimble trout, and ferns and waving flowers, the bracken and the bilberry, and the ash the coral dowers. there are rolling leagues of heather, lone hills where the plovers call. oh, we'll climb those hills together ere the last dews fall! and we'll talk to the wild creatures in the crannies of the moors; oh, our hearts will mount to heaven when the merry lark soars! all our days will shine with gladness, all our nights with calm repose. and we'll throw a fly together where the rushing stream flows. nature has been to me lately as a fair and radiant bride, she has drawn me with strange gentleness to the hollow of her side. she has gone forth like a warrior with pricking glaive and spear, and grief has quailed in his ambush when her flashing arms drew near. i never loved sweet england till she kissed me in the west, the sun upon her shining brows and the purple on her breast, breathing songs of low compassion to my spirit as it cried, when i mourned that sinning country which had thrust me from her side. all the wooded hills of the eifel, all the vine-bergs of the rhine, all the glimmering strands of the baltic, all the brocken black with pine, hold no tenderness of beauty, (beauty in the spirit dwells,) such as smiles from one sweet valley darkling 'mid the western fells. * * * * * do you remember, old fellow, when we fished near altenahr, where the red wine was flowing and the bowl flashed a star? do you remember the big schutzmann, with his sword by his side, who guessed that you were poaching, and scared you off to hide? oh, if he'd only known, charley, when you sought the bridge's cover that you'd join the british army and go killing of his brother, he'd have searched bank and vineyard for a poacher of such worth, and put you in a prison cell to cool your summer's mirth. and do you remember the old inn with the blue saint above the door,[ ]-- simon peter, who looked longingly upon our speckled store?-- he who loves all careless fishers of the river and the sea, and prays that god shall save them with his mates of galilee. and what a wild night we had when we rode home again! for the students were all dancing and singing in the train; and a tall man twanged a banjo till he fairly gave us fits; and a porter ran up swearing, and the banjo flew to bits. we were all drunk as blazes, full of wine to burst. but, by the sober lads of england, those germans were the worst. they were singing and dancing, and shouting with delight; and the carriage rocked with laughter as we rushed into the night. they are all dead now, charley; they were merry fellows then. they are dust and scattered ashes washed by the rain. they are crying in the darkness where a grayer planet spins. but the lord is kind to fishers and has spared us in our sins. oh, the lord is kind to fishers of the river and the sea for the sake of simon peter and the lads of galilee! for the sake of simon peter, who so gladly would us shrive, we are walking in the sunlight, we are breathing and alive. and when the war is over we'll fish awhile together, we'll climb the western mountains, and walk the western heather, and the curlew and the wild grouse will wake the vales with crying, and their soft rushing pinions will tremble by us, sighing. all the dead shepherds will hear them in their rest. but you mustn't heed dead shepherds when you're fishing in the west; you mustn't heed the lonely men who neither sing nor dance, there'll be always ghosts there, charley, when the wind beats up from france. it's the holy peace and quiet breathing from the western skies which bring the stricken soul its rest and still the heart's wild cries. if i hadn't turned for healing where the moor to heaven swells, i'd have been a dead man, listening to the mourning of the bells. if god hadn't sent me healing where the mountain bares her breast, i'd have gone wild and crazy with the things that i'm oppressed. all my mad, merry comrades of drink, and fight, and lust, are trodden into bloody clay and blowing with the dust. some marched away with hindenburg, and some with general kluck, one under austria's banners with the devil's cards for luck. all my dreams went with them, all the dreams my land denied; but they're smoke and drifting wreckage now on the war's wild tide. it was years since i left england,-- almost singing to depart,-- she had cast a net about me, and thrust a dagger in my heart. but another country smiled to me and made me quiet nooks, where men crushed for me the grapes of joy, and talked to me of books. she was a kind land to me once, charley, i had real joy in her once; her folk loved shakespeare and byron, shunned no dreamer for a dunce. they sang old folk songs, noble opera; read anglo-saxon, old quaint sweets; and there were no starved souls in her temples, and no begging men in her streets. but a hand ever cut my heaven with the sharpness of a sword, there was the very riot of gladness, reckless squander of joy's hoard; lechery and sad corruption danced in clinging robes of light; beauty smiled in the arms of terror and diced with the minions of night. and you sprang to england's banner, comrade, with glad praises on your lips, to the song of her sabres ringing and the thunder of her ships. but a sword broods in the darkness whose sweep is the wind's sway, and the dumb white ships of heaven bear dimly earth's glory away. the still white ships of heaven steal out beneath the stars; and the grieving, sorrowing sailors are the dead men of the wars. they reck not of the chilly seas that wildly round them churn. and the dusk scatters before the prows, and the leaping waters burn. the pirate fleets of heaven sweep forth into the night, laden with spoils of the living, their jewels of delight, their topazes and rubies, the bawds that gave them pleasure; and the sad thieves reef the swelling sails, and steal from earth her treasure. and the night hangs heavy on you, comrade, and the bitter war goes on. you are parched for heaven's starlight and her soft, refreshing sun. joy runs with a passion of swiftness on the gray feet of the wind. the doors of darkness tremble; then swing back blind. but you'll be a new man, one day, where the west wind thrills. you'll walk with your olden vigour where heaven clasps the great lone hills. and the evening sun will squander soft lustre of red wine, and we'll drink the ripest vintage where the sun and stars shine. for the lord is kind to fishers of the river and the sea, for the sake of simon peter and the lads of galilee; for the sake of simon peter, who so lightly would us shrive, we will drink the wine of heaven and give praise we are alive. all our days will shine with gladness, all our nights with rich repose; laughter will breathe from our spirits like the sweet scent from the rose. and joy in glittering armour will go forth as with a sword, when we climb the fells together to the glory of the lord. sweet sounds will rise from the moorland, and bird and bee awake. beauty will break and blossom for each stricken soldier's sake. oh, your heart will leap with joy, charley, and your spirit know rest, when we fish a little river i've heard singing in the west! [ ] the saint peter's inn at walporzheim, ahrdale. altenahr, above the crooked roofs the clouds go sailing; and near the stream, where once i fished for grayling, the crusty oberkelner stands and scolds. my rod still hangs upon three nails a-row, just where i placed it, if they've left it so, i'd like to take one little peep and know. and every time the landlord looks that way he thinks of me; and will for many a day. i helped to break up germany, he'll say. the little fishes flick their tails, and rise; they fear no english feathers in their flies. and i am back in yorkshire, growing wise. the soldiers as the soldiers march along all the air is filled with song. as the soldiers charge with cheers all the air is drenched with tears. and when they take their ease at night the cypress-trees are clothed in white. greifswald, i was sick with pain, once, sick with pain. and an old witch drew to my side and healed me again. she was withered, and wretched, and gray, deep stabbed with years. and the skin of her face was scarred with hate and tears. she had lived fierce days in that town the sea-winds flog. hourly the neighbours jibed, cast stones at a dog. they had slandered her, tricked her; robbed her of honour and purse. but her wrongs slept deep in her heart for the fiends to nurse. one went blind; another stark mad,-- he's dead. fruit of the curse she flung. "old witch," they said. life ran high there; men nourished their hates and slashed with swords. harsh skies swerved to the rim of the bay,-- sweden seawards. and i lay in her bare, clean room at the stairway's end. and the fierce pain clutched me and held me; and nought would fend. "o mother," i cried--and she leaned to me-- "give me your hand's touch. they have broken me too, and flung me this same blind crutch." and she placed her hand in my hand; and her touch thrilled me. and the blood ran warm in my veins; and her dead life healed me. she was wasted, arid as one whom no sun cheers. but her dead life flowered that day down sixty years. the pupil: rhineland "mister, i do not like the task. 'tis dull to-day, you're tired, too. but, mister, i've a thing to ask;-- _am i not beautiful?_ speak true." now, god save all poor tutor-men from innocence so rapt and sly, and send the plainest student-girls to one so passion-starved as i. she sat within my student's room in the twilight hour when the shadows stir; red lights of sunset swirled the gloom and rested, glimmering, on her hair. coil upon coil it wreathed her crown in a crushing aureole of flame. and her brows of alabaster shone as pure as mary's of bethlehem. her eyes,--i never knew their hue-- drowsed, smouldering, in the burning dusk. and somewhere out of the earth's view a planet sang, and the air breathed musk. the bushrangers as i was walking down oxford street ten fierce soldiers i chanced to meet, they wore big slouch hats with khaki sashes, and talked like the angry guns, in flashes. and my friend said to me, "they come from australia; villainous fellows for war's regalia. john briton keeps a tobacconist's shed and twice they have held a gun at his head." well, i would have given all i had to have gone with the bunch of them, good or bad, to have heard the wickedest say, "old fellow!" and staunched his wounds where the black guns bellow. i'd have thought it a merry thing to die with such stalwart comrades standing by. one of them had round eyes like coals-- true parson's quarry when he hunts souls. the brawniest made my heart turn queer; the devil in hell would have shunned his leer. and the tallest and thinnest bore visible traces of his banished grandsire's vanished graces. but all the lot of that swaggering ten were terrible, fine, strong soldier-men; and i fairly sobbed at the four cross ways as my triumphing soul sang england's praise. o! all the germans in berlin town couldn't put those ten australians down. the new beginning they had fought the last desperate battle. they had deluged the earth with their rage and the crimson flood mounted to heaven, and drew up each soul from its grave. and sent them foeman with foeman to shatter the quiet of the skies. and lo! they commingled together with the hope of god in their eyes. and in faith they went peacefully singing, and waking dead stars to new birth, till earth knew heaven as her lover, and heaven leaned down gracious to earth, and tendered her blossoms of healing, and rained on her kindness of tears, and gave back in trust to her lover the bloom of the sacrificed years. a game of chess we ranged the chessmen on the chequered deal. and then i said, "to make the game more real we'll play the great war. i'll be germany; for you, i guess, the goth would never be." and thus it came that i chose black--he, white. he on truth's side; i clothed myself with night. and, crying for a sign unto the lord, we cramped all europe in a foot-square board. we were two causes--i, who did detest that wrong should triumph, though it were in jest, played with soul-sinews cracking, played with zest; and, every heart-cell beating battle's drum, i struck with queen and pawns for belgium. i've never played as on that fateful night, i fairly lost my temper in the fight, queens left their thrones; pawns, castles strewed the table, there never were two causes so unstable. and then when he'd six pieces, and i eight, half of them pawns, he pulled the noose of fate; and with a knight, a castle--unawares,-- a bishop in a corner breathing prayers, he caught me tripping. "checkmate! smashed!" he said, and like a beaten hun i stole to bed. snow my heart delights in poet's minstrelsie, in pictures ranged down some long gallerie, in mandolins and all sweet melodie. and yet, when i go walking through the woods on frosty days, and watch the falling snow, i would renounce all culture's radiant moods to live in ice-lands with the eskimo. how purely gleams the mantle of the snow! how softly sing the myriad silver tongues of whirling flakes that wrought earth's overthrow! with the keen air i fill my tired lungs, and shout for joy and dance for very mirth because all heaven has fallen down to earth. and in this mood i'd save my soul, and so through pure clean ways right into heaven go. air raid i wonder if they'll come to-night! the round moon rolls in silvery light, no sound throbs on the windless air. for, though i tremble to confess, i never feel more cheerfulness than when the german raiders fly like bees across the cloudless sky. and neither pity, pain, nor terror will ever wean me from my error. for oh, to hear the mad guns go, and watch the starry night aglow with radiance of crackling fires and the white searchlight's quivering spires! for sure, such splendour doth assuage the very cannon of its rage! my neighbour plays a violin, shredding sweet silver down the din and songs for fears to dwindle in. but the houses shake; and the dogs wake. they growl, they bark for warrior joy, and seek the airmen to annoy. up go their tails into the air, they gnash their teeth, and their eyes glare. but on those cruel raiders sail, regardless of each quivering tail. and one gun has a booming note, another has a cold in throat; and some are mellow, and some hoarse, and some sound sobbing with remorse; quite four or five ring musical, and others very keen to kill. you'd say that twenty champagne corks were popping in the london walks. you'd say that drunken men in scores were smashing glass and slamming doors. you'd say a twanging banjo string had snapped in twain with hammering. you'd say that wild orchestral fellows were banging god's throne with their cellos. a wail, a crash, like steel trays falling, and a wind upon the common--calling. and over us a sound of humming --of hornets or bad bees a-bumming! a devilish, strident, hoarse, discordant whirring of dark fliers mordant. my soul stands still and sweats with fear. but the heavenly stars, all shimmering, dance in a giddy whirl and sing. and other stars, of the earth, shake sheer from the mouths of the black guns thundering. 'tis like some ruining harmony i heard in berlin on the spree the day they played the valkyrie. kind heaven will comfort my wracked wits before i'm blown to little bits. sickness in winter once as i on sick-bed lay i woke crying for my mother. but she was eight hundred miles away, leagues and leagues of sea between, and the land all frozen hard and gray. she was so very old, i ween she could not have moved a mile that day; for the land was frozen stiff and gray, and the menacing seas rolled all between. nature in war-time if flowers could speak and leaves and plants knew words, in what strange phrase of chiding would they seek to tell their anger at this clash of swords! the blossom that was made for joy and praise, high bending grasses, and the trees so tall tremble for terror in the forest ways. i see them shake and shake, as live men fall. shrapnel crushes them in its fierce caress; the black guns chant a pæan of their skill. but little recks the world in its distress the sorrow that is silent on the hill. courage i i'd once a friend--what joy to say!-- who when he took a holiday would climb the towering dolomites and strive with fear upon the heights; tied to a rope, down dangling sheer, he'd talk to god through clouds of fear. o give me friends like that, i say, and such a gallant holiday. ii i'd another friend, in another pale, who spent a holiday in jail. he fought for what his heart deemed right, and they shut him up in walls of night. yet merrily his heart did sing like a mating bird that hails the spring. aunt zillah speaks i never look upon the sea and hear its waves sighing, but i must hie me home again to still my heart's wild crying. all my years like drowned sailors, all my days that used to be, seem drifting in the silver spray and mourning by the sea. but when i take a holiday i go where flowers are growing, where thrushes sing and skylarks wing and happy streams are flowing; and the great hills clothed with bracken, as far as i would flee, fling their towering crests to the stars on high to hide me from the sea. talking to god a fighting man lay down for ease in the shade of two tall forest trees deep dinted with bullet and shell. and one tree said to the other, "is not this worn soldier our brother! and has he not vowed to defend this strip of green glade till the end! let us thank the kind father in heaven for this kinship of man he has given." the trees talked to god all the night, and they thrilled with a soaring delight. sacrifice when jesus was crucified the german roamed in his forests, and the blood of the frenchman surged in the veins of the roman who pierced his side. and we, the british, we were not,-- though a dream that he cherished. and for each and all christ died. prophecy when the cruel war is over the earth will sing like a lover; and grasses, flowers, and trees will shake with joy in the breeze. very old weary men will know their youth again. and be blithe as england's soldiers when they first sailed o'er the seas. and wisdom lately spent will steal forth from banishment, all betimes in the morning, like a bride to her adorning, gay and very wistful, singing with her heart full, she will hide her forehead's scars with the fairest of heaven's stars. and the tongue will leap with the brain, and not clank in a forger's chain, as it has been heretofore with truth's jailer at the door; as it was on this globe prison ere the soul of man had risen. and the dead in the morning dim will reign as the seraphim. they will fan to flame man's spirit to a whiter purer merit. there will be a new beginning, and some shall cease from sinning,-- when the bitter strife is over, and the earth is heaven's lover. talking water last night i walked in the fern lands and heard the words of the brooks. what need has a weary man's spirit with phrases from books! the timid fish splashed in the shallows, the sad wind sobbed in the reeds; and i soothed with the whispering water a wound that bleeds. the end a poet lay dead where two red frontiers meet; and many birds fluttered about his feet. he had unfurled his last wild madrigal, and winds had borne it where the dead leaves fall. the thrush, may's mottled elf, the minstrel, sang more harsh than was his wont. the blackbird rang strange sobbing woodland bells. the finch so sweet lay with glazed eye, and raised each shattered wing, and cried in sudden pain, but could not sing. the sparrow twittered, "'tis dark under the eaves, and sad-eyed margot sits at home and grieves." the lark said, "god is angry in bright heaven. i saw him once,--a great white fluttering bird with beautiful broad wings that oft are heard when the wind beats the blue nave of the skies. i saw him perching high upon the moon with the most dreadful anguish in his eyes. he flaps his wings, and tries, and wildly tries; but _he_ can sing no longer. it is still in heaven. it is still in forest and on hill. the green leaves wither, and the world grows chill." a sinn feiner i once had the trustiest comrade-- god grant he thinks kindly of me-- and we always stood shoulder to shoulder when a tossing wind troubled life's sea. he was like the marsh fire in fair weather; though in foul, we made merry together. but his soul was knit to the whirlwind-- the fen mists but shrouded the flame-- and i knew not our friendship's attachment till the day that the whirlwind came, for i saw our lives broken asunder and watched him away with the thunder. men said he consorted with traitors and marshalled the beasts of the sty. but i know that mere mischief makers don't joyfully go forth to die. and i've lost a friend like a brother, and never i'll know such another. the foreign legionary, he had just come out of prison, and he stood and scowled apart, the old lust 'neath his ragged coat, and the cold hate in his heart; and he peered to right and left through the cruel sleet and rain, then dived into the nearest street to rob and steal again. he lay wounded in the desert where the thirsty sand gleamed red, arab spearmen thrusting at the dying and the dead; he had left the shrunken ranks to save a comrade in the rear; and he raised himself and cursed them; and went down beneath a spear. he lies and stares at heaven through a cloud of crows and kites; while round him prowl the jackals in the lurid tropic nights. and he'll slowly bleach to powder 'neath the sunlight's livid scroll, --the man they chased from europe whom the world denied a soul. the missionary (_freely adapted from a foreign tongue_) you speak of worlds with rainbow prospects vaulted. but not for these the service that i hoard. you know the sweet; but i--the pure, exalted: my soul spreads wings to her exalted lord. my sphere of lowly service is more spacious than earthly masters and their tasks afford; for gentle is my lord, and very gracious: i serve with willing hands my gracious lord. i know dark realms where no glad light is burning, where life meets death, and bows beneath his sword; but yet i fear not; for he is discerning: i lean upon my wise, discerning lord. and when i'm stripped of all, requited latest, his kind "well done" my guerdon, my reward: though yours be richer, yet my lord's the greatest. i follow him--the mightiest, greatest lord. [_some of these poems have already appeared in_ the english review, country life, t. p.'s magazine _and the_ wesleyan methodist magazine. _i thank the editors for permission to reproduce them._] the riverside press limited, edinburgh transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original. it is not always possible to determine if a new stanza begins at the top of a printed page, but every effort has been made by the transcriber to retain stanza breaks where appropriate. the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator paul bewsher, r.n.a.s., d.s.c. "a new domain has been won for poetry by the war--that of the air. this is of greater importance than the bare statement suggests.... 'the dawn patrol' marks so notable a departure in english literature that it will in after years be eagerly sought by collectors.... mr. bewsher's most considerable triumph is to have been the first airman-poet to regard humanity from the detached standpoint of the sky."--_daily graphic._ "the fable of pegasus is come true.... mr bewsher never strains for effect.... the strongest impression his poems leave is of a sincere and ingenuous nature devoted to duty, but of keen sensibilities."--_the times._ london, w.c. : erskine macdonald, ltd. second impression: one shilling and sixpence net. the dawn patrol paul bewsher, r.n.a.s. _to my father; my best friend, my best critic._ _p.b._ sept., . the dawn patrol and other poems of an aviator by paul bewsher, r.n.a.s. erskine macdonald, ltd., malory house, featherstone buildings, london, w.c. _all rights reserved._ _copyright in the united states of america by erskine macdonald, ltd._ _first published november, ._ _second impression, february, ._ printed by harrison, jehring & co., ltd., - , emerald st. w.c. . contents page the dawn patrol the joy of flying the crash the night raid despair the horrors of flying dreams of autumn to carlton berry london in may a fallen leaf the star islington the country beautiful chelsea k. l. h. the fringe of heaven three triolets cloud thoughts autumn regrets to hilda clouds _the dawn patrol_ sometimes i fly at dawn above the sea, where, underneath, the restless waters flow-- silver, and cold, and slow. dim in the east there burns a new-born sun, whose rosy gleams along the ripples run, save where the mist droops low, hiding the level loneliness from me. and now appears beneath the milk-white haze a little fleet of anchored ships, which lie in clustered company, and seem as they are yet fast bound by sleep, although the day has long begun to peep, with red-inflamèd eye, along the still, deserted ocean ways. the fresh, cold wind of dawn blows on my face as in the sun's raw heart i swiftly fly, and watch the seas glide by. scarce human seem i, moving through the skies, and far removed from warlike enterprise-- like some great gull on high whose white and gleaming wings beat on through space. then do i feel with god quite, quite alone, high in the virgin morn, so white and still, and free from human ill: my prayers transcend my feeble earth-bound plaints-- as though i sang among the happy saints with many a holy thrill-- as though the glowing sun were god's bright throne. my flight is done. i cross the line of foam that breaks around a town of grey and red, whose streets and squares lie dead beneath the silent dawn--then am i proud that england's peace to guard i am allowed;-- then bow my humble head, in thanks to him who brings me safely home. _luxeuil-les-bains, ._ _the joy of flying_ when heavy on my tired mind the world, and worldly things, do weigh, and some sweet solace i would find, into the sky i love to stray, and, all alone, to wander round in lone seclusion from the ground. ah! then what solitude is mine-- from grovelling mankind aloof! their road is but a thin-drawn line: their busy house a scarce-seen roof. that little stain of red and brown they boast about!--it is their town! how small their petty quarrels seem! poor, crawling multitudes below; which, like the ants, in feverish stream from place to place move to and fro! like ants they work: like ants they fight, assuming blindly they are right. soon their existence i forget, in joy that on these flashing wings i cleave the skies--o! let them fret-- now know i why the skylark sings untrammelled in the boundless air-- for mine it is his bliss to share! now do i mount a billowy cloud, now do i sail low o'er a hill, and with a seagull's skill endowed circle, and wheel, and drop at will-- above the villages asleep, above the valleys, shadowed deep, above the water-meadows green whose streams, which intermingled flow, like silver lattice-work are seen a-gleam upon the plain below-- above the woods, whose naked trees move new-born buds upon the breeze. and far away above the haze i see white mountain-summits rise, whose snow with sunlight is ablaze and shines against the distant skies. such thoughts those towering ranges bring that i float on a-wondering! so do i love to travel on through lonely skies, myself alone; for then the feverish fret is gone which on this earth i oft have known. kind is the god who lets me fly in sweet seclusion through the sky! _france, ._ _the crash_ the rich, red blood doth stain the fair, green grass, and daisies white in generous flood ... this sun-drowsed day for me is darkest night. o! wreck of splintered wood and twisted wire, what blind, unmeasured hatred you inspire because yours was the power that life to end ... of him, who was my friend! this morn we lay upon the grass, and watched the languid hours pass; a lark, deep in the sky's blue sea, sang ecstasies to him and me. and with the daisies did he play, as on the waving grass we lay, and made a little daisy chain to bring his childhood back again. and while he watched the clouds above he drifted into thoughts of love. he said, "i know why skylarks sing-- because they love, and it is spring. and if i had a voice as they, so would i sing this golden may, because i love, and loved am i, and when i wander through the sky, i wish i had a skylark's voice, and with such singing could rejoice. oh, happy, happy, are these days! my heart is full of deep-felt praise, and thanks to god who brings this bliss! oh! what a happiness is this-- to lie upon the grass and know in two short days that i shall go and see my love's fair face again, and wander in some flowery lane, forgetting all the world around, and only knowing i have found a spring enchantment, which is mine through god's sweet sympathy divine, ... may these two days now swiftly pass!" he laughed upon the sunlit grass. the days have passed, but passed, alas! how slow! see down the road a sad procession go! oh! hear the wailing music moan! why? why such grief am i to know? dear god! i wish i were alone. for by the grave a girl with streaming eyes doth make mine dim. while high among the sunny springtime skies, the larks still hymn. _france, ._ _the night raid_ around me broods the dim, mysterious night, star-lit and still. no whisper comes across the plain, asleep beneath the breezes light, which scarcely stir the growing grain. slow chimes the quiet midnight hour in some unseen and distant tower, while round me broods the vague, mysterious night, star-lit, and cool, and still. and i must desecrate this silent time of drowsy dreams! on mighty wings towards the sky, towards the stars, i have to climb and o'er the sleeping country fly, and such far-echoing clamour make that all the villages must wake. so must i desecrate this quiet time of soft and drowsy dreams! the hour comes ... soon must i say farewell to this fair earth. then to my little room i go where i perhaps no more shall dwell. shall i return?--the gods but know. perchance again i shall not sleep on that white bed in silence deep. for soon the hour comes to say farewell to this fair, friendly earth. i stand there long, before into the gloom i take my way. there are the pictures of my friends and all the treasures of my room on which my lamp soft radiance sends. and long with lingering gaze i look upon each much belovèd book. i stand, and dream--before into the gloom i sadly take my way. and now i gain the field whence i must part upon my quest. my pegasus of wood and steel is ready straining at the start. the governor is at the wheel-- and, with an ever-growing roar, across the hidden fields we soar. so, with one envious look from earth i part upon my midnight quest. beneath me lies the sleeping countryside hazy and dim, and here and there a little gleam, like stars upon the heavens wide, speaks of some wretch who cannot dream-- but on his bed all night must toss and hear me as i pass across, in droning flight above the countryside, hazy, and huge, and dim. and in the great blue night i ever rise towards the stars, as to the hostile lands i sail high in the dark and cloudless skies whose gloom our gloomy wings doth veil. beneath, a scarce-seen ribbon shows where through the woods a river flows, as in the shadowy night i ever rise towards the scattered stars. now high above war's frontiers do i sit-- above the lines. great lights, like flowers, rise and fall: on either side red flashes spit hot death at those poor souls which crawl on secret errands. o, how grim must be that midnight slaughter dim! and happy am i that so high i sit above those cruel lines! each man beneath me now detests my race with iron hate. each tiny light i see must shine upon some grim, unfriendly face, who curses england's name and mine, and would be glad if both were gone-- but steadily must i fly on, though every soul beneath me loathes my race with stern, unceasing hate. i see a far-flung city all ablaze with jewelled lamps: i trace its quays, its roads, its squares, and all its intermingled ways, and, as i wonder how it dares to flaunt itself,--the city dies, and in an utter darkness lies, for i have terrified that town ablaze with twinkling, jewelled lamps. but, see!--the furnace with its ruddy breath which i must wreck! the searchlights sweep across the sky-- long-fingered ministers of death-- i look deep in their cold blue eye, incessant shells with blinding light show every wire, clear and white! there is the furnace with its ruddy breath which i must wreck;-- it lies beneath--my time has come at last to do my work! i wait--o! will you never stop your fearful shells, that burst so fast?-- and then--i hear destruction drop behind my back as i release such fearful death with such great ease. burst on, you shells! my time has come at last to do my deadly work. then do i turn, and hurry swiftly back towards my home. i gladly leave that place behind! no more i hear the shrapnel's crack-- no more my eyes the searchlights blind. i cross the lines with lightening breast and sail into the friendly west. how glad am i to hurry swiftly back towards my peaceful home! i reach the field--and then i softly land. my work is o'er! i leave my hot and panting steed, and clasp a comrade's outstretched hand, and with him to my bedroom speed. then, over steaming beakers set, the night's fierce menace soon forget. how great a welcome waits me when i land-- when all my work is o'er! but ere i search shy sleep on my white bed i greet the dawn, and think, with heart weighed down with grief, how cruel this dawn to those whose dead lie shattered, torn--whom, like a thief at darkest midnight, i have slain. poor, unknown victims!--real my pain! what widows, orphans, sweethearts see their dead this cruel, hopeless dawn? _france, ._ _despair_ the long and tedious months move slowly by and february's chill has fled away before the gales of march, and now e'en they have died upon the peaceful april sky: and still i sadly wander, still i sigh, and all the splendour of each springtime day is dyed, for me, one melancholy grey, and all its beauty can but make me cry. for thou art silent, oh! far distant friend, and not one word has come to cheer my heart through these sad months, which seem to have no end, so distant seems the day which bade us part! oh speak! dear fair-haired angel! spring has smiled, and i despair--a broken-hearted child. france, . _the horrors of flying_ the day is cold; the wind is strong; and through the sky great cloud-banks throng, while swathes of snow lie on the ground o'er which i walk without a sound, but i have vowed to fly to-day though winds are fierce, and clouds are grey. my aeroplane is on the field; so i must fly--my fate is sealed, and no excuses can i make; within its back my place i take. i strap myself inside the seat and press the rudder with my feet, and hold the wheel with nervous grip and gaze around my little ship-- for on its wire-rigging taut depends my life--which will be short if it should fail me in the air; swift then my fall, and short my prayer, and these my wings would be my pyre-- so well i scrutinise each wire! then out across the field i go in shaking progress,--noisy--slow; and turn, until the wind i face, then do i look around a space; for fear to-day is at my heart and nervously i fear to start. the field is clear--the skies are bare-- mine is the freedom of the air! and yet i sit and hesitate, although each moment that i wait brings to my soul a greater fear. to me the grass seems very dear-- dear seems the hut where dreams have crept to me each midnight as i slept-- dear seems the river, by whose brink i oft have watched brown pebbles sink deep in the crumbling bridge's shade, where in the evening i have strayed! my restless hands hold fast the wheel; once more the wing-controls i feel. i move the rudder with my feet, and settle firmly in the seat. i start, and o'er the snowy grass in ever quicker progress pass: on either side the ground streaks by, and soon above the grass i fly. i feel the air beneath the wings; at first a greater ease it brings-- but soon the stormy strife begins, and if i lose, 'tis death who wins. the winds a thousand devils hold, who grasp my wings with fingers bold, and keep me ceaselessly a-rock-- i seem to hear those devils mock as i am thrown from side to side in unseen eddies, terrified-- as suddenly i start to drop, and when my plunging fall i stop, up am i swiftly thrown once more! like no great eagle do i soar, but like a sparrow tempest-tost i struggle on! my faith is lost: my former confidence is dead, and whispering fear has come instead. death ever dogs me close behind-- my frightened soul no peace can find. i feel a torture in each nerve, as to the right or left i swerve. and now imagination brings its evil thoughts--i watch the wings, and wonder if those wings will break-- the tight-stretched wires seem to shake. i see the ghastly, headlong rush, and picture how the fall would crush my helpless body on the ground. with haggard eyes i turn around, and contemplate the rocking tail,-- my drawn and sweating cheeks are pale. fear's clammy hands clutch at my heart! i try, with unavailing art, to summon thoughts of peaceful hours spent in some sunny field of flowers when my half-opened eyes would look on some old dream-inspiring book, and not on this accursèd wheel, and on this box of wood and steel in which at pitch-and-toss with death, i play, and wonder if each breath i tensely draw, will be my last. the happy thoughts are swiftly past-- my frightened brain forbids them stay. dear london seems so far away, and far away my well-loved friends! each second my existence ends in my disordered mind, whose pace i cannot check--its cog-wheels race, like some ungoverned, whirring clock, when, frenziedly, it runs amok. i have resolved that i will climb a certain height--how slow seems time as on its sluggish pivot creeps the laggard finger-point, which keeps the truthful record. o, how slow towards the clouds i seem to go! and then ambition gains its mark at last! the little finger o'er the point has passed! i can descend again. with conscience clear and end this battle with persistent fear! the engine's clamour dies--there is no sound save whistling wires--as towards the ground i gently float. my agony is gone. what peace is mine as i go gliding on! calm after storm--contentment after pain-- soft sleep to some tempestuous, burning brain-- the soothing harbour after foamy seas-- the gentle feeling of a perfect ease-- all, all are mine--though yet by gusts distressed! near is the ground, and with the ground comes rest. above the trees i glide--above the grass, above the snow-besprinkled earth i pass. i touch the ground, run swift along, and stop-- above the wheel my tired shoulders drop. i leave my seat, and slowly move away ... cold is the wind: the clouds are grey, i only wish my room to gain, and in some book forget my pain, and lose myself in fancied dreams across titania's golden streams. _france, ._ _dreams of autumn_ when through the heat of some long afternoon in blazing august, on the grass i lie, and watch the white clouds move across the sky, on whose azure is faintly etched the moon, that, when the evening deepens, will be soon the brightest figure of those hosts on high, my heart is discontented, and i sigh, for autumn and its vapours; till i swoon upon the vision of october days in dreaming london, when each mighty tree sheds daily more brown showers through the haze, which lends each street romance and mystery-- when pallid silver sunshine only gleams on that grey lovers' city of sweet dreams. _isle of grain, ._ _to carlton berry_ killed in an aeroplane accident, july, it was thy will, o god. and so he died! for seventeen sweet years he was a child upon whose grace thy loving-kindness smiled, for he was clean, and full of youthful pride; and, when his years drew on, then thou denied that he by man's estate should be defiled, and so thou call'st him to thy presence mild to be with thee for ever, by thy side. nor is he dead! he lives in three great spheres. his soul is with thee in thy home above: his influence,--with friends of former years: his memory with those he used to love. he is an emblem of that trinity with whom he lives in happy ecstasy. _isle of grain, ._ _london in may_ two long, full years have passed since i have smelt sweet london in this happy month of may! last year relentless war bore me away to imbros isle, where six sad months i dwelt beneath a burning sun--nor ever felt one breath of gentle spring blow o'er the bay between whose sun-dried hills so long i lay a restless captive. now has fortune dealt more kindly with me: once again i know the drowsy languor of the afternoons: the soft white clouds: the may-tree's whiter snow: the star-bound evenings, and the ivory moons. my heart, dear god! leaps up till it is pain with thanks to thee that i am here again. _london._ _a fallen leaf_ when death has crossed my name from out the roll of dreaming children serving in this war; and with these earthly eyes i gaze no more upon sweet england's grace--perhaps my soul will visit streets down which i used to stroll at sunset-charmèd dusks, when london's roar like ebbing surf on some atlantic shore would trance the ear. then may i hear no toll of heavy bells to burden all the air with tuneless grief: for happy will i be!-- what place on earth could ever be more fair than god's own presence?--mourn not then for me, nor write, i pray, "_he gave_"--upon my clod-- "_his life to england_," but "_his soul to god_." _isle of sheppey, ._ _the star_ i stood, one azure dusk, in old auxerre before the grey cathedral's towering height, and in the eastern darkness, very fair i saw a little star that twinkled bright; how small it looked beside the mighty pile, whose stone was rosy with the western glow-- a little star--i pondered for a while, and then the solemn truth began to know. that tiny star was some enormous sphere, the great cathedral was an atomy-- so often when grey trouble looms so near that god shines in our minds but distantly,-- if we but thought, our grief would seem so small that we would see that god's great love was all. _france, ._ _islington_ here slow decay with creeping finger peels the yellow plaster from the grimy walls, like leprous lichen, day by day which falls, and, day by day, more rotting stone reveals! here are old mournful squares through which there steals no cheerful music, or the heedless calls of laughing children; and the smoke, which crawls across the sky, the heavy silence seals! lean, blackened trees stretch up their withered boughs behind the rusty railings, prison-bound, in vain they seek the summer sunlight's gold in which their long-dead fathers used to drowse: for pallid terraces lie far around, in gloomy sadness ever growing old. _ochey-les-bains, ._ _the country beautiful_ i love the little daisies on the lawn which contemplate with wide and placid eyes the blue and white enamel of the skies-- the larks which sing their mattin-song at dawn, high o'er the earth, and see the new day born, all stained with amethyst and amber dyes. i love the shadowy woodland's hidden prize of fragrant violets, which the dewy morn doth open gently underneath the trees to cast elusive perfume on each hour-- the waving clover, full of drowsy bees, that take their murmurous way from flower to flower. who could but think--deep in some sun-flecked glade-- how god must love these things that he has made? _eastchurch, ._ _chelsea_ how many of those youths who consecrate their lives to art, and worship at her shrine, and sacrifice their early hours and late in serving her exacting whims divine have gathered in old chelsea's shaded peace, whose faint, elusive charm, and gentle airs, bring inspiration fresh, and sweet release from trouble's haunting shapes and goblin cares? o! tree-embowered hamlet, whose demesne sleeps in the arms of london quietly, whose sparrow-haunted roads, and squares serene, from all the stress of life seem ever free-- o! are you more than just a passing dream beside the city's slim and lovely stream? _luxeuil-les-bains, ._ _k.l.h._ died of wounds received at the dardanelles. where stern grey busts of gods and heroes old frown down upon the corridors' chill stone, on which the sunbeam's amber pale is thrown from leaf-fringed windows, one of quiet mould gazed long at those white chronicles which told of honours that the stately school had known. he read the names: and wondered if his own would ever grace the walls in letters bold. he knew not that he for the school would gain a greater honour with a greater price-- that, no long years of work, but bitter pain and his rich life, he was to sacrifice-- not in a university's grey peace, but on the hilly sun-baked chersonese. _h.m.s. "manica," dardanelles, ._ _the fringe of heaven_ now have i left the world and all its tears, and high above the sunny cloud-banks fly, alone in all this vast and lonely sky-- this limpid space in which the myriad spheres go thundering on, whose song god only hears high in his heavens. ah! how small seem i, and yet i know he hears my little cry down there among mankind's cruel jest and sneers. and i forget the grief which i have known, and i forgive the mockers and their jest, and in this mightly solitude alone, i taste the joys of everlasting rest, which i shall know when i have passed away to live in heaven's never-fading day. _written in the air._ _three triolets_ colours. how bright is earth's rich gown none but an airman knows yellow, and green, and brown-- how bright is earth's rich gown! i see, as i gaze down, its purple, cream, and rose. how bright is earth's rich gown none but an airman knows! the sea. sad is the lonely sea-- so vast, and smooth, and grey it stretches far from me. sad is the lonely sea! its cheerful colours flee before the fading day. sad is the lonely sea so vast, and smooth, and grey! disillusion. you mortals see the sky-- i only see the ground, as through the air i fly. you mortals see the sky, and yet with envy sigh because to earth you're bound! you mortals see the sky-- _i_ only see the ground! _written in the air._ _cloud thoughts_ above the clouds i sail, above the clouds, and wish my mind above its clouds could climb as well, and leave behind the world and all its crowds, and ever dwell in such a calm and limpid solitude with ne'er a breath unkind or harsh or rude to break the spell-- with ne'er a thought to drive away the golden splendour of the day. alone and lost beneath the tranquil blue, my god! with you! _written in an aeroplane._ _autumn regrets_ that i were keats! and with a golden pen could for all time preserve these golden days in rich and glowing verse, for poorer men, who felt their wonder, but could only gaze with silent joy upon sweet autumn's face, and not record in any wise its grace! alas! but i am even dumb as they-- i cannot bid the fleeting hours stay, nor chain one moment on a page's space. that i were grieg! then, with a haunting air of murmurs soft, and swelling, grand refrains would i express my love of autumn fair with all its wealth of harvest, and warm rains: and with fantastic melodies inspire a memory of each mad sunset's fire in which the day goes slowly to its death as through the fragrant woods dim evening's breath doth soothe to sleep the drowsy songbirds' choir. that i were corot! then september's gold would i store up in painted treasuries that, when the world seemed grey i could behold its blazing colour with sweet memories, and each elusive colour would be mine that decorates these afternoons benign. ah! then i could enshrine each fleeting hue which dyes the woodland, and enslave the blue of sky and haze, with genius divine. how sad these wishes! when i have no art of poetry, or music, or of brush, with which to calm the swelling of my heart by capturing the misty country's hush in muted violins; i cannot hymn the shadowy silence of the copses dim; nor can i paint september's sky-crowned hills. gone then, the wonder which my vision fills, when all the earth is bound by winter grim! westgate. _to hilda_: on her seventeenth birthday. now has rich time brought you a gift of gold-- a long sweet year which you can shape at will, and deck with roses warm, or with the chill and heartless lilies--god gives strength to mould our days, and lives, with fingers firm and bold, and make them noble, straight and clean from ill, though few are willing, and their years they fill with dross which they regret when they are old. what splendid hours of your life are these when youth and childhood wander hand in hand, and give you freely all which best can please-- laughter and friends and dreams of fairyland! mourn not the seasons past with useless tears, but greet the pleasure of the coming years! france, . _clouds_ 'tis strange to leave this world of woods and hills, this world of little farms, and shady mills,-- of fields, and water-meadows fair, upon some sad and shadowy day when all the skies are overcast and grey, and climb up through the gloomy air, and ever hurry higher still, and higher, till underneath you lies a far-flung shire all sober-hued beneath the ceiling pale of crawling clouds, whose barrier soon you reach, and through their clammy vapours swiftly sail, their chill defences hoping soon to breach-- to see no skies above, no ground below, and in that nothingness toss to and fro is no sweet moment--will it never cease?-- climbing and diving, thrown from side to side,-- all suddenly there comes a sense of peace and o'er a wondrous scenery we glide. o! what a splendour! deep the cloudless blue whose sparkling azure has a gorgeous hue on earth you know not--flaming bright the sun which shines upon a landscape, snowy-white with all its power of unsullied light! deep in the shadowy valleys do we run, and then above the towering summits soar, and see for far-thrown miles yet, more and more, great mountain-ranges, rolling, white and soft, with shadowy passes, cool, and huge, and dim, where, surely, angels wander as they hymn their happy songs, which wing their way aloft to him who made the sun--the azure deep-- and all this gleaming land of peace and sleep. alone i wander o'er this virgin land-- all, all for me--below the ploughman plods along his furrows, and with restless hand the sower hurls his seed among the clods-- they cannot see the sun--grey is their sky,-- _i_ see the sun--the heaven's blue--on high! but i am human, and must e'en descend; i bid farewell to all this lovely scene, and plunge deep in a cloud--when will it end, this hazy voyage?--see! the chequered green, the scattered farmsteads, and the quiet sea, sunless and dim, come hurrying up to me. _france, ._ proofreading team. the war poems of siegfried sassoon london: william heinemann dans la trêve désolée de cette matinée, ces hommes qui avaient été tenaillés par la fatigue, fouettés par la pluie, bouleversés par toute une nuit de tonnerre, ces rescapés des volcans et de l'inondation entrevoyaient à quel point la guerre, aussi hideuse au moral qu'au physique, non seulement viole le bon sens, avilit les grandes idées, commande tous les crimes--mais ils se rappelaient combien elle avait développé en eux et autour d'eux tous les mauvais instincts sans en excepter un seul; la méchanceté jusqu'au sadisme, l'égoïsme jusqu'à la férocité, le besoin de jouir jusqu'à la folie. henri barbusse. (_le feu._) note of these poems, are now published for the first time. the remainder are selected from two previous volumes. contents i prelude: the troops dreamers the redeemer trench duty wirers break of day a working party stand-to: good friday morning "in the pink" the hero before the battle the road two hundred years after the dream at carnoy battalion relief the dug-out the rear-guard i stood with the dead suicide in trenches attack counter-attack the effect remorse in an underground dressing-station died of wounds ii "they" base details lamentations the general how to die editorial impressions fight to a finish atrocities the fathers "blighters" glory of women their frailty does it matter? survivors joy-bells arms and the man when i'm among a blaze of lights the kiss the tombstone-maker the one-legged man return of the heroes iii twelve months after to any dead officer sick leave banishment autumn repression of war experience together the hawthorn tree concert party night on the convoy a letter home reconciliation memorial tablet (great war) the death-bed aftermath song-books of the war everyone sang i prelude: the troops dim, gradual thinning of the shapeless gloom shudders to drizzling daybreak that reveals disconsolate men who stamp their sodden boots and turn dulled, sunken faces to the sky haggard and hopeless. they, who have beaten down the stale despair of night, must now renew their desolation in the truce of dawn, murdering the livid hours that grope for peace. yet these, who cling to life with stubborn hands, can grin through storms of death and find a gap in the clawed, cruel tangles of his defence. they march from safety, and the bird-sung joy of grass-green thickets, to the land where all is ruin, and nothing blossoms but the sky that hastens over them where they endure sad, smoking, flat horizons, reeking woods, and foundered trench-lines volleying doom for doom. o my brave brown companions, when your souls flock silently away, and the eyeless dead, shame the wild beast of battle on the ridge, death will stand grieving in that field of war since your unvanquished hardihood is spent. and through some mooned valhalla there will pass battalions and battalions, scarred from hell; the unreturning army that was youth; the legions who have suffered and are dust. dreamers soldiers are citizens of death's gray land, drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows. in the great hour of destiny they stand, each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows. soldiers are sworn to action; they must win some flaming, fatal climax with their lives. soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin they think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives. i see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats, and in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain, dreaming of things they did with balls and bats, and mocked by hopeless longing to regain bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats, and going to the office in the train. the redeemer darkness: the rain sluiced down; the mire was deep; it was past twelve on a mid-winter night, when peaceful folk in beds lay snug asleep: there, with much work to do before the light, we lugged our clay-sucked boots as best we might along the trench; sometimes a bullet sang, and droning shells burst with a hollow bang; we were soaked, chilled and wretched, every one. darkness: the distant wink of a huge gun. i turned in the black ditch, loathing the storm; a rocket fizzed and burned with blanching flare, and lit the face of what had been a form floundering in mirk. he stood before me there; i say that he was christ; stiff in the glare, and leaning forward from his burdening task, both arms supporting it; his eyes on mine stared from the woeful head that seemed a mask of mortal pain in hell's unholy shine. no thorny crown, only a woollen cap he wore--an english soldier, white and strong, who loved his time like any simple chap, good days of work and sport and homely song; now he has learned that nights are very long, and dawn a watching of the windowed sky. but to the end, unjudging, he'll endure horror and pain, not uncontent to die that lancaster on lune may stand secure. he faced me, reeling in his weariness, shouldering his load of planks, so hard to bear. i say that he was christ, who wrought to bless all groping things with freedom bright as air, and with his mercy washed and made them fair. then the flame sank, and all grew black as pitch, while we began to struggle along the ditch; and some one flung his burden in the muck, mumbling: "o christ almighty, now i'm stuck!" trench duty shaken from sleep, and numbed and scarce awake, out in the trench with three hours' watch to take, i blunder through the splashing mirk; and then hear the gruff muttering voices of the men crouching in cabins candle-chinked with light. hark! there's the big bombardment on our right rumbling and bumping; and the dark's a glare of flickering horror in the sectors where we raid the boche; men waiting, stiff and chilled, or crawling on their bellies through the wire. "what? stretcher-bearers wanted? some one killed?" five minutes ago i heard a sniper fire: why did he do it?... starlight overhead-- blank stars. i'm wide-awake; and some chap's dead. wirers "pass it along, the wiring party's going out"-- and yawning sentries mumble, "wirers going out." unravelling; twisting; hammering stakes with muffled thud, they toil with stealthy haste and anger in their blood. the boche sends up a flare. black forms stand rigid there, stock-still like posts; then darkness, and the clumsy ghosts stride hither and thither, whispering, tripped by clutching snare of snags and tangles. ghastly dawn with vaporous coasts gleams desolate along the sky, night's misery ended. young hughes was badly hit; i heard him carried away, moaning at every lurch; no doubt he'll die to-day. but _we_ can say the front-line wire's been safely mended. break of day there seemed a smell of autumn in the air at the bleak end of night; he shivered there in a dank, musty dug-out where he lay, legs wrapped in sand-bags,--lumps of chalk and clay spattering his face. dry-mouthed, he thought, "to-day we start the damned attack; and, lord knows why, zero's at nine; how bloody if i'm done in under the freedom of that morning sky!" and then he coughed and dozed, cursing the din. was it the ghost of autumn in that smell of underground, or god's blank heart grown kind, that sent a happy dream to him in hell?-- where men are crushed like clods, and crawl to find some crater for their wretchedness; who lie in outcast immolation, doomed to die far from clean things or any hope of cheer, cowed anger in their eyes, till darkness brims and roars into their heads, and they can hear old childish talk, and tags of foolish hymns. he sniffs the chilly air; (his dreaming starts). he's riding in a dusty sussex lane in quiet september; slowly night departs; and he's a living soul, absolved from pain. beyond the brambled fences where he goes are glimmering fields with harvest piled in sheaves, and tree-tops dark against the stars grown pale; then, clear and shrill, a distant farm-cock crows; and there's a wall of mist along the vale where willows shake their watery-sounding leaves. he gazes on it all, and scarce believes that earth is telling its old peaceful tale; he thanks the blessed world that he was born.... then, far away, a lonely note of the horn. they're drawing the big wood! unlatch the gate, and set golumpus going on the grass: _he_ knows the corner where it's best to wait and hear the crashing woodland chorus pass; the corner where old foxes make their track to the long spinney; that's the place to be. the bracken shakes below an ivied tree, and then a cub looks out; and "tally-o-back!" he bawls, and swings his thong with volleying crack,-- all the clean thrill of autumn in his blood, and hunting surging through him like a flood in joyous welcome from the untroubled past; while the war drifts away, forgotten at last. now a red, sleepy sun above the rim of twilight stares along the quiet weald, and the kind, simple country shines revealed in solitudes of peace, no longer dim. the old horse lifts his face and thanks the light, then stretches down his head to crop the green. all things that he has loved are in his sight; the places where his happiness has been are in his eyes, his heart, and they are good. * * * * * hark! there's the horn: they're drawing the big wood. a working party three hours ago he blundered up the trench, sliding and poising, groping with his boots; sometimes he tripped and lurched against the walls with hands that pawed the sodden bags of chalk. he couldn't see the man who walked in front; only he heard the drum and rattle of feet stepping along the trench-boards,--often splashing wretchedly where the sludge was ankle-deep. voices would grunt, "keep to your right,--make way!" when squeezing past the men from the front-line: white faces peered, puffing a point of red; candles and braziers glinted through the chinks and curtain-flaps of dug-outs; then the gloom swallowed his sense of sight; he stooped and swore because a sagging wire had caught his neck. a flare went up; the shining whiteness spread and flickered upward, showing nimble rats, and mounds of glimmering sand-bags, bleached with rain; then the slow, silver moment died in dark. the wind came posting by with chilly gusts and buffeting at corners, piping thin and dreary through the crannies; rifle-shots would split and crack and sing along the night, and shells came calmly through the drizzling air to burst with hollow bang below the hill. three hours ago he stumbled up the trench; now he will never walk that road again: he must be carried back, a jolting lump beyond all need of tenderness and care; a nine-stone corpse with nothing more to do. he was a young man with a meagre wife and two pale children in a midland town; he showed the photograph to all his mates; and they considered him a decent chap who did his work and hadn't much to say, and always laughed at other people's jokes because he hadn't any of his own. that night, when he was busy at his job of piling bags along the parapet, he thought how slow time went, stamping his feet, and blowing on his fingers, pinched with cold. he thought of getting back by half-past twelve, and tot of rum to send him warm to sleep in draughty dug-out frowsty with the fumes of coke, and full of snoring, weary men. he pushed another bag along the top, craning his body outward; then a flare gave one white glimpse of no man's land and wire; and as he dropped his head the instant split his startled life with lead, and all went out. stand-to: good friday morning i'd been on duty from two till four. i went and stared at the dug-out door. down in the frowst i heard them snore. "stand-to!" somebody grunted and swore. dawn was misty; the skies were still; larks were singing, discordant, shrill; _they_ seemed happy; but _i_ felt ill. deep in water i splashed my way up the trench to our bogged front line. rain had fallen the whole damned night. o jesus, send me a wound to-day, and i'll believe in your bread and wine, and get my bloody old sins washed white! "in the pink" so davies wrote: "this leaves me in the pink." then scrawled his name: "your loving sweetheart, willie." with crosses for a hug. he'd had a drink of rum and tea; and, though the barn was chilly, for once his blood ran warm; he had pay to spend. winter was passing; soon the year would mend. he couldn't sleep that night. stiff in the dark he groaned and thought of sundays at the farm, when he'd go out as cheerful as a lark in his best suit to wander arm-in-arm with brown-eyed gwen, and whisper in her ear the simple, silly things she liked to hear. and then he thought: to-morrow night we trudge up to the trenches, and my boots are rotten. five miles of stodgy clay and freezing sludge, and everything but wretchedness forgotten. to-night he's in the pink; but soon he'll die. and still the war goes on; _he_ don't know why. the hero "jack fell as he'd have wished," the mother said, and folded up the letter that she'd read. "the colonel writes so nicely." something broke in the tired voice that quavered to a choke. she half looked up. "we mothers are so proud of our dead soldiers." then her face was bowed. quietly the brother officer went out. he'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies that she would nourish all her days, no doubt. for while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy, because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy. he thought how "jack," cold-footed, useless swine, had panicked down the trench that night the mine went up at wicked corner; how he'd tried to get sent home; and how, at last, he died, blown to small bits. and no one seemed to care except that lonely woman with white hair. before the battle music of whispering trees hushed by the broad-winged breeze where shaken water gleams; and evening radiance falling with reedy bird-notes calling. o bear me safe through dark, you low-voiced streams. i have no need to pray that fear may pass away; i scorn the growl and rumble of the fight that summons me from cool silence of marsh and pool, and yellow lilies islanded in light. o river of stars and shadows, lead me through the night. _june th, ._ the road the road is thronged with women; soldiers pass and halt, but never see them; yet they're here-- a patient crowd along the sodden grass, silent, worn out with waiting, sick with fear. the road goes crawling up a long hillside, all ruts and stones and sludge, and the emptied dregs of battle thrown in heaps. here where they died are stretched big-bellied horses with stiff legs; and dead men, bloody-fingered from the fight, stare up at caverned darkness winking white. you in the bomb-scorched kilt, poor sprawling jock, you tottered here and fell, and stumbled on, half dazed for want of sleep. no dream could mock your reeling brain with comforts lost and gone. you did not feel her arms about your knees, her blind caress, her lips upon your head: too tired for thoughts of home and love and ease, the road would serve you well enough for bed. two hundred years after trudging by corbie ridge one winter's night, (unless old, hearsay memories tricked his sight), along the pallid edge of the quiet sky he watched a nosing lorry grinding on, and straggling files of men; when these were gone, a double limber and six mules went by, hauling the rations up through ruts and mud to trench-lines digged two hundred years ago. then darkness hid them with a rainy scud, and soon he saw the village lights below. but when he'd told his tale, an old man said that _he'd_ seen soldiers pass along that hill; "poor, silent things, they were the english dead who came to fight in france and got their fill." the dream i moonlight and dew-drenched blossom, and the scent of summer gardens; these can bring you all those dreams that in the starlit silence fall: sweet songs are full of odours. while i went last night in drizzling dusk along a lane, i passed a squalid farm; from byre and midden came the rank smell that brought me once again a dream of war that in the past was hidden. ii up a disconsolate straggling village street i saw the tired troops trudge: i heard their feet. the cheery q.m.s. was there to meet and guide our company in.... i watched them stumble. into some crazy hovel, too beat to grumble; saw them file inward, slipping from their backs rifles, equipment, packs. on filthy straw they sit in the gloom, each face bowed to patched, sodden boots they must unlace, while the wind chills their sweat through chinks and cracks. iii i'm looking at their blistered feet; young jones stares up at me, mud-splashed and white and jaded; out of his eyes the morning light has faded. old soldiers with three winters in their bones puff their damp woodbines, whistle, stretch their toes _they_ can still grin at me, for each of 'em knows that i'm as tired as they are.... can they guess the secret burden that is always mine?-- pride in their courage; pity for their distress; and burning bitterness that i must take them to the accursèd line. iv i cannot hear their voices, but i see dim candles in the barn: they gulp their tea, and soon they'll sleep like logs. ten miles away the battle winks and thuds in blundering strife. and i must lead them nearer, day by day, to the foul beast of war that bludgeons life. at carnoy down in the hollow there's the whole brigade camped in four groups: through twilight falling slow i hear a sound of mouth-organs, ill-played, and murmur of voices, gruff, confused, and low. crouched among thistle-tufts i've watched the glow of a blurred orange sunset flare and fade; and i'm content. to-morrow we must go to take some cursèd wood.... o world god made! _july rd, ._ battalion relief "_fall in! now, get a move on!_" (curse the rain.) we splash away along the straggling village, out to the flat rich country green with june.... and sunset flares across wet crops and tillage, blazing with splendour-patches. harvest soon up in the line. "_perhaps the war'll be done by christmas-time. keep smiling then, old son!_" here's the canal: it's dusk; we cross the bridge. "_lead on there by platoons._" the line's a-glare with shell-fire through the poplars; distant rattle of rifles and machine-guns. "_fritz is there! christ, ain't it lively, sergeant? is't a battle?_" more rain: the lightning blinks, and thunder rumbles. "there's overhead artillery," some chap grumbles. "_what's all this mob, by the cross-road?_" (the guides).... "_lead on with number one_" (and off they go.) "_three-minute intervals._" ... poor blundering files, sweating and blindly burdened; who's to know if death will catch them in those two dark miles? (more rain.) "_lead on, headquarters._" (that's the lot.) "_who's that? o, sergeant-major; don't get shot! and tell me, have we won this war or not?_" the dug-out why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled, and one arm bent across your sullen cold exhausted face? it hurts my heart to watch you, deep-shadow'd from the candle's guttering gold; and you wonder why i shake you by the shoulder; drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head.... _you are too young to fall asleep for ever; and when you sleep you remind me of the dead._ the rear-guard (hindenburg line, april .) groping along the tunnel, step by step, he winked his prying torch with patching glare from side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air. tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague to know, a mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed; and he, exploring fifty feet below the rosy gloom of battle overhead. tripping, he grabbed the wall; saw some one lie humped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug, and stooped to give the sleeper's arm a tug. "i'm looking for headquarters." no reply. "god blast your neck!" (for days he'd had no sleep,) "get up and guide me through this stinking place." savage, he kicked a soft, unanswering heap, and flashed his beam across the livid face terribly glaring up, whose eyes yet wore agony dying hard ten days before; and fists of fingers clutched a blackening wound. alone he staggered on until he found dawn's ghost that filtered down a shafted stair to the dazed, muttering creatures underground who hear the boom of shells in muffled sound. at last, with sweat of horror in his hair, he climbed through darkness to the twilight air, unloading hell behind him step by step. i stood with the dead i stood with the dead, so forsaken and still: when dawn was grey i stood with the dead. and my slow heart said, "you must kill; you must kill: soldier, soldier, morning is red." on the shapes of the slain in their crumpled disgrace i stared for a while through the thin cold rain.... "o lad that i loved, there is rain on your face, and your eyes are blurred and sick like the plain." i stood with the dead.... they were dead; they were dead; my heart and my head beat a march of dismay; and gusts of the wind came dulled by the guns.... "fall in!" i shouted; "fall in for your pay!" suicide in trenches i knew a simple soldier boy who grinned at life in empty joy, slept soundly through the lonesome dark, and whistled early with the lark. in winter trenches, cowed and glum with crumps and lice and lack of rum, he put a bullet through his brain. no one spoke of him again. * * * * * you smug-faced crowds with kindling eye who cheer when soldier lads march by, sneak home and pray you'll never know the hell where youth and laughter go. attack at dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun in the wild purple of the glowering sun smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud the menacing scarred slope; and, one by one, tanks creep and topple forward to the wire. the barrage roars and lifts. then, clumsily bowed with bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear, men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire. lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear, they leave their trenches, going over the top, while time ticks blank and busy on their wrists, and hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists, flounders in mud. o jesu, make it stop! counter-attack we'd gained our first objective hours before while dawn broke like a face with blinking eyes, pallid, unshaved and thirsty, blind with smoke. things seemed all right at first. we held their line, with bombers posted, lewis guns well placed, and clink of shovels deepening the shallow trench. the place was rotten with dead; green clumsy legs high-booted, sprawled and grovelled along the saps and trunks, face downward in the sucking mud, wallowed like trodden sand-bags loosely filled; and naked sodden buttocks, mats of hair, bulged, clotted heads, slept in the plastering slime. and then the rain began,--the jolly old rain! a yawning soldier knelt against the bank, staring across the morning blear with fog; he wondered when the allemands would get busy; and then, of course, they started with five-nines traversing, sure as fate, and never a dud. mute in the clamour of shells he watched them burst spouting dark earth and wire with gusts from hell, while posturing giants dissolved in drifts of smoke. he crouched and flinched, dizzy with galloping fear, sick for escape,--loathing the strangled horror and butchered, frantic gestures of the dead. an officer came blundering down the trench: "stand-to and man the fire-step!" on he went.... gasping and bawling, "fire-step ... counter-attack!" then the haze lifted. bombing on the right down the old sap: machine-guns on the left; and stumbling figures looming out in front. "o christ, they're coming at us!" bullets spat, and he remembered his rifle ... rapid fire ... and started blazing wildly ... then a bang crumpled and spun him sideways, knocked him out to grunt and wriggle: none heeded him; he choked and fought the flapping veils of smothering gloom, lost in a blurred confusion of yells and groans.... down, and down, and down, he sank and drowned, bleeding to death. the counter-attack had failed. the effect "the effect of our bombardment was terrific. one man told me he had never seen so many dead before." _war correspondent._ "_he'd never seen so many dead before._" they sprawled in yellow daylight while he swore and gasped and lugged his everlasting load of bombs along what once had been a road. "_how peaceful are the dead._" who put that silly gag in some one's head? "_he'd never seen so many dead before._" the lilting words danced up and down his brain, while corpses jumped and capered in the rain. no, no; he wouldn't count them any more.... the dead have done with pain: they've choked; they can't come back to life again. when dick was killed last week he looked like that, flapping along the fire-step like a fish, after the blazing crump had knocked him flat.... "_how many dead? as many as ever you wish. don't count 'em; they're too many. who'll buy my nice fresh corpses, two a penny?_" remorse lost in the swamp and welter of the pit, he flounders off the duck-boards; only he knows each flash and spouting crash,--each instant lit when gloom reveals the streaming rain. he goes heavily, blindly on. and, while he blunders, "could anything be worse than this?"--he wonders, remembering how he saw those germans run, screaming for mercy among the stumps of trees: green-faced, they dodged and darted: there was one livid with terror, clutching at his knees.... our chaps were sticking 'em like pigs.... "o hell!" he thought--"there's things in war one dare not tell poor father sitting safe at home, who reads of dying heroes and their deathless deeds." in an underground dressing-station quietly they set their burden down: he tried to grin; moaned; moved his head from side to side. * * * * * he gripped the stretcher; stiffened; glared; and screamed, "o put my leg down, doctor, do!" (he'd got a bullet in his ankle; and he'd been shot horribly through the guts.) the surgeon seemed so kind and gentle, saying, above that crying, "you _must_ keep still, my lad." but he was dying. died of wounds his wet, white face and miserable eyes brought nurses to him more than groans and sighs: but hoarse and low and rapid rose and fell his troubled voice: he did the business well. the ward grew dark; but he was still complaining, and calling out for "dickie." "curse the wood! it's time to go; o christ, and what's the good?-- we'll never take it; and it's always raining." i wondered where he'd been; then heard him shout, "they snipe like hell! o dickie, don't go out" ... i fell asleep ... next morning he was dead; and some slight wound lay smiling on his bed. ii "they" the bishop tells us: "when the boys come back they will not be the same; for they'll have fought in a just cause: they lead the last attack on anti-christ; their comrade's blood has bought new right to breed an honourable race. they have challenged death and dared him face to face." "we're none of us the same!" the boys reply. "for george lost both his legs; and bill's stone blind; poor jim's shot through the lungs and like to die; and bert's gone syphilitic: you'll not find a chap who's served that hasn't found _some_ change." and the bishop said; "the ways of god are strange!" base details if i were fierce, and bald, and short of breath, i'd live with scarlet majors at the base, and speed glum heroes up the line to death. you'd see me with my puffy petulant face, guzzling and gulping in the best hotel, reading the roll of honour. "poor young chap," i'd say--"i used to know his father well; yes, we've lost heavily in this last scrap." and when the war is done and youth stone dead, i'd toddle safely home and die--in bed. lamentations i found him in a guard-room at the base. from the blind darkness i had heard his crying and blundered in. with puzzled, patient face a sergeant watched him; it was no good trying to stop it; for he howled and beat his chest. and, all because his brother had gone west, raved at the bleeding war; his rampant grief moaned, shouted, sobbed, and choked, while he was kneeling half-naked on the floor. in my belief such men have lost all patriotic feeling. the general "good-morning; good-morning!" the general said when we met him last week on our way to the line, now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead, and we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine. "he's a cheery old card," grunted harry to jack as they slogged up to arras with rifle and pack. * * * * * but he did for them both by his plan of attack. how to die dark clouds are smouldering into red while down the craters morning burns. the dying soldier shifts his head to watch the glory that returns: he lifts his fingers toward the skies where holy brightness breaks in flame; radiance reflected in his eyes, and on his lips a whispered name. you'd think, to hear some people talk, that lads go west with sobs and curses, and sullen faces white as chalk, hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses. but they've been taught the way to do it like christian soldiers; not with haste and shuddering groans; but passing through it with due regard for decent taste. editorial impression he seemed so certain "all was going well," as he discussed the glorious time he'd had while visiting the trenches. "one can tell you've gathered big impressions!" grinned the lad who'd been severely wounded in the back in some wiped-out impossible attack. "impressions? yes, most vivid! i am writing a little book called _europe on the rack_, based on notes made while witnessing the fighting. i hope i've caught the feeling of 'the line,' and the amazing spirit of the troops. by jove, those flying-chaps of ours are fine! i watched one daring beggar looping loops, soaring and diving like some bird of prey. and through it all i felt that splendour shine which makes us win." the soldier sipped his wine. "ah, yes, but it's the press that leads the way!" fight to a finish the boys came back. bands played and flags were flying, and yellow-pressmen thronged the sunlit street to cheer the soldiers who'd refrained from dying, and hear the music of returning feet. "of all the thrills and ardours war has brought, this moment is the finest." (so they thought.) snapping their bayonets on to charge the mob, grim fusiliers broke ranks with glint of steel. at last the boys had found a cushy job. * * * * * i heard the yellow-pressmen grunt and squeal; and with my trusty bombers turned and went to clear those junkers out of parliament. atrocities you told me, in your drunken-boasting mood, how once you butchered prisoners. that was good! i'm sure you felt no pity while they stood patient and cowed and scared, as prisoners should. how did you do them in? come, don't be shy: you know i love to hear how germans die, downstairs in dug-outs. "camerad!" they cry; then squeal like stoats when bombs begin to fly. * * * * * and you? i know your record. you went sick when orders looked unwholesome: then, with trick and lie, you wangled home. and here you are, still talking big and boozing in a bar. the fathers snug at the club two fathers sat, gross, goggle-eyed, and full of chat. one of them said: "my eldest lad writes cheery letters from bagdad. but arthur's getting all the fun at arras with his nine-inch gun." "yes," wheezed the other, "that's the luck! my boy's quite broken-hearted, stuck in england training all this year. still, if there's truth in what we hear, the huns intend to ask for more before they bolt across the rhine." i watched them toddle through the door-- these impotent old friends of mine. "blighters" the house is crammed: tier beyond tier they grin and cackle at the show, while prancing ranks of harlots shrill the chorus, drunk with din; "we're sure the kaiser loves the dear old tanks!" i'd like to see a tank come down the stalls, lurching to rag-time tunes, or "home, sweet home,"-- and there'd be no more jokes in music-halls to mock the riddled corpses round bapaume. glory of women you love us when we're heroes, home on leave, or wounded in a mentionable place. you worship decorations; you believe that chivalry redeems the war's disgrace. you make us shells. you listen with delight, by tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled. you crown our distant ardours while we fight, and mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed. you can't believe that british troops "retire" when hell's last horror breaks them, and they run, trampling the terrible corpses--blind with blood. _o german mother dreaming by the fire, while you are knitting socks to send your son his face is trodden deeper in the mud._ their frailty he's got a blighty wound. he's safe; and then war's fine and bold and bright. she can forget the doomed and prisoned men who agonize and fight. he's back in france. she loathes the listless strain and peril of his plight. beseeching heaven to send him home again, she prays for peace each night. husbands and sons and lovers; everywhere they die; war bleeds us white. mothers and wives and sweethearts,--they don't care so long as he's all right. does it matter? does it matter?--losing your legs?... for people will always be kind, and you need not show that you mind when the others come in after football to gobble their muffins and eggs. does it matter?--losing your sight?... there's such splendid work for the blind; and people will always be kind, as you sit on the terrace remembering and turning your face to the light. do they matter?--those dreams from the pit?... you can drink and forget and be glad, and people won't say that you're mad; for they'll know that you've fought for your country, and no one will worry a bit. survivors no doubt they'll soon get well; the shock and strain have caused their stammering, disconnected talk. of course they're "longing to go out again,"-- these boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk, they'll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed subjection to the ghosts of friends who died,-- their dreams that drip with murder; and they'll be proud of glorious war that shatter'd all their pride.... men who went out to battle, grim and glad; children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad. craiglockhart, _oct. ._ joy-bells ring your sweet bells; but let them be farewells to the green-vista'd gladness of the past that changed us into soldiers; swing your bells to a joyful chime; but let it be the last. what means this metal in windy belfries hung when guns are all our need? dissolve these bells whose tones are tuned for peace: with martial tongue let them cry doom and storm the sun with shells. bells are like fierce-browed prelates who proclaim that "if our lord returned he'd fight for us." so let our bells and bishops do the same, shoulder to shoulder with the motor-bus. arms and the man young croesus went to pay his call on colonel sawbones, caxton hall: and, though his wound was healed and mended, he hoped he'd get his leave extended. the waiting-room was dark and bare. he eyed a neat-framed notice there above the fireplace hung to show disabled heroes where to go for arms and legs; with scale of price, and words of dignified advice how officers could get them free. elbow or shoulder, hip or knee,-- two arms, two legs, though all were lost, they'd be restored him free of cost. then a girl-guide looked in to say, "will captain croesus come this way?" when i'm among a blaze of lights ... when i'm among a blaze of lights, with tawdry music and cigars and women dawdling through delights, and officers at cocktail bars,-- sometimes i think of garden nights and elm trees nodding at the stars. i dream of a small firelit room with yellow candles burning straight, and glowing pictures in the gloom, and kindly books that hold me late. of things like these i love to think when i can never be alone: then some one says, "another drink?"-- and turns my living heart to stone. the kiss to these i turn, in these i trust; brother lead and sister steel. to his blind power i make appeal; i guard her beauty clean from rust. he spins and burns and loves the air, and splits a skull to win my praise; but up the nobly marching days she glitters naked, cold and fair. sweet sister, grant your soldier this; that in good fury he may feel the body where he sets his heel quail from your downward darting kiss. the tombstone-maker he primmed his loose red mouth, and leaned his head against a sorrowing angel's breast, and said: "you'd think so much bereavement would have made unusual big demands upon my trade. the war comes cruel hard on some poor folk-- unless the fighting stops i'll soon be broke." he eyed the cemetery across the road-- "there's scores of bodies out abroad, this while, that should be here by rights; they little know'd how they'd get buried in such wretched style." i told him, with a sympathetic grin, that germans boil dead soldiers down for fat; and he was horrified. "what shameful sin! o sir, that christian men should come to that!" the one-legged man propped on a stick he viewed the august weald; squat orchard trees and oasts with painted cowls; a homely, tangled hedge, a corn-stooked field, with sound of barking dogs and farmyard fowls. and he'd come home again to find it more desirable than ever it was before. how right it seemed that he should reach the span of comfortable years allowed to man! splendid to eat and sleep and choose a wife, safe with his wound, a citizen of life. he hobbled blithely through the garden gate, and thought; "thank god they had to amputate!" return of the heroes _a lady watches from the crowd, enthusiastic, flushed, and proud._ "oh! there's sir henry dudster! such a splendid leader! how pleased he looks! what rows of ribbons on his tunic! such dignity.... saluting.... (_wave your flag ... now, freda!_)... yes, dear, i saw a prussian general once,--at munich. "here's the next carriage!... jack was once in leggit's corps; that's him!... i think the stout one is sir godfrey stoomer. they _must_ feel sad to know they can't win any more great victories!... aren't they glorious men?... so full of humour!" iii twelve months after hullo! here's my platoon, the lot i had last year. "the war'll be over soon." "what 'opes?" "no bloody fear!" then, "number seven, 'shun! all present and correct." they're standing in the sun, impassive and erect. young gibson with his grin; and morgan, tired and white; jordan, who's out to win a d.c.m. some night: and hughes that's keen on wiring; and davies (' ), who always must be firing at the boche front line. * * * * * "old soldiers never die; they simply fide a-why!" that's what they used to sing along the roads last spring; that's what they used to say before the push began; that's where they are to-day, knocked over to a man. to any dead officer well, how are things in heaven? i wish you'd say, because i'd like to know that you're all right. tell me, have you found everlasting day, or been sucked in by everlasting night? for when i shut my eyes your face shows plain; i hear you make some cheery old remark-- i can rebuild you in my brain, though you've gone out patrolling in the dark. you hated tours of trenches; you were proud of nothing more than having good years to spend; longed to get home and join the careless crowd of chaps who work in peace with time for friend. that's all washed out now. you're beyond the wire: no earthly chance can send you crawling back; you've finished with machine-gun fire-- knocked over in a hopeless dud-attack. somehow i always thought you'd get done in, because you were so desperate keen to live: you were all out to try and save your skin, well knowing how much the world had got to give. you joked at shells and talked the usual "shop," stuck to your dirty job and did it fine: with "jesus christ! when _will_ it stop? three years.... it's hell unless we break their line." so when they told me you'd been left for dead i wouldn't believe them, feeling it _must_ be true. next week the bloody roll of honour said "wounded and missing"--(that's the thing to do when lads are left in shell-holes dying slow, with nothing but blank sky and wounds that ache, moaning for water till they know it's night, and then it's not worth while to wake!) * * * * * good-bye, old lad! remember me to god, and tell him that our politicians swear they won't give in till prussian rule's been trod under the heel of england.... are you there?... yes ... and the war won't end for at least two years; but we've got stacks of men ... i'm blind with tears, staring into the dark. cheero! i wish they'd killed you in a decent show. sick leave when i'm asleep, dreaming and lulled and warm,-- they come, the homeless ones, the noiseless dead. while the dim charging breakers of the storm bellow and drone and rumble overhead, out of the gloom they gather about my bed. they whisper to my heart; their thoughts are mine. "why are you here with all your watches ended? from ypres to frise we sought you in the line." in bitter safety i awake, unfriended; and while the dawn begins with slashing rain i think of the battalion in the mud. "when are you going out to them again? are they not still your brothers through our blood?" banishment i am banished from the patient men who fight. they smote my heart to pity, built my pride. shoulder to aching shoulder, side by side, they trudged away from life's broad wealds of light. their wrongs were mine; and ever in my sight they went arrayed in honour. but they died,-- not one by one: and mutinous i cried to those who sent them out into the night. the darkness tells how vainly i have striven to free them from the pit where they must dwell in outcast gloom convulsed and jagged and riven by grappling guns. love drove me to rebel. love drives me back to grope with them through hell; and in their tortured eyes i stand forgiven. autumn october's bellowing anger breaks and cleaves the bronzed battalions of the stricken wood in whose lament i hear a voice that grieves for battle's fruitless harvest, and the feud of outraged men. their lives are like the leaves scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown along the westering furnace flaring red. o martyred youth and manhood overthrown, the burden of your wrongs is on my head. repression of war experience now light the candles; one; two; there's a moth; what silly beggars they are to blunder in and scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame-- no, no, not that,--it's bad to think of war, when thoughts you've gagged all day come back to scare you; and it's been proved that soldiers don't go mad unless they lose control of ugly thoughts that drive them out to jabber among the trees. now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand. draw a deep breath; stop thinking; count fifteen, and you're as right as rain.... why won't it rain?... i wish there'd be a thunder-storm to-night, with bucketsful of water to sluice the dark, and make the roses hang their dripping heads. books; what a jolly company they are, standing so quiet and patient on their shelves, dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green and every kind of colour. which will you read? come on; o _do_ read something; they're so wise. i tell you all the wisdom of the world is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet you sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out, and listen to the silence: on the ceiling there's one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters; and in the breathless air outside the house the garden waits for something that delays. there must be crowds of ghosts among the trees,-- not people killed in battle,--they're in france,-- but horrible shapes in shrouds--old men who died slow, natural deaths,--old men with ugly souls, who wore their bodies out with nasty sins. * * * * * you're quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home; you'd never think there was a bloody war on!... o yes, you would ... why, you can hear the guns. hark! thud, thud, thud,--quite soft ... they never cease-- those whispering guns--o christ, i want to go out and screech at them to stop--i'm going crazy; i'm going stark, staring mad because of the guns. together splashing along the boggy woods all day, and over brambled hedge and holding clay, i shall not think of him: but when the watery fields grow brown and dim, and hounds have lost their fox, and horses tire, i know that he'll be with me on my way home through the darkness to the evening fire. he's jumped each stile along the glistening lanes; his hand will be upon the mud-soaked reins; hearing the saddle creak, he'll wonder if the frost will come next week. i shall forget him in the morning light; and while we gallop on he will not speak: but at the stable-door he'll say good-night. the hawthorn tree not much to me is yonder lane where i go every day; but when there's been a shower of rain and hedge-birds whistle gay, i know my lad that's out in france with fearsome things to see would give his eyes for just one glance at our white hawthorn tree. * * * * * not much to me is yonder lane where _he_ so longs to tread; but when there's been a shower of rain i think i'll never weep again until i've heard he's dead. concert party (egyptian base camp) they are gathering round ... out of the twilight; over the grey-blue sand, shoals of low-jargoning men drift inward to the sound,-- the jangle and throb of a piano ... tum-ti-tum ... drawn by a lamp, they come out of the glimmering lines of their tents, over the shuffling sand. o sing us the songs, the songs of our own land, you warbling ladies in white. dimness conceals the hunger in our faces, this wall of faces risen out of the night, these eyes that keep their memories of the places so long beyond their sight. jaded and gay, the ladies sing; and the chap in brown tilts his grey hat; jaunty and lean and pale, he rattles the keys ... some actor-bloke from town ... "_god send you home_"; and then "_a long, long trail_"; "_i hear you catting me_"; and "_dixieland_" ... sing slowly ... now the chorus ... one by one we hear them, drink them; till the concert's done. silent, i watch the shadowy mass of soldiers stand. silent, they drift away, over the glimmering sand. kantara, _april, ._ night on the convoy (alexandria-marseilles) out in the blustering darkness, on the deck a gleam of stars looks down. long blurs of black, the lean destroyers, level with our track, plunging and stealing, watch the perilous way through backward racing seas and caverns of chill spray. one sentry by the davits, in the gloom stands mute; the boat heaves onward through the night. shrouded is every chink of cabined light: and sluiced by floundering waves that hiss and boom and crash like guns, the troop-ship shudders ... doom. now something at my feet stirs with a sigh; and slowly growing used to groping dark, i know that the hurricane-deck, down all its length, is heaped and spread with lads in sprawling strength,-- blanketed soldiers sleeping. in the stark danger of life at war, they lie so still, all prostrate and defenceless, head by head ... and i remember arras, and that hill where dumb with pain i stumbled among the dead. * * * * * we are going home. the troop-ship, in a thrill of fiery-chamber'd anguish, throbs and rolls. we are going home ... victims ... three thousand souls. _may, ._ a letter home (to robert graves) i here i'm sitting in the gloom of my quiet attic room. france goes rolling all around, fledged with forest may has crowned. and i puff my pipe, calm-hearted, thinking how the fighting started, wondering when we'll ever end it, back to hell with kaiser send it, gag the noise, pack up and go, clockwork soldiers in a row. i've got better things to do than to waste my time on you. ii robert, when i drowse to-night, skirting lawns of sleep to chase shifting dreams in mazy light, somewhere then i'll see your face turning back to bid me follow where i wag my arms and hollo, over hedges hasting after crooked smile and baffling laughter, running tireless, floating, leaping, down your web-hung woods and valleys, garden glooms and hornbeam alleys, where the glowworm stars are peeping, till i find you, quiet as stone on a hill-top all alone, staring outward, gravely pondering jumbled leagues of hillock-wandering. iii you and i have walked together in the starving winter weather. we've been glad because we knew time's too short and friends are few. we've been sad because we missed one whose yellow head was kissed by the gods, who thought about him till they couldn't do without him. now he's here again; i've seen soldier david dressed in green, standing in a wood that swings to the madrigal he sings. he's come back, all mirth and glory, like the prince in a fairy story. winter called him far away; blossoms bring him home with may. iv well, i know you'll swear it's true that you found him decked in blue striding up through morning-land with a cloud on either hand. out in wales, you'll say, he marches arm-in-arm with oaks and larches; hides all night in hilly nooks, laughs at dawn in tumbling brooks. yet, it's certain, here he teaches outpost-schemes to groups of beeches. and i'm sure, as here i stand, that he shines through every land, that he sings in every place where we're thinking of his face. v robert, there's a war in france; everywhere men bang and blunder, sweat and swear and worship chance, creep and blink through cannon thunder. rifles crack and bullets flick, sing and hum like hornet-swarms. bones are smashed and buried quick. yet, through stunning battle storms. all the while i watch the spark lit to guide me; for i know dreams will triumph, though the dark scowls above me where i go. _you_ can hear me; _you_ can mingle radiant folly with my jingle, war's a joke for me and you while we know such dreams are true! reconciliation when you are standing at your hero's grave, or near some homeless village where he died, remember, through your heart's rekindling pride, the german soldiers who were loyal and brave. men fought like brutes; and hideous things were done: and you have nourished hatred, harsh and blind. but in that golgotha perhaps you'll find the mothers of the men who killed your son. _november, ._ memorial tablet (great war) squire nagged and bullied till i went to fight (under lord derby's scheme). i died in hell-- (they called it passchendaele); my wound was slight, and i was hobbling back, and then a shell burst slick upon the duck-boards; so i fell into the bottomless mud, and lost the light. in sermon-time, while squire is in his pew, he gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare; for though low down upon the list, i'm there: "in proud and glorious memory"--that's my due. two bleeding years i fought in france for squire; i suffered anguish that he's never guessed; once i came home on leave; and then went west. what greater glory could a man desire? the death-bed he drowsed and was aware of silence heaped round him, unshaken as the steadfast walls; aqueous like floating rays of amber light, soaring and quivering in the wings of sleep,-- silence and safety; and his mortal shore lipped by the inward, moonless waves of death. some one was holding water to his mouth. he swallowed, unresisting; moaned and dropped through crimson gloom to darkness; and forgot the opiate throb and ache that was his wound. water--calm, sliding green above the weir; water--a sky-lit alley for his boat, bird-voiced, and bordered with reflected flowers and shaken hues of summer: drifting down, he dipped contented oars, and sighed, and slept. night, with a gust of wind, was in the ward, blowing the curtain to a glimmering curve. night. he was blind; he could not see the stars glinting among the wraiths of wandering cloud; queer blots of colour, purple, scarlet, green, flickered and faded in his drowning eyes. rain; he could hear it rustling through the dark; fragrance and passionless music woven as one; warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers that soak the woods; not the harsh rain that sweeps behind the thunder, but a trickling peace gently and slowly washing life away. * * * * * he stirred, shifting his body; then the pain leaped like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore his groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs. but some one was beside him; soon he lay shuddering because that evil thing had passed. and death, who'd stepped toward him, paused and stared. light many lamps and gather round his bed. lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live. speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet. he's young; he hated war; how should he die when cruel old campaigners win safe through? but death replied: "i choose him." so he went, and there was silence in the summer night; silence and safety; and the veils of sleep. then, far away, the thudding of the guns. aftermath _have you forgotten yet?..._ for the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days, like traffic checked awhile at the crossing of city ways: and the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow like clouds in the lit heavens of life; and you're a man reprieved to go, taking your peaceful share of time, with joy to spare. _but the past is just the same,--and war's a bloody game,... have you forgotten yet?... look down, and swear by the slain of the war that you'll never forget._ do you remember the dark months you held the sector at mametz,-- the nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets? do you remember the rats; and the stench of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench,-- and dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain? do you ever stop and ask, "is it all going to happen again?" do you remember that hour of din before the attack,-- and the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then as you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men? do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back with dying eyes and lolling heads,--those ashen-grey masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay? _have you forgotten yet?... look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you'll never forget._ song-books of the war in fifty years, when peace outshines remembrance of the battle lines, adventurous lads will sigh and cast proud looks upon the plundered past. on summer morn or winter's night, their hearts will kindle for the fight, reading a snatch of soldier-song, savage and jaunty, fierce and strong; and through the angry marching rhymes of blind regret and haggard mirth, they'll envy us the dazzling times when sacrifice absolved our earth. some ancient man with silver locks will lift his weary face to say: "war was a fiend who stopped our clocks although we met him grim and gay." and then he'll speak of haig's last drive, marvelling that any came alive out of the shambles that men built and smashed, to cleanse the world of guilt. but the boys, with grin and sidelong glance, will think, "poor grandad's day is done." and dream of lads who fought in france and lived in time to share the fun. everyone sang everyone suddenly burst out singing; and i was filled with such delight as prisoned birds must find in freedom winging wildly across the white orchards and dark green fields; on; on; and out of sight. everyone's voice was suddenly lifted, and beauty came like the setting sun. my heart was shaken with tears and horror drifted away ... o but every one was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done. _april, ._ sorrow of war poems by louis golding methuen & co. ltd. essex street w.c. london _first published in _ for mother and the other mother certain of these poems have appeared in the "english review," "to-day," the "englishwoman," the "red triangle," the "nation," the "cambridge magazine," the "sphere," the "herald," the "manchester guardian," and the "westminster gazette." to the editors of these journals i tender my acknowledgments. contents lilac, laburnum streets of gold "in the gallery where the fat men go" dead in gallipoli a journey south the new trade the woman who shrieked against peace the women at the corners stand joining-up during the battle jack german boy skylark and dawn jack of april statesmen debonair over in flanders wild weather broken bodies a thought the vintner for now comes summer the advent of mars prophet and fool whatever path i walk upon london magdalene secret girl lanky tim mrs. briggs athens now down tottenham court road in a station liza women of the night i standing in the street slum evening fires of change poetry the prisoner nerves a poet for my friend "i shall be splendidly and tensely young" "i" i know not whence my poems come lyrria faringdon from salonica call of the plover the gallant road the quest having finished "jude the obscure" ghost and body gallop we lads who barter rhymes who knows me? judæus errans cold stars reactionary late wind of black night yellow satins my mother's portrait to a. l. o. the dark knight of the road to the swift green wind the midmost field in kent murmuryngeham winchester downs cycling in october the shepherd derwentwater "i vowed that i would be a tree" wounded soldiers still life in france i dream'd i died flowers in war evening--kent black magic a soldier dying at last war ends sorrow of war lilac, laburnum lilac, lilac, laburnum, how shall you bloom this spring? gathering birds, gathering birds, how shall you sing? gathering birds, gathering birds, how shall you lift your singing head? lilac, lilac, laburnum, shall not your blossom be fiery red? lilac, laburnum, gathering birds...? _spring_ streets of gold o there are streets of gold in bethnal green, with troughs of pearl where lovely horses drink, and tripping on the greenswards, silver-clean, the girls are marvellouser than you can think. gawd blimey! bethnal green! (all this from tommy jones, delirious in the trench with shattered bones). o there is harvest now in camden town, and songs and laughing and old flasks of wine! o the grand moon of bronze! the wakeful brown owl in the barn! ghost-poppies and dream-kine! lor lumme! camden town! (this with the gasp of death from 'erbert, chlorine-gassed and green for breath). o what green seas sweep winds through camberwell, through all her islands where the palm-trees heave! o winding down the channels steals a bell calling poor weary lads to bathe at eve! god blawst it! camberwell! (this from old bob, whose side is pierced with wounds like jesus crucified). "in the gallery where the fat men go" ("great pictures of the somme offensive, day by day. the actual fighting") _see omnibus and underground notices, april_ they are showing how we lie with our bodies run dry: the attitudes we take when impaled upon a stake. these and other things they show in the gallery where the fat men go. in the gallery where the fat men go they're exhibiting our guts horse-betrampled in the ruts; and private tommy spout, with his eye gouged out; and jimmy spitting blood; and sergeant lying so that he's drowning in the mud, in the gallery where the fat men go. they adjust their pince-nez in the gentle urban way, and they plant their feet tight for to get a clearer sight. they stand playing with their thumbs, with their shaven cheeks aglow. for the terror never comes, and the worms and the woe. for they never hear the drums drumming death dead-slow, in the gallery where the fat men go. if the gallery where the fat men go were in flames around their feet, or were sucking through the mud: if they heard the guns beat like a pulse through the blood: if the lice were in their hair, and the scabs were on their tongue, and the rats were smiling there, padding softly through the dung, would they fix the pince-nez in the gentle urban way, would the pictures still be hung in the gallery where the fat men go? dead in gallipoli he died in gallipoli. what english flower that we cherish shall grow of him? never a flower shall grow that we know of him! no white daisy-coverlet shall grow from the ground of him; no english bird-loverlet pipe love-songs around of him. under the sycamore his grave not appears, where the crocuses flicker more than armies with spears. under no tree at all england designed his body may be at all gently consigned. he died in gallipoli the death on a stake. gallipoli poison is now the great part of him. a flower like a snake shall writhe from the heart of him. the desolate surf below him is muttering. over his turf a bird like a devil is flapping and fluttering. the poisonous bird whose scarlet eye glowers, the poisonous flowers with petals unclean are the only things heard and the only things seen. is that the whole of you, white lad from england, is that the soul of you, dead in gallipoli? you are dead to me, dead to me, barren and far, but a thing that was said to me, by a bird, by a star, --an old thing of solace, o stupid it seemed; and i now cannot tell at all if the whisper that fell at all i heard or i dreamed. it seemed that i caught a faint whisper or sign, being drunken with water, or hallowed with wine. ah, would that i knew what the word was that came, what the thing was that gleamed with a wind and a flame; ah, would that i knew, even as you, o white lad from england, white lad from england, dead in gallipoli, would that i knew if i heard or i dreamed! a journey south to the south lands, the green lands, from the north, the harsh rocks, where the eagles whose granite bills screech from the scars of toppling hills. to the south lands, the green lands, from the north, the marsh hollows which black waste water fills, --the south green lands! to the south lands, the green lands, where the flowers of fruit are moons entangled in cosmic trees, where birds are rocks in the foam of seas, the wind's a player, the grass a lute whose wires are swept by the wings of bees, --the south green lands! to the south lands, the green lands--but halt, o hark! a sob of birds in a poisoned wood! the fume of poppies crushed foul in mud! the whine of the wings of death through the dark! a sunset of flame, a moon of blood! --the south red lands! the new trade in the market-places they have made a dolorous new trade. now you will see in the fierce naphtha-light, piled hideously to sight, dead limbs of men bronzed in the over-seas, bomb-wrenched from elbows and knees; torn feet, that would, unwearied by harsh loads, have tramped steep moorland roads; torn hands that would have moulded exquisitely rare things for god to see. and there are eyes there--blue like blue doves' wings, black like the libyan kings, grey as before-dawn rivers, willow-stirred, brown as a singing-bird; but all stare from the dark into the dark, reproachful, tense, and stark. eyes heaped on trays and in broad baskets there, feet, hands, and ropes of hair. in the market-places ... and women buy ... ... naphtha glares ... hawkers cry ... fat men rub hands.... o god, o just god, send plague, lightnings ... make an end! the woman who shrieked against peace abundant woman panting there, whose breast is flecked with spots of grease that splutter from your laboured hair, o dew-lapped woman, you who reek of stout and steak and fish and chips, why does the short indignant shriek come toppling from your fleshy lips; because, poor smitten fool, i dare to breathe the outcast name of peace? and shall your flesh grow less to view, and shall your chubby arms grow thin, and shall you miss your stout and stew, the bracelets which you wear so well, if blinded boys no more shall creep along the scorching roads to hell, if thick red blood no more shall steep green fields in france, nor corpses smell; if peace send down her blasting blight, o shall it spoil your sleep at night, and shall you lose your treble chin? the women at the corners stand the women at the corners stand. they say, "where are the men you stole from us away? where are they now, the laughing lovers whom you heaped in sombre ranks against the gloom?" they murmur ceaselessly and without haste, "our arms are empty and our wombs are waste." "where are the men that marched into the dusk?" they say with voices withered like a husk. "night is like cinders: day is lean and stern. our hearts are parched with thirsting; yea, we burn. where are the men you took? bid them return." the women at the corners stand. but no reply is heard. they wait till night. they go back to their homes. once more they come next day, "where are the men you stole from us away?" they draw their shawls around their heads. they wait. they say, "but we are weary. it is late." they murmur ceaselessly and without haste, "our arms are empty and our wombs are waste." no word is said to them. but only they, the women at the corners, stand. they say, "send back our lovers whom you stole away." joining-up no, not for you the glamour of emprise, poor driven lad with terror in your eyes. no dream of wounds and medals and renown called you like love from your drab northern town. no haunting fife, dizzily shrill and sweet, came lilting drunkenly down your dingy street. you will not change, with a swift catch of pride, in the cold hut among the leers and oaths, out of your suit of frayed civilian clothes, into the blaze of khaki they provide. like a trapped animal you crouch and choke in the packed carriage where the veterans smoke and tell such pitiless tales of over there, they stop your heart dead short and freeze your hair. your body's like a flower on a snapt stalk, your head hangs from your neck as blank as chalk. what horrors haunt you, head upon your breast! ... o but you'll die as bravely as the rest! during the battle o the terror of the battle at this ending of the days! o the thunder of the wings through the gloom! o the thousand thousand companies that strew the sombre ways to achieve this final doom! where the flames disrupt the night and the hell-fumes flee, 'mid the darkness and the splitting of the skies, only your young white wistful face i see, my brother, only your eyes! _march_ jack the heavy smells of spring are flooding through my skin. my body drinks them in. like rich red veils they cling about my prostrate head. i swoon into a bed, the heavy smells of spring. i now almost forget the pain, the pain, the pain; now being lulled by rain, and smells and warm wings wet. i swoon into a bed, almost forget you're dead, almost, almost forget. now, now my memories drowse amid the whine of bells, the fumes of rich red smells, the stupor round my brows. my nerves and veins are lead. i swoon into a bed, where all my sorrows drowse. then suddenly you return, o marrow of my bone, blood flowing through my own! my pulses yearn and burn. i battle round my head, cry strickenly from my bed. suddenly you return! o god of war and dearth, o shattering blast that blew, blood-eyed, blood-fingered, you damned god of war and dearth! he whom you wrenched from me to monstrous things and vain, burned, broken, buried, _he_, _he_ is this smell of earth, this dead moist smell of rain! german boy german boy with cold blue eyes, in the cold and blue moonrise, i who live and still shall know flowers that smell and winds that blow, i who live to walk again, fired the shot that broke your brain. by your hair all stiff with blood, by your lips befouled with mud, by your dreams that shall no more leave the nest and sing and soar, by the children never born from your body smashed and torn, --when i too shall stand at last in the deadland vast, shall you heap upon my soul agonies of coal? shall you bind my throat with cords, stab me through with swords? or shall you be gentler far than a bird or than a star? shall you know that i was bound in the noose that choked you round? shall you say, "the way was hid. lord, he knew not what he did"? shall your eyes that day be mild, like the sacrifice, the child? ... german boy with cold blue eyes, in the cold and blue moonrise. skylark and dawn (to maurice samuel) stretched and silent they lie to the furious gold of the dawn, and the earth like a leper's face is pitted and scarred. firm in the grip of the wire relentless and hard, they lie with their dead young faces pallid and drawn. somewhere stupidly, thickly, a big gun booms! a rifle cracks like the spit of a snake in the trees! and ever the great sun rises, rolling the glooms of the sulphurous night to the fields and the cliffs and the seas. the groan of a dying man crawls out from his teeth! he groans no more: his lips become leaden and cold! and ever the sun flashes forth like a sword from its sheath, and dazzles the dawn with terrors of scarlet and gold. the guns snarl out like a dog reluctant and grim. the triggers of rifles loosen in blue numb hands. faintly the wings of a silence frightened and dim hover down closer over the blasted lands. gods of the great wars, gods that stand somewhere afar off, cruel and grand, silence, silence, in no man's land! gods of the great wars, cruel and high, listen afar off! grant us to die with the song of silence in the morning sky! gods of the great wars, gas-wave and gun, are ye not happy with the red work done? drown ye the planets, shatter the sun! not a twitching of bloodless lip or of glazing eye! for the silence is deeper than noon and older than time, the silence inert and intense of the far first sky when never a wind breathed over the primal slime. the sun is stayed in his march, and even death with the flush of triumph mantling his cheeks of gloom, he too stands still for an instant and holds his breath. a million of years passes by in a moment of doom. suddenly! terrible! wild! a skylark shatters the spell, with a music more fiery than hell, more frail than the laugh of a child! his little brown wings soar high to assault the sun. his little round throat sends a challenge audacious and far to the pale-faced legions of silence that waver and run, to the uprisen dawn and every invisible star. ah god! the song cuts deeper than tempered steel! the eyes overflow with the surge of a salt harsh tear, again to listen to music, again to feel the uttermost glory of living when death is so near! scream of a shell! ... dull dead thud in a trench, curses and flame and stench! ... instantly all the white dawn, fragrant and frail and cool, breaks like a vase in the hands of a fool. for the thick sick lips of death have spoken, the fine gold chain of the bird-song is broken. the lank dank hand of death has withdrawn the curtain of bird-song and magic dawn from the sullen red windows of hell. rattle of rifle and shriek of gun, gas-cloud sickly and heavy and dun, death has taken his armies in hand, and the bodies lie countless in no man's land. out of the shock of the storm where the foul winds meet and cry, something drops down at my feet, a little brown body and sweet, a little dead body and warm. the tiny dead throat shall sing no more, nor the quick eyes flash nor the swift wings soar; but the shells shall hurtle, the grim guns roar, o skylark out of the sky! my singing is ended, the pall descended on land and sea. i sang my song to the tune of my own heart-beat between the sound of the wars, and there sang with me my little brother the skylark, dead at my feet. france, jack of april april!--this is when all the flowers beloved of men, this is when they laugh all day, birds and they. then are they not opened quite to the singing year's delight. this is when the april showers make a running road of noise; woods are stormed by boyish flowers, flowery boys. would you then not weep with me, wring your hands, sing a dirge of saddest grief, if your eyes should chance to see blight upon the april leaf; o, but more, would you not weep long and sore, if an april flower that stands waiting for the kiss of may, suddenly, swift, were snapt away, down, deep down, were crushed in clay? then would you not almost say, "curst be april! never sunlight bring in may! curst be june! death hath seized the budding year. never flush of copper stir on the unrisen harvest moon! may stark winter come straightway --now my little flower of april, now is cold and clay!" april!--this was when jack went laughing to the wars. now he knew what a boy in spring must do. there are flowers to learn, he said, in the countries where i go. there are birds to talk to and skies and winds to understand. never a moment knew he pause. jack went swinging to the ships with a laughter on his lips, jack went singing to the wars. jack among the boys and men went to france in april when flowers and boys laughed all the day, birds and they. ... till the doom came down that day, even though the time was spring, even april, even though he had not sung half the songs a lad should sing, when the nesting-time is young, april, spring. and he shuddered for a moment, blood and flame convulsed the day, and he crumpled on the way, and the scarlet tide went sweeping, heaping, heaping clay upon his trodden clay, april, spring! april!--can you wonder then that my bitten lips have said, "curst be men, now that jack in lyric april, jack is dead. curst be all the race of men! may the last child die away from the poisoned air of day! never may-time come, nor summer; never autumn crown the dim uncertain ending to the fevers of the race with a drowsy peace descending on their spirits racked and rending, on the evil human face. may the last supernal winter freeze the earth straightway, now my little jack of april, now is cold and clay!" statesmen debonair o ye statesmen debonair, with the partings in your hair; statesmen, ye who do your bit in the arm-chairs where you sit; you with top-hats on your head even when you lie in bed; o superbly happy, ye traders in humanity; every time you smile, sweet friends, a moan goes up, a plague descends. every time you show your teeth, a hundred swords desert the sheath. every time you pare your nails, the manhood of a city fails. every time you dip your pen, you slaughter ten platoons of men. for every glass of port you hold, blood is spilt ten thousandfold.... o ye statesmen debonair, with the partings in your hair; o ye statesmen pink and white, sleep like little lambs to-night. over in flanders ... they were writing for the poetry bookshops, poetry no doubt well worth reading. over in flanders, in the wet weather, love lay bleeding! if you carefully record your emotions, lyric or sonnet that haunts your head, will you revive for me over in flanders love stone dead? wild weather wild weather, o my heart, and strong winds beating the great trees straining in their despair. the crumpled leaves that fall and flee whistle like ghosts across the air. and how should i, lone mortal fleeting, not be uprooted by winds that, meeting, wrench at my limbs to cast them in the sea! wild weather, o my heart, for all my lovers, the lads i loved in the time entombed, crumpled and stark against trench and tree, whistle like leaves through the woods engloomed. there all year long my poor ghost hovers, never to see what the darkness covers, the faces i loved of old that so loved me. broken bodies not for the broken bodies, when the war is over and done, for the miserable eyes that never again shall see the sun; not for the broken bodies crawling over the land, the patchwork limbs, the shoddies, not for the broken bodies, dear lord, we crave your hand. not for the broken bodies, we pray your dearest aid, when the ghost of war for ever is levelled at last and laid; not for the broken bodies that wrought their sorrowful parts our chiefest need of god is, not for the broken bodies, dear lord--the broken hearts! a thought to-night a thought leapt in my head like flame. suppose one night i walked into my room and found that someone filling all the gloom was waiting on my bed until i came; and i walked in and switched the light on straight, and found the figure sitting on my bed, limp with contrition and with sunken head, was god bowed down under his burden's weight; and he looked up with sorrow and surmise to see how deep the tale the wars have written lay on my mortal features, battle-smitten, and in the shadows of my deathless eyes; --this was the thought and flame that pierced me through: if god sat waiting there, anxious and grey, then should i have the charity to say, "god, we forgive you; you know not what you do"? the vintner the war-god now is happy. his sunken eyeballs shine. the war-god is a vintner who makes the rarest wine. his vineyard is not bounded between the west and east. a thousand mothers hourly grow pregnant for his feast. the grapes the vintner presses below his granite feet are bodies, bodies, bodies, alive and brown and sweet. o how the red juice splashes around his pounding limbs! it stains the deepest rivers, the furthest sunset rims. o how the gods his comrades, when he, the vintner, calls, drain deep the lurid beakers in their carousal halls! all night they hold red riot, "for this is wine indeed! then bravo! merry vintner, we wish thy work good speed!" and still the vintner presses the grapes with feet of stone, until the deep green ocean-cup shall hold red wine alone. for now comes summer for now comes summer with a thousand birds. and i must add up figures all the day. and i must drive a tram the whole day long. and i must make a living out of words. for now comes summer with a thousand birds; and in green fields the little lambs will play, brown birds will lift so loud a storm of song, for now comes summer with a thousand birds. for now comes summer with a thousand birds. and i must make munitions right away. and i must check the biscuits at the base. and i must plan to slaughter men in herds, for now comes summer with a thousand birds. my brother's lying quiet on his face. and i must sit and wait and die to-day, for now comes summer with a thousand birds. harfleur the advent of mars (to thomas moult) then suddenly ... a thunder was heard like the cracking of suns, a blackness blacker than blood there came to choke the world with a fume and a flame. a palsy fell on the guns. a numbness froze the hands of the gunners in all the lands. half-way over the parapet the limbs of the climbing infantry set like limbs of basalt-stone. the bayonets fell from the fingers numb, the throats of the officers dried dead-dumb, for the terror had come, the terror had come, the terror out of the stark unknown! the shadow was fallen upon the wars that had raged three centuries long to shatter the lie and wrong, from the ice-fanged polar jaws, with never a lull nor pause, and over the temperate zone, with never a moment's rest, and over the burning line, with never a halting sign, and over the east and west, and down to the ultimate mouth of the white antarctic south. from the torpid esquimo-man who slew his esquimo-mate and poured his fat in a plate, and lit up a wick therein, and studied the secret plan for the poisonous new harpoon. wherewith he was going to win the esquimo-battle soon. from the esquimo-man to the sinister black cannibal-boy in his skeleton-shack, whose ardent patriot labours were extracting the eyes of his foes, the bones of their fingers and toes, to teach them never to violate the inter-cannibal laws of state, and the boundary-stone of his weaker neighbours. but now ... great god, what is the menace, now, the shadow, the thunder, now, ice on my heart, flame on my brow, the skies dispart, lightnings rift through the obscene glooms, the thews of the darkness are rent in sunder, and a voice, a voice, a voice, a great voice booms! "children of earth, listen a moment before ye die. we have waited long, we have waited long, (children of mars, lift up your song, for the children of mars shall be lords of the sky!) long have we patiently waited in a huge red planetous hall. but never a wind of ruth or grace blew through the marshes of your earth-face. and deeper into the hole of your cavernous earthen soul, deeper than god and love and all, boulders of evil fall. long have we patiently waited in a huge red planetous hall, but never a grace not violated, never a devil ye did not call! you have torn, you have torn, the flowers by their roots, consumed the seed, wherever a flower was, planted a weed. in the pitch of your scorn defiled the morn, bitten deep death in the mould and the corn. you have eaten the wings of the lily-like frail butterfly caught in your treacherous veil. you have festered the springs with the corpses ye slew and given your children to drink of the brew. never a grace not violated, left god never a roof nor wall; never a passion ye have not sated, never a devil ye did not call. and a word came forth from the sun to mars, 'gird ye now for the final wars! for over the planet of earth, wooden and waste and wide, great red wounds in his side, a shadow, a bloodless dearth ashen-pale in the caves of his eyes, throwing the ghost of a cross on the skies, the body of christ lies crucified!' we have come with a gladness terrible to behold. we have come to reclaim the godhead that was sold. the levins we shall loosen ye have not ever known, and the breath of our singing shall fall on you like stone. our weapons shall be flame and the blades be keen, and they shall not rest again till the skies be clean. our weapons shall be tides, the tide of the sea, the surgings of the tide shall not again subside, until the sun's sky-ways again shall be free!" so the voice spake, thunderous and proud, so the voice spake, then died in a cloud. and then again the darkness, the darkness gathered round, and the hushed world waited, but heard not a sound. so hushed was the world, the slaying and the weeping, so hushed was the world, the world seemed sleeping, but lo! in the west, lo! in the west! leaping, leaping, a tongue of fire ... prophet and fool from twigs of visionary boughs i gather berries red and rare. i twine around my pallid brows an insubstantial dryad's hair. such song i hear in mission-halls, as jason heard in violet seas, while bodiless birds sing madrigals in tumult round my head and knees; the draper-shops that light their jets to blink along the lanes of mire, weave splendours round the muddy sets and tip my feet with points of fire. for i pursue the golden fleece down slum-ways magical and cool; and there i hear the flutes of peace, being a prophet and a fool. whatever path i walk upon (to george fasnacht) whatever path i walk upon that path itself is avalon. whatever woman talks to me, venus' foamy self is she. the floors of factories are made of jasper, porphyry and jade. all that i drink, all food i eat, is my lord's blood and body sweet. but if a moth should singe his wings, the world is black with dismal things. and if a strangled sparrow fall, there is not any god at all. and if a baby moan for food, my eyes blaze red with rage for blood. london magdalene how she is careful to make manifest the budded beauty of her breast; to hint beneath her unconcealing blouse the curved seductions there that house. would that some christ your mournful care had seen, unmaidened maiden, london magdalene. god gave you roses warm from paradise, and they are bleaker now than ice. god gave you fountains flowing honey-sweet, and they are spilt upon the street. all your seductions are the dead sea fruit, o rifled nest, blown flower, o string-snapt lute. in those breast-seas no baby-boat will swim through channels warm and dim; you'll not awake to a twittering in the leaves when baby bird-throat heaves. poor london magdalene, before you sleep, ah weep with me, if not too late to weep. secret girl (to bessie mckellen) thy nudity, like a white flame, i shall inviolably guard: o secret girl, mine eyes have yet not in the place of mortals met. o secret girl whom, splendour-starred, some lordly noon my soul shall claim. more than the brahman heart of ind, i shall be spears about thy breasts: when thou no more, o secret goal, art secret from mine eyes and soul, o mother of my waiting nests, o dew and dark, o day and wind. thou shalt be sheer beyond the wars, and sacred from the waste of words: o secret girl, o dove, o pard, i shall inviolably guard. for we shall crowd the trees with birds, the sky with swarms of shouting stars! lanky tim a narrow world is lanky tim's, the funnel and the griding lift. never the blank walls drop or shift to show the far fields thro' a rift where he might go and stretch his limbs. hour after hour the storeys rise. "first floor? yes, round the corner just, for madame smirkey's wig and bust. second? that way for lawyer thrust. fifth?"--the quack doctor, spiders, dust ... these are his depths and these his skies. and did life take you unawares while you were dreaming still your dreams, and eyes were wild and shy with gleams, and heart was thick with aching themes? --but someone's pushed the bell downstairs. and did you fly thro' boyland dells to catch the songs of youthful kings, and fly before the flight of springs? --but there's no room in here for wings, where life is only these three things-- a lift, a grid, a screech of bells. poor lanky tim, the days that drift thro' your drab dismal prison, they have drifted all those dreams away, till your heart's just a pumping clay. and now i often wonder, say, if you'll be nearer god some day than the fifth storey up the lift. mrs. briggs her ample breasts like moons are seen beneath her thin alpaca blouse. mrs. briggs of sausage green, she is an old egyptian queen, and she has cheops briggs for spouse. and when she shouts down turnip street, "lawks! of all the dirty sights! 'enry, quit that puddle quick!" she has the regal voice that beat the eardrums of the israelites, and turned the tribal bosoms sick. but when 'enry drooped and ailed, and 'enry from her side was torn in a hearse down dingy lane, o she wept the lad in vain, as that other queen bewailed the slaying of the eldest born. athens now behold athens! what is athens now? cinders and weeds where the eyeballs were, filth for the marble brow. ilissus, ilissus of the plain? --sardine-tins and a dead cat in a drain! dead, dead, dead are the caryatids because of the horror that smote their petal-thin lids. and the parthenon now is a jawful of yellow teeth in the snarling skull of an animal humped in death. for athens is only a squalor of traders that hope to retire on the profits from soap. and the trousers of half of the children of pallas are dirty with grease, and the other half ardently brush them and keep them in crease. then pray, o london, my city, when you are dead, that none know the place where you reared your mad proud head; that there be not a mound nor a stone nor even a tree, but only the ignorant river or the desert sea! down tottenham court road down tottenham court road they ululate, the droning choruses of fate. they walk the length of every wind, the women who sin, the women who have sinned. this evening's crime, all immemorial crimes, here gather from all lands and times. here with orestes through the mart walks the grey lad who stabbed his mother's heart. gaunt clytæmnestra stumbles round the feet of sarah from a soho street, who slew her sallow man to-night with thin-lipped poison in the street lamp-light. pale helen braids her legendary hair, lurking outside a gallery-stair, while softly through the music calls aspasia to her lover in the stalls. here broken orpheus searches, drunken-wild, eurydice, the fallen child, who, leagues down in the underworld, flaunts her white bosom, rouged lips, and gilt hair curled. behind the plate-glass windows drum the looms of destinies spinning antique dooms. the droning choruses of fate, down tottenham court road they ululate. in a station a station drizzling like a hymn sung out of tune by neurasthenes, in a tin church where darkness leans down through the windows blear and grim! a miserable oil-lamp winks like a drab slut, and stares and stinks. the train snorts out a large disgust, and snorts again and spits out dust. then suddenly a lightning wakes! the fumes, the squalors dissipate. then suddenly a young voice breaks into the darkness like a knife; --full of choked hopes and whipt regrets, hungry for love, half-dumb with hate, intense with death and sick for life, --into the darkness like a knife! "buy choc-o-late and cig-ar-ettes! buy cig-ar-ettes and choc-o-late!" liza liza sits on a three-legged stool all day beneath the railway-stairs. (liza is a shadowy woman selling shadowy wares.) the boots that liza wears to-day were worn a score of years ago by dick the tramp who threw them away as far as ever he could throw. the petticoats that liza wears around her limbs of sticks and skin were thrown aside with tall disdain into a back-street rubbish bin. but o the bonnet that liza wears, it is the summit of her pride; a big limp feather hangs over her nose and two more hang on either side. there's no more stately woman than liza, be she the sought of a score of kings. (liza is a shadowy woman, selling shadowy things.) all day long she sits upright, waiting upon her three-legged stool, until the hosts of little children come tumbling homeward out of school. then liza shows her wooden tray whenever the children meet her eye. "come along, babies, only a kiss for any little dainty you may buy. purple figs from a grecian garden, pomegranate blossoms blazing red. jangle bells of langling silver to wrangle around of a wee girl's head." liza's fingers twitch and tighten, her deep-down eyes they are flecked and starred. but her voice is like a moan in a rifted chimney and you can only hear it if you listen very hard. never the little children hear, they toddle homeward day by day. --who would look at a bogey-woman whispering over an empty tray? ironically floats the bobbing feather over liza's hungry eye. "isn't there just one wee little baby to come to my face and kiss and buy?" ... all day long and all year round she waits, but no one pays her price. (liza is a shadowy woman selling shadowy merchandise.) women of the night come, i will take you, o ye empty-eyed, into my heart as sheep into a fold upon the waste hill-steep. for ye are weary, o unsatisfied, whose breasts were filled for love and sell for gold; come, i will give you sleep. all night your bodies move like furtive ghosts, all the black futile night, your hands and feet heavy as sunken lead; sad, numberless, immortal, bloodless hosts, who haunt the hollows of the ashen street, o ye my living-dead! only a scent of death, sweet and corrupt, breathes from the false flower-gardens of your hair, o and in your eyes, no, not the light of the mad wine you supped, not tears nor laughter, o but swaying there, unweepable miseries! come, i will take you to a still green place, where birds that hover above the laden nests, birds shall make song. there shall ye wash with dew the painted face, press two wild flowers against the barren breasts, there hold a vigil long. a vigil long until the evening go, then sleep, long sleep; till with a shout, o then, our lord the sun shall rise. with hearts invincible and bodies like snow, back ye shall turn into the place of men, love peerless in your eyes! _august_ i standing in the street i standing in the street, i standing, gaze on the unwashed windows, dingy walls, when lo! a clarion ... lo! thro' the slum a spring-time trumpet calls. lo! on the roofs a rose-leaf magic falls. thro' all the windows dance and jewels shine. thro' all the rooms go lissome girls with scent. the window-frames are tendrilled with the vine. (ah, god! i weep in my content.) i standing in the street, i standing, gaze on my vision splendid and most dear, when lo! a chimney ... lo! on my dreams the soot drifts dry and sere. lo! all my flowers wilt in a reek of beer. on the drab flags squat children dusty-eyed, cursed at by blousy women with dank hair. just down the street there sprawls a suicide. (ah, god! i laugh in my despair.) slum evening a dove-grey evening, dusk empearled by lamps along the fading slums. out of the sky a silence comes, a honey on the wormwood world. the flirting adolescents stand and hush their tingling turbid vows. for softly on their foolish brows the evening lays a sober hand. even the butcher, he who shares the corner-shop with "boots and shoes," although he has no time to lose, delays to light the naphtha flares. a bleary woman down the road with a large twin on either arm, her wits are stolen by the charm, she quite forgets her puling load. i know not in what twilight stream she bathes her dropsy-swollen feet, but they were fair as dawn and fleet, in the dead girlhood of her dream. fires of change think you that athens and jerusalem rot in the places where they builded them? this is the temple, this the parthenon the priests of old days laid their hands upon? no more a stream sends the same waters twice along its channels to sea-sacrifice. not god himself shall bid time stand to lock the midmost atom in the mightiest rock. still the most secret atom shall be hurled into the riotous wind-ways of the world. still, the most ancient town, up wrenched, shall float freer than flame and light as a bird's note. still shall the crumbling globe itself be spun into fresh ethers conquered by the sun. so, even so, my soul shall wear no more the countless shapes my soul endued of yore. yea, the stout granite of my soul shall range molten across the blasting fires of change. not this am i you saw an hour ago. me fluid as thought your science shall not know. hourly my conquering spirit digs and delves a grave to hold a hundred slaughtered selves. hourly through cowering moons and stellar dins, i stride across buried virtues and slain sins. poetry a star that was mute was heard to sing. a flower took wing, a bird took root. the right is a wrong, the wrong is a right. i fought with the night, i sang you a song. i slaughtered time, for the path i trod to the feet of god was the road of a rhyme. a flower took wing, a bird took root. a star that was mute was heard to sing. the prisoner if you have not a bird inside you, you have no reason to sing. but if a pent bird chide you, a beak and a bleeding wing, then you have reason to sing. if merely you are clever with thoughts and rhymes and words, then always your poems sever the veins of our singing-birds, with blades of glinting words. yet if a song, without ending, inside you choke for breath, and a beak, devouring, rending, tear through your lungs for breath, sing--or you bleed to death. nerves you are like an ebony sea with derelict ships, cold as my lover is cold; until beauty rises like the moon and whips you into shivering gold. you are like a tree-top at the bleak last hour when birds to the tombs belong; until beauty blows like the dawn, and you flower into buds of innumerable song. you are like a virginal and a most pale girl in a secret mead; until beauty, like the indomitable male, enflames you with innermost seed. you are like a corpse with worms in the holes of the head, between a board and a board; until beauty shouts like the trump that convulses the dead, and you enter the house of the lord. a poet he has a voice so exquisite you can hardly hear it at all: tragedy's there and there is wit, both faint as a leaf's fall. his feet pass hardly like human feet, five-toed and leathern-shod, but more with the sound of bended wheat, swayed by the skirts of god. his eyes are a wistful and grey sea, till a song stir his blood. then are they flowers that suddenly open from the pent bud. but when at the shutting of the day, he sings faint songs for me, then is it very hard to say if the wind sings or he. for my friend (f. v. b.) go forth and conquer with the wind for a sword, o scorching might; go forth and blaze through the jungles of night, lead in the tameless stars with a cord; go forth, lover of right! make moons thy pebbles and suns thy coins, and thy language light. fill highest space with thy depth and height; gather the nebulæ round thy loins; go forth and fight! go forth and conquer--return, return, when the hawthorn's white. encompass the void; then turn and learn the veins of the grass and the bee's delight; return, lover of right! "i shall be splendidly and tensely young" i shall be splendidly and tensely young, while yet my limbs are mine. each of them shall be strung as a bowstring by an archer with fingers strict and fine. i shall be splendidly and tensely young, my heart being whole, my brain keen as a hawk's flight flung against my victim seen securely from my austere inane. but when my limbs no more are mine, my feet to walk, my hands to hold, i shall be most supremely young. then shall my flawless songs be sung, my brow be sealed with a proud sign: when i am deaf and blind and fleshless, i shall be most supremely young, when i am old. "i" i shall slough my self as a snake its skin, my white spots of virtue, my black spots of sin. i shall abandon my sex, my brain, my scheming for pleasure, escaping from pain. i shall dig roots deep down and be a weed or a reed, a flower, a tree. i shall lose body and miry feet, float with the clouds and sway with the wheat. i am a fool and foolisher than anything else that is not a man. for of all the things that i see or feel, the i-that-is-i is far the least real. and only when i shall learn at the last that a stream-bed pebble is far more vast in the scale of mind and its secret schemes than all my passion and blunders and dreams; then only that i that shall not be i shall play due part beneath sun and sky, ranked below sparrow, just above sod, i shall take my place in the self of god. i know not whence my poems come i know not why nor whence you come, my poems. only this i know. you fall like petals failing down upon the dustbins of a town. you fall like flakes of doubtful snow. like fairy flutes your musics flow. _you thunder like a madman's drum._ you falter on my worthless lips. you give me grapes to press for wine. unasked, you bring me balm and spice, you lead me into fields of kine, with tinted dreams and anodyne. _you freeze my flesh with flames of ice. you scorch my shrieking soul with whips._ lyrria lyrria is an old country. lost travellers tremble and call. a very white, wan, weird country where never came traveller at all. i am an old, old poet. lost poems tremble and call. a very white, wan, weird poet who never wrote poems at all. faringdon from salonica there's a far road off to faringdon, under the downs it goes; into the fine wood, the beech, the pine wood the dim road shadows and glows. my cycle hums to faringdon, hums like a joyful bee, through dropping shy light of green tree twilight, music of wind and tree. springtime, bluebells, faringdon, and a cycle through all three; great shadow reaches of english beeches, downs far down to the sea. there's a far road down to faringdon. there no more i ride. the boys hear mostly a rider ghostly, the girls they run and hide. but that's my ghost in faringdon, all year cycling it goes. into the fine wood, the beech, the pine wood, the dim ghost shadows and glows. salonica, call of the plover (to harry owen) the crying of the lonely plover from the morning cloud! do the wings and clouds still hover where my heart sang loud? o the valley and the stream there. where we shouted, being young! are there boys still dream a dream there, are the boys' songs sung? o the winds that once blew round us, o the sun! the rain! shall the ancient spells that bound us, bind us ever again? o a great word then was spoken, then was a boy's will clean and strong! is the boy's will broken that went straight along? o our ageing ears are ringing with many sad things! shall we come again with singing where the plover sings? cloud end the gallant road (for my school--without permission) grant us, o lord, to do the thing clean men and boys have always done; these works to do, these songs to sing, the gallant road to run. grant us, o lord, that we go straight along the path where shines the sun; these things to love, these things to hate, the gallant road to run. grant us, o lord, to win the fight that all the cleanly hearts have won, having sure feet, even at night the gallant road to run. grant us, o lord, when death enfold, that we take death as half in fun; like men and boys that knew of old the gallant road to run. the quest "i have sought you," i said; "i have found you," i said, "in the pitch of your intimate midnight lair." he drew back with a sob like the swish of a stick thro' the smarting air. "i have moved like death on deliberate feet thro' a thousand towns and a hundred lands. thinking you found, i have squeezed men's throats with pulsing, twitching, inquisitive hands. "but the fire that waned in their blood-starred eyes was not the flame of the fire i sought, and i went my way with the sword in my heart and the sword in my hand of passion and thought. "my blood spurted over the boulders of far intolerant mountains of iron and ice, but never in crevice or cave or chasm i found the flesh of my sacrifice. "i burned with the wrath of a wind from hell thro' molten deserts panting and pent; but ever my foeman fled me afar, the sinister goal of my intent. "i have sought you," i said, "i have found you," i said; "we shall die together, for i am you." the foam and fever oozed out of my forehead, with a dew like blood, with a blood like dew. he wailed like a child that recoils from a shadow that moves with menace over his bed; but i pierced my heart with the sword in my hand, and his body at last lay stretched and dead. having finished "jude the obscure" such purposeless and iron wings obscure our mortal music quite? such gloom to monstrous gloom outflings the stenches of a churchyard night? we are no more for god or sin than parasites in rotting hair, no different but only in the boundlessness of our despair? glories have sprung before our gaze from the wet wood the grey tide warps! we have heard peals of music blaze sheer from the cold heart of a corpse! ghost and body i that am wiser than most, have yielded the tract of my ghost to a panting and flat-eyed ghost who gathers these useless things. in a country of seventeen moons, he sits in the sound of bassoons playing terrible stupid tunes to the first of the ghostial kings. he has gathered my ghost with the rest to plough it, or do what is best, and doubtless he does it with zest in the country whereover he reigns. i am glad--for the thing was a pest; it lay at the roots of my chest, and it darkened the east and the west and it plastered my eyes with stains. but heigh-ho! my arms and my feet now are mine as i swing down the street, and my heart for to storm and to beat whenever my body desires. my eyes will look when they please down the drains or high to the trees. my body is mine to freeze or shrivel with whitest fires! gallop my drunken head is a whirl of song, my heart is a drumstick beating time. my pen goes swiftly galloping along the echoing roads of rhythm and rhyme. the stars are dizzy, for they circle in a ring. round about the pole star all hold hands. the moon lifts her skirts up to do a giddy fling, the trees in the forest dance in big black bands. the river is bounding from place to place, the fishes in the cold air rise and shine. the parallel hedgerows are running in a race, for each of them and all of them are drunk with wine. the grand old buildings, alas and woe is me! sway about unsteadily from side to side. the streets are moreover crooked things to see; there is no object anywhere will stand and bide. the goblins are assembled in a mad-moon crowd upon the hazy summit of the palpitating hill. let the things that have no voice shout out loud! let them dance, the fickle things, and have their fill! and if again they will not sub-subside, (for round-around-around ho! and dance shall we!) the road of the rebel stars is cool and wide, the mad waves dance on the sea! then beat like thunder heart, then! round go head! the red stars swing in time. for soon enough, the lord knows, shall i be dead, and dead my rhythm and rhyme! oxford we lads who barter rhymes there's some be red of face, they be, like jolly suns in harvest times, and some be haggard men to see, because of certain hidden crimes. but let us sing with one accord that we're the chosen of the lord, we lads who barter rhymes. there's some so tall and fair and free, like policemen in their leisure times, and some are like a wizened pea, some worth no more than twenty dimes. but here's our sober view expressed, we're three times better than the best, we lads who barter rhymes. who knows me? who knows me? none knows me. i hobble on two blistered feet round the corner, down the street. now and then a child will cry, seeing a strange thing in my eye, a bogey man, a thing of dread, stand from each eye in my head. now and then a baby 'll smile, --but that's only once a while. boys of thirteen all throw stones at my stiff and creaky bones. middle-aged people, fat and bright, shrug and sniff "it serves him right." round the corner, out of sight, down the street, across the night. who knows me? none knows me. i am young and i am proud, strong as sun and pure as cloud. all the five seas wash my veins with stinging foam and swinging rains. with the white stars i commune in a silent spheric tune. who knows me? none knows me. only but a brown bird, only but a little child, a little child, a little bird, only they know me. judÆus errans he hath no place to rest his head. o happy nations, weep indeed. he is forlorn till he be dead. o pity him his wretched meed, his wounds that bleed. there is no resting in his eyes, and he hath scars upon his feet. he is a stranger to all skies. he walks sad-eyed along the street, and shadow-wise. for with the dawn must he depart, and with the sunset make his way. all day he bears an aching heart, all night his aching sorrows stay, yea, night and day. then look a moment as he goes, a little sadly, in his eyes. for there are written all the woes, and a surprise. for he is sadder than god knows. cold stars cold night, cold with pointed stars that swing like instant scimitars, how you reproach with acid fire the smoky lamps of our desire. cold stars, inexorably aloof, that freeze from vision's dizziest roof, on these our human sins you brood in pride of glacial rectitude. cold stars, come down and walk along our avenues of sense and song; take human shape one night and vex your bowels with the scourge of sex. when you return at last to those cold skies from whence your travel rose, will you still stare with such disdain, when you, cold stars, are stars again? reactionary my heart's blood leaps high, o my lady, in a fountain of restless aspiring. that you should dangle within it the dissolute gold of your hair. i have shattered the doors of my spirit that you might thereinto retiring reposefully lie on my pain and reflect that the morning is fair. you may go to the devil, my lady, yourself and the rest of your species! i mean it, o desperate damsel, o lady most anxious and coy! i shall retire to my chamber to see that my clothes are in creases, for i see by the tilt of your brow the minuteness of brain you enjoy. you have set the clear bells of my spirit to crack in a dissonant jangle. you are fair in your way, o my lady, but rather oppressively sexed. there is no such fatal mistake as a primitive facial angle. good-bye, o my dispossessed lady, remember my name to the next. late i am very desolate. i am afraid. i am alone. the shadows wait till i am laid beneath a stone. i am very desolate. i can hear feet. i can see ghosts. fear's by the gate, death's in the street by the dark posts. i am very desolate. what have i made of the dead time? the night is late. i am afraid of my own rhyme. wind of black night i would go where you go, you sole monarch that i know. wind, wind of black night, i would go with your delight. take me by my streaming hair, take me where in the air planets meet, stars fight. i have need of the speed of your thunder-shattering steed. wind, wind of black night, i would battle with your might. take me by my soaring mind. no more blind, i shall find hell's depth and sky's height. i would follow where you lead, freed, freed of sense and creed. wind, wind of black night, i would see with your sight. take me by my burning soul, stark, whole, to god my goal, clean darkness, sheer light. yellow satins (to janey golding) when i am rich, mother, you will sit in satins, yellow satins, looking out upon the street. you will smile out on the neighbours, who will have no yellow satins; and there'll be a great big hassock to rest your tired feet. you'll have a gold-clasped family album, and a grand piano in the corner; but yellow satins, yellow satins, i have chiefly dreamed of them. and the most wonderful silk-lined work-box, with the clothes of my first baby, for your dear pale fingers to hem. and the neighbours will come to see you, and pretend not to be looking at the wonderful yellow satins, till i take you away to bed. but in dreaming of the yellow satins, i have forgotten, i have forgotten.... isn't it seven years, little mother, since you've been dead? my mother's portrait dost thou turn thine eyes away from me, thy stern and gentle eyes, from the error of my living days, o thou in death most wise? o thou in death most wise, with thy stern and gentle eyes, then is thy sleep disturbed by doubt, thy coffin by surprise? have i not trodden then the ways which thou wouldst have me tread? then was it but a wind of words, the passioned vows i said? the passioned vows i said, the ways which i should tread, so have i quite forgotten these now thou art safely dead? unless i take thy buried lips my final word to say, unless i take thy crumbled eyes to light my tangled way, to light my tangled way, my final word to say, suddenly, death, come down in flame and shrive me from the day! to a. l. o. my soul is a white flame that has burned longer than mars or aldebaran or all the stars, and gentler than a snowdrop, and far stronger than all the steel of its containing bars. in cosmic triumphs upon timeless cars my lordly soul hath lain. my soul is younger than the new-fallen dews in flowery jars: my soul, my godly food, my godly hunger. where shall i place my soul for most safe keeping from boisterous intention and omnivorous wave? and sow it in what field for goodliest reaping, from night to shield it and from sins to save? thou art my treasure-house, awake or sleeping, or wind-free in meadows or in the obscure grave. the dark knight of the road three tall poplars are his plumes, the dark knight of the road. and he is cuirassed round with glooms, and all his stern abode is loud with seas and dooms. a rock he takes to be his shield. loud winds his clarions are. should banded warriors take the field, though strong troops come from far, naught know they but to yield. but if a sparrow taunt his helm, froth-like his power is blown. him shall the mating thrush o'erwhelm. yea, i have even known tom-tit usurp his realm. to the swift swift, feathered lightning, swift, flesh of flame, wind-fleet, god who gave you your good gift gave me only two slow feet. countries merge within the span of your single hour's essay. i being but a wingless man plod my score of miles a day. fading into blankness now, song that flies and flight that sings, i am chained to clay, but thou, winds are leashed around thy wings. art thou faded, swift? then see, poet where the swift shall halt, poet see the sun assault the stone towers of finity. swift, dreamless atom, clod, swift, thou art slower than any eyeless, limbless man. him his soul shall drive to god. freshwater green wind the wind of course is green. there is no other word for what no man has seen and every man has heard. it's neither man nor fowl, and neither fish nor beast. but it comes out of the west and goes into the east. it never was defined by instrument or mouth. but it comes out of the north and goes into the south. the wind it is a green thing that swishes thro' the corn, and shouts you to praise loudly the day that you were born. the wind it is a wise thing that rumbles thro' the beech, and bids you to learn there a wisdom it can teach. the wind's as green as greenness possibly can be, and lashes to a foam of green the deepest bluest sea. and even in the grassless towns, the murky streets and mean, along the greys, behind the browns, it sings a song of green. and whither does it go then, and whence does it come forth? it comes out of the south, and goes into the north. it comes out of the east, and goes into the west, and why the wind is green as green, god alone knows best. the midmost field in kent there is a time of charm and chime, and this is sabbath evening time. there is a place of dear content, this is the midmost field in kent. this is the time and this the place where boughs droop down with dews of grace; where under hedges hung with sleep, through atmospheres of music creep sheep like ghosts and ghosts like sheep. here a great lord of magic comes fanfarronading with far drums, and deep athwart the night he throws his banners of white fire and rose. from the great town unto the sea, he thunders through his empiry. but when his drums are heard no more, the quiet is quiet as before. and there's a drowsy dreamy scent drenches the midmost field in kent. neither more quickly nor more slow, shadows come, shadows go. shadows that reap while others sow, shadows that sow while others reap, shadows whose windy singings keep, sheep like ghosts and ghosts like sheep. murmuryngeham in murmuryngeham, in murmuryngeham, the bees is always singing, the flowers is always chiming, the sheep stands on their head. there's lads and lasses clinging, and minor poets rhyming, in murmuryngeham, in murmuryngeham, when they should be in bed. so now my feet is winging, when other men's are climbing, to murmuryngeham, which i shall find if my good patron be inclined, murmuryngeham, murmuryngeham, some day before i'm dead. winchester downs in winchester on the white downs this is not mist at all, but the thin silk of fairy gowns which is not woven in the towns and all behind a wall. in winchester, be taught of me, the fairies seize your wrist. their gowns are caught in every tree; --but if you have no eyes to see, then sure, it's only mist. cycling in october o the wind blowing round me, the wind blowing round me, the same wind that blew when the grey world was green! the high hills before me, the brown hills before me, that stand in their places where death has not been. the blue sky over my head is singing, is singing, is singing, as loudly as i. for death was only a seeming, a dreaming, and life is as clouds that fade and fly. the strong hills vanish, as thin clouds vanish, as i shall vanish, my dream, my pain; but all my dreams and i the dreamer, clouds and hills shall sing again. then birds of october, hills of october, winds of october, wrap me round. carry me forward, road of october, sped on the wheels of light and sound. for the birds are on wings now and i am on wings now over the white road the dead men trod. and there are no dead men, there are no dead men, but living men only and dead men are god! the shepherd "ah me," the shepherd said who dwelt beside a fold upon the northern hills. "ah me, 'tis bitter cold, my oldest friends be dead. and o a humming fills my nid-nod-nodding head." the guns lie in the beams. the shepherd feeds the fire with fingers old and numb. the lamplight flickers higher. a double winter seems surely to have come. the old friends hover nigher in simple shepherd dreams. the frost lies on the fells. the moon's a great white flower. the stars have cruel hearts. and loud and very clear, with sudden silly starts, the old clock ticks and tells the changing of the hour. but the shepherd hears the bells no other man may hear. a look's within his eyes i have not seen before in shepherd north or south. the old head sinketh lower. the shadows fall and rise along the earthen floor. --god wot, he'll go no more beneath the windy skies. no more the shepherd will lead down the misty scars the small sheep frail and lost, nor thread the bracken hill singing a shepherd's rune. the moorland wind is still, beneath the ancient moon. the fells are white with frost. the white peaks touch the stars. derwentwater (to j. l. paton) god give me derwentwater when i die. let no one else be by to say prayers over me or close my eye. on friar's crag my body will lie down. on green grass and earth brown. i will forget the fever and the town. over the tops of ancient borrowdale, slowly the clouds will sail through great sky spaces, exquisite and frail. and grandly will the flames of heather climb up skiddaw-hill sublime, with head unbowed before the knees of time. thro' the still dusk a little bird will sing sweetly a holy thing, and fade in silence on a drowsy wing. the winds will pass along the quiet lake, and god will gently take my own breath with them for his godhead's sake. "i vowed that i would be a tree" i vowed that i would be a tree. i went up to an oak and said, "what shall i do that i might be a beech, an oak, or any tree, with branches leafing from my head?" there was a sound of sap that ran, there was a wind of leaves that spoke. "so you would cease to be a man, and be a green tree, if you can, a pine, a beech, an oak?" i answered, "i am tired of men, as tired as they of me. i fain would not return again to the perplexity of men, but straightway be a tree." there was a sound of winds that went to summon every oldest tree, to hold their austere parliament about the thing had craved to be elect of their calm company. there was a sound of bursting tide, there was a wash of clanging foam, a crumbling shore, a bursting tide. there came a thunder that outcried, "go, wretched mortal, get thee home! "who art thou that would be a tree, least of the weeds that shoot and pass? bide till a wisdom come, and see before a mortal be a tree, he first must be a blade of grass!" wounded soldiers have you no arms, soldier? see, i have two. whatever deeds for arms there be, these still i can do. out of clay i still can make living things like me and you. i still can cleave the lake with strong arms true. have you no feet, soldier, no feet at all? i still have feet to climb oak-tree and tall. still as in our boyhood, i leap the hedge and climb the wall. still my feet will chase the spring when birds call. have you no eyes, soldier, keen eyes like me? my eyes still have light that draw strength from the great sea. o soldier, is it hard to lose the first spring-whisper on the tree, sun foaming round the love you choose, whosoever she? ah! but you have something, soldier, never we shall know. you shall hear the holy winds we can not hear blow. from your garden-soul shall start flowers of flaming snow. there's the secret at your heart never we shall know. still life in france sweet peas drooping in a vase like the tears of niobe, poppies like the cheeks of mars kissing the aphrodite. pansies like a dryad's eyes, open-wide and half-afraid, like unfolded butterflies in a little tempe glade. * * * * * flowers and words might be my toys half a drowsy summer day, but at night i hear the noise of bombardment far away. very quiet i am then, like a moon-enchanted boy, as i see the khaki men storm the granite walls of troy. harfleur, i dream'd i died i dream'd i died. the green of spring was not yet manifest upon the cold hillside. they bore me slowly to my place of rest, and let me bide. far from the pale i lay of space and light, of dusk and dawn. i knew the sharp stars of the winter night were far withdrawn. silent i lay upon my bed, in sooth at rest. the earth pressed heavily on my head, my lean hands cross'd my breast. i saw not through my eyes. when i had faded from the room of sighs, someone had sealed them down with clay, had whispered, "he hath seen the whole of summer earth and starlit skies, or yellow hills of tumbled hay that he shall see. here till the time of judgment let him be. god soothe his soul." under the moon i lay remote from the dear nightingale. late and soon, faintly i heard the wan wind drone and wail. i dream'd, thro' many years it seemed: until i wearied me of dreaming and closed the windows of my soul, where no sun streaming show'd how god's far far days did westward roll. all blind, blind, a sea of sleep did drown me unconfin'd, wide and deep, a sea of utter sleep, its levels no time stirred by any wind. and so i slept, my hands across my breast. my clamped spirit kept a total rest. * * * * * earth of the earth i slumber'd long, i slumber'd in the untrod glooms, and then dawn came. i felt the world was glad with song, i felt the hillsides were a flame of king-cup blooms. and when dawn came, three times i knocked upon the door which was my seal, my world and sky, three times with might. there came a burst of sound and light, a knowledge broad and deep and high, the long breath of a sloping moor. i looked into the daylight wide, a bird sang thro' the singing blue, and then, o heart, and then i knew i _dream'd_ i died. flowers in war still, still, with all your ancient bloom, you glow athwart our gloom. still, o too callous flowers, you load with gems these swooning hours. still, still, the lilac foams and falls against our hollow silenced walls. against the cinders of our homes, wistaria falls and foams. when all the spring is all a loaded grave, how can your banners wave? how when the wind goes round your way, how can your trumpets play? for whom your splendours chiefly shone, all those, all those, are gone. now spring is nipped and hoar, too callous flowers, why bloom ye more? still, still, the scarlet sorrel gleams all noon along the noon-gold streams. still, still, the meadow-pippet's feet are dewed on meadow-sweet. be curst, o callous flowers that come so fair with taunts at our despair. or if next spring shall lead you back, be all your petals black! evening--kent sheep, like woolly clouds dropt from the sky, drift through the quiet meads. from over the seas, a little cry, --europe bleeds! clouds, like woolly sheep, hardly stir'd, drift through the quiet skies. from over the seas, a little word, --europe dies! black magic hands on the window-sill i hear but cannot see. ghosts riding down the hill i see but cannot hear. my heart is cold with fear of every trembling tree. the day has never been, and day will never be. and night is very lean, and death is very swift. and green eyes blink and shift through every monstrous tree. black arms across the night, and hands i may not flee, and fingers grasping tight that choke my little cries, and i shall have green eyes within a phantom tree. a soldier dying "lad, why are your fingers twitching, what is the thing they strain to hold? why does your blood flow thick, enriching a bleak strange place?" "dying, dying--then do not task me!" "tell me before your lips are cold." "i am afraid of the thing you ask me." "--before the dark is in your face." "this is why my blood is oozing. because my masters did the choosing. blood is cheap and bought for gold." "are they masters of your knowing?" "i know not who my masters be. i only know my blood is flowing, because my secret masters said, 'we shall live and he be dead.'" "this is why your fingers straining clutch the thing they shall not hold?" "this is why the blood is waning, waning from my face. they gathered in the market-place, they gathered to buy merchandise. my blood was bought for little price, my masters bought and i was sold. this is why my blood is oozing, blood is cheap and bought for gold." at last war ends and still the war went on: till only ten were left to win the war; they fought; and then, then there were no more men. there was a gloom of apprehension lest for lack of flesh the first and last and best of wars might be suppressed. but mars was far too sage to be surprised. now that the race of men were quite demised, the women mobilized. so now for gassier gas and flamier flame! compared with what the present war became, the old war was a game. the old had fifty years in which to thrive; when this had lasted only twenty-five, two dames remained alive. with flammen-werfer strictly up-to-date, they stalked each other, singing hymns of hate: --but one was just too late! the victress trying vainly to decide for whom her late opponent had just died, committed suicide. so now the world consisted but of trees and dogs and beetles livid with disease, and babies blue with fleas. trees, dogs, and beetles perished from the day. like flies brought crawling earthwards by a spray, the babies dropped away. now truly war seemed ended. mars was pained beyond expression till he ascertained, two babes, thank god! remained. he fired them with the fury of all wars. a bloody hunger stung their toothless jaws. they squealed--"the cause! the cause!" black to the blinding noon they foamed and swore. each from his brother's breast the red heart tore. then there was war no more. printed by morrison and gibb ltd. edinburgh (images generously made available by the internet archive.) the war poems of siegfried sassoon by the author of "the old huntsman" and "counter attack" london: william heinemann dans la trêve désolée de cette matinée, ces hommes qui avaient été tenaillés par la fatigue, fouettés par la pluie, bouleversés par toute une nuit de tonnerre, ces rescapés des volcans et de l'inondation entrevoyaient à quel point la guerre, aussi hideuse au moral qu'au physique, non seulement viole le bon sens, avilit les grandes idées, commande tous les crimes--mais ils se rappelaient combien elle avait développé en eux et autour d'eux tous les mauvais instincts sans en excepter un seul; la méchanceté jusqu'au sadisme, l'égoïsme jusqu'à la férocité, le besoin de jouir jusqu'à la folie. henri barbusse. (_le feu_.) note of these poems, are now published for the first time. the remainder are selected from two previous volumes. contents i prelude: the troops dreamers the redeemer trench duty wirers break of day a working party stand-to: good friday morning "in the pink" the hero before the battle the road two hundred years after the dream at carnoy battalion relief the dug-out the rear-guard i stood with the dead suicide in trenches attack counter-attack the effect remorse in an underground dressing-station died of wounds ii "they" base details lamentations the general how to die editorial impressions fight to a finish atrocities the fathers "blighters" glory of women their frailty does it matter? survivors joy-bells arms and the man when i'm among a blaze of lights the kiss the tombstone-maker the one-legged man return of the heroes iii twelve months after to any dead officer sick leave banishment autumn repression of war experience together the hawthorn tree concert party night on the convoy a letter home reconciliation memorial tablet (great war) the death-bed aftermath song-books of the war everyone sang prelude: the troops dim, gradual thinning of the shapeless gloom shudders to drizzling daybreak that reveals disconsolate men who stamp their sodden boots and turn dulled, sunken faces to the sky haggard and hopeless. they, who have beaten down the stale despair of night, must now renew their desolation in the truce of dawn, murdering the livid hours that grope for peace. yet these, who cling to life with stubborn hands, can grin through storms of death and find a gap in the clawed, cruel tangles of his defence. they march from safety, and the bird-sung joy of grass-green thickets, to the land where all is ruin, and nothing blossoms but the sky that hastens over them where they endure sad, smoking, flat horizons, reeking woods, and foundered trench-lines volleying doom for doom. o my brave brown companions, when your souls flock silently away, and the eyeless dead shame the wild beast of battle on the ridge, death will stand grieving in that field of war since your unvanquished hardihood is spent. and through some mooned valhalla there will pass battalions and battalions, scarred from hell; the unreturning army that was youth; the legions who have suffered and are dust. dreamers soldiers are citizens of death's gray land, drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows; in the great hour of destiny they stand, each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows. soldiers are sworn to action; they must win some flaming, fatal climax with their lives. soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin they think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives. i see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats, and in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain, dreaming of things they did with balls and bats, and mocked by hopeless longing to regain bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats, and going to the office in the train. the redeemer darkness: the rain sluiced down; the mire was deep; it was past twelve on a mid-winter night, when peaceful folk in beds lay snug asleep: there, with much work to do before the light, we lugged our clay-sucked boots as best we might along the trench; sometimes a bullet sang, and droning shells burst with a hollow bang; we were soaked, chilled and wretched, every one. darkness: the distant wink of a huge gun. i turned in the black ditch, loathing the storm; a rocket fizzed and burned with blanching flare, and lit the face of what had been a form floundering in mirk. he stood before me there; i say that he was christ; stiff in the glare, and leaning forward from his burdening task, both arms supporting it; his eyes on mine stared from the woeful head that seemed a mask of mortal pain in hell's unholy shine. no thorny crown, only a woollen cap he wore--an english soldier, white and strong, who loved his time like any simple chap, good days of work and sport and homely song; now he has learned that nights are very long, and dawn a watching of the windowed sky. but to the end, unjudging, he'll endure horror ancf pain, not uncontent to die that lancaster on lune may stand secure. he faced me, reeling in his weariness, shouldering his load of planks, so hard to bear. i say that he was christ, who wrought to bless all groping things with freedom bright as air, and with his mercy washed and made them fair. then the flame sank, and all grew black as pitch, while we began to struggle along the ditch; and some one flung his burden in the muck, mumbling: "o christ almighty, now i'm stuck!" trench duty shaken from sleep, and numbed and scarce awake, out in the trench with three hours' watch to take, i blunder through the splashing mirk; and then hear the gruff muttering voices of the men crouching in cabins candle-chinked with light. hark! there's the big bombardment on our right rumbling and bumping; and the dark's a glare of flickering horror in the sectors where we raid the boche; men waiting, stiff and chilled, or crawling on their bellies through the wire. "what? stretcher-bearers wanted? some one killed?" five minutes ago i heard a sniper fire: why did he do it?... starlight overhead-- blank stars. i'm wide-awake; and some chap's dead. wirers "pass it along, the wiring party's going out"-- and yawning sentries mumble, "wirers going out." unravelling; twisting; hammering stakes with muffled thud, they toil with stealthy haste and anger in their blood. the boche sends up a flare. black forms stand rigid there, stock-still like posts; then darkness, and the clumsy ghosts stride hither and thither, whispering, tripped by clutching snare of snags and tangles. ghastly dawn with vaporous coasts gleams desolate along the sky, night's misery ended. young hughes was badly hit; i heard him carried away, moaning at every lurch; no doubt he'll die to-day. but _we_ can say the front-line wire's been safely mended. break of day there seemed a smell of autumn in the air at the bleak end of night; he shivered there in a dank, musty dug-out where he lay, legs wrapped in sand-bags,--lumps of chalk and clay spattering his face. dry-mouthed, he thought, "to-day we start the damned attack; and, lord knows why, zero's at nine; how bloody if i'm done in under the freedom of that morning sky!" and then he coughed and dozed, cursing the din. was it the ghost of autumn in that smell of underground, or god's blank heart grown kind, that sent a happy dream to him in hell?-- where men are crushed like clods, and crawl to find some crater for their wretchedness; who lie in outcast immolation, doomed to die far from clean things or any hope of cheer, cowed anger in their eyes, till darkness brims and roars into their heads, and they can hear old childish talk, and tags of foolish hymns. he sniffs the chilly air; (his dreaming starts). he's riding in a dusty sussex lane in quiet september; slowly night departs; and he's a living soul, absolved from pain. beyond the brambled fences where he goes are glimmering fields with harvest piled in sheaves, and tree-tops dark against the stars grown pale; then, clear and shrill, a distant farm-cock crows; and there's a wall of mist along the vale where willows shake their watery-sounding leaves. he gazes on it all, and scarce believes that earth is telling its old peaceful tale; he thanks the blessed world that he was born ... then, far away, a lonely note of the horn. they're drawing the big wood! unlatch the gate, and set golumpus going on the grass: _he_ knows the corner where it's best to wait and hear the crashing woodland chorus pass; the corner where old foxes make their track to the long spinney; that's the place to be. the bracken shakes below an ivied tree, and then a cub looks out; and "tally-o-back!" he bawls, and swings his thong with volleying crack,-- all the clean thrill of autumn in his blood, and hunting surging through him like a flood in joyous welcome from the untroubled past; while the war drifts away, forgotten at last. now a red, sleepy sun above the rim of twilight stares along the quiet weald, and the kind, simple country shines revealed in solitudes of peace, no longer dim. the old horse lifts his face and thanks the light, then stretches down his head to crop the green. all things that he has loved are in his sight; the places where his happiness has been are in his eyes, his heart, and they are good. * * * * * hark! there's the horn: they're drawing the big wood. a working party three hours ago he blundered up the trench, sliding and poising, groping with his boots; sometimes he tripped and lurched against the walls with hands that pawed the sodden bags of chalk. he couldn't see the man who walked in front; only he heard the drum and rattle of feet stepping along the trench-boards,--often splashing wretchedly where the sludge was ankle-deep. voices would grunt, "keep to your right,--make way!" when squeezing past the men from the front-line: white faces peered, puffing a point of red; candles and braziers glinted through the chinks and curtain-flaps of dug-outs; then the gloom swallowed his sense of sight; he stooped and swore because a sagging wire had caught his neck. a flare went up; the shining whiteness spread and flickered upward, showing nimble rats, and mounds of glimmering sand-bags, bleached with rain; then the slow, silver moment died in dark. the wind came posting by with chilly gusts and buffeting at corners, piping thin and dreary through the crannies; rifle-shots would split and crack and sing along the night, and shells came calmly through the drizzling air to burst with hollow bang below the hill. three hours ago he stumbled up the trench; now he will never walk that road again: he must be carried back, a jolting lump beyond all need of tenderness and care; a nine-stone corpse with nothing more to do. he was a young man with a meagre wife and two pale children in a midland town; he showed the photograph to all his mates; and they considered him a decent chap who did his work and hadn't much to say, and always laughed at other people's jokes because he hadn't any of his own. that night, when he was busy at his job of piling bags along the parapet, he thought how slow time went, stamping his feet, and blowing on his fingers, pinched with cold. he thought of getting back by half-past twelve, and tot of rum to send him warm to sleep, in draughty dug-out frowsty with the fumes of coke, and full of snoring, weary men. he pushed another bag along the top, craning his body outward; then a flare gave one white glimpse of no man's land and wire; and as he dropped his head the instant split his startled life with lead, and all went out. stand-to: good friday morning i'd been on duty from two till four. i went and stared at the dug-out door. down in the frowst i heard them snore. "stand-to!" somebody grunted and swore. dawn was misty; the skies were still; larks were singing, discordant, shrill; _they_ seemed happy; but _i_ felt ill. deep in water i splashed my way up the trench to our bogged front line. rain had fallen the whole damned night. o jesus, send me a wound to-day, and i'll believe in your bread and wine, and get my bloody old sins washed white! in the pink so davies wrote: "this leaves me in the pink." then scrawled his name: "your loving sweetheart, willie." with crosses for a hug. he'd had a drink of rum and tea; and, though the barn was chilly, for once his blood ran warm; he had pay to spend. winter was passing; soon the year would mend. he couldn't sleep that night. stiff in the dark he groaned and thought of sundays at the farm, when he'd go out as cheerful as a lark in his best suit to wander arm-in-arm with brown-eyed gwen, and whisper in her ear the simple, silly things she liked to hear. and then he thought: to-morrow night we trudge up to the trenches, and my boots are rotten. five miles of stodgy clay and freezing sludge, and everything but wretchedness forgotten. to-night he's in the pink; but soon he'll die. and still the war goes on; _he_ don't know why. the hero "jack fell as he'd have wished," the mother said, and folded up the letter that she'd read. "the colonel writes so nicely." something broke in the tired voice that quavered to a choke. she half looked up. "we mothers are so proud of our dead soldiers." then her face was bowed. quietly the brother officer went out. he'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies that she would nourish all her days, no doubt. for while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy, because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy. he thought how "jack," cold-footed, useless swine, had panicked down the trench that night the mine went up at wicked corner; how he'd tried to get sent home; and how, at last, he died, blown to small bits. and no one seemed to care except that lonely woman with white hair. before the battle music of whispering trees hushed by the broad-winged breeze where shaken water gleams; and evening radiance falling with reedy bird-notes calling. o bear me safe through dark, you low-voiced streams. i have no need to pray that fear may pass away; i scorn the growl and rumble of the fight that summons me from cool silence of marsh and pool, and yellow lilies islanded in light. o river of stars and shadows, lead me through the night. _june_ _th_, . the road the road is thronged with women; soldiers pass and halt, but never see them; yet they're here-- a patient crowd along the sodden grass, silent, worn out with waiting, sick with fear. the road goes crawling up a long hillside, all ruts and stones and sludge, and the emptied dregs of battle thrown in heaps. here where they died are stretched big-bellied horses with stiff legs; and dead men, bloody-fingered from the fight, stare up at caverned darkness winking white. you in the bomb-scorched kilt, poor sprawling jock, you tottered here and fell, and stumbled on, half dazed for want of sleep. no dream could mock your reeling brain with comforts lost and gone. you did not feel her arms about your knees, her blind caress, her lips upon your head: too tired for thoughts of home and love and ease, the road would serve you well enough for bed. two hundred years after trudging by corbie ridge one winter's night, (unless old, hearsay memories tricked his sight), along the pallid edge of the quiet sky he watched a nosing lorry grinding on, and straggling files of men; when these were gone, a double limber and six mules went by, hauling the rations up through ruts and mud to trench-lines digged two hundred years ago. then darkness hid them with a rainy scud, and soon he saw the village lights below. but when he'd told his tale, an old man said that _he'd_ seen soldiers pass along that hill; "poor, silent things, they were the english dead who came to fight in france and got their fill." the dream i moonlight and dew-drenched blossom, and the scent of summer gardens; these can bring you all those dreams that in the starlit silence fall: sweet songs are full of odours. while i went last night in drizzling dusk along a lane, i passed a squalid farm; from byre and midden came the rank smell that brought me once again a dream of war that in the past was hidden. ii up a disconsolate straggling village street i saw the tired troops trudge: i heard their feet. the cheery q.m.s. was there to meet and guide our company in ... i watched them stumble into some crazy hovel, too beat to grumble; saw them file inward, slipping from their backs rifles, equipment, packs. on filthy straw they sit in the gloom, each face bowed to patched, sodden boots they must unlace, while the wind chills their sweat through chinks and cracks. iii i'm looking at their blistered feet; young jones stares up at me, mud-splashed and white and jaded; out of his eyes the morning light has faded. old soldiers with three winters in their bones puff their damp woodbines, whistle, stretch their toes they can still grin at me, for each of 'em knows that i'm as tired as they are ... can they guess the secret burden that is always mine?-- pride in their courage; pity for their distress; and burning bitterness that i must take them to the accursed line. iv i cannot hear their voices, but i see dim candles in the barn: they gulp their tea, and soon they'll sleep like logs. ten miles away the battle winks and thuds in blundering strife. and i must lead them nearer, day by day, to the foul beast of war that bludgeons life. at carnoy down in the hollow there's the whole brigade camped in four groups: through twilight falling slow i hear a sound of mouth-organs, ill-played, and murmur of voices, gruff, confused, and low. crouched among thistle-tufts i've watched the glow of a blurred orange sunset flare and fade; and i'm content. to-morrow we must go to take some cursèd wood.... o world god made! _july_ _rd_, . batallion relief "_fall in! now, get a move on!_" (curse the rain.) we splash away along the straggling village, out to the flat rich country green with june ... and sunset flares across wet crops and tillage, blazing with splendour-patches. harvest soon up in the line. "_perhaps the war 'll be done_ _by christmas-time. keep smiling then, old son!_" here's the canal: it's dusk; we cross the bridge. "_lead on there by platoons_." the line's a-glare with shell-fire through the poplars; distant rattle of rifles and machine-guns. "_fritz is there!_ _christ, ain't it lively, sergeant? is't a battle?_" more rain: the lightning blinks, and thunder rumbles. "there's overhead artillery," some chap grumbles. "_what's all this mob, by the cross-road?_" (the guides) ... "_lead on with number one_." (and off they go.) "_three-minute intervals_." ... poor blundering files, sweating and blindly burdened; who's to know if death will catch them in those two dark miles? (more rain.) "_lead on, headquarters_." (that's the lot.) "_who's that? o, sergeant-major; don't get shot!_ _and tell me, have we won this war or not?_" the dug-out why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled, and one arm bent across your sullen cold exhausted face? it hurts my heart to watch you, deep-shadow'd from the candle's guttering gold; and you wonder why i shake you by the shoulder; drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head. _you are too young to fall asleep for ever;_ _and when you sleep you remind me of the dead._ the rear-guard (hindenburg line, april .) groping along the tunnel, step by step, he winked his prying torch with patching glare from side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air. tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague to know, a mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed; and he, exploring fifty feet below the rosy gloom of battle overhead. tripping, he grabbed the wall; saw some one lie humped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug, and stooped to give the sleeper's arm a tug. "i'm looking for headquarters." no reply. "god blast your neck!" (for days he'd had no sleep,) "get up and guide me through this stinking place." savage, he kicked a soft, unanswering heap, and flashed his beam across the livid face terribly glaring up, whose eyes yet wore agony dying hard ten days before; and fists of fingers clutched a blackening wound. alone he staggered on until he found dawn's ghost that filtered down a shafted stair to the dazed, muttering creatures underground who hear the boom of shells in muffled sound. at last, with sweat of horror in his hair, he climbed through darkness to the twilight air, unloading hell behind him step by step. i stood with the dead i stood with the dead, so forsaken and still: when dawn was grey i stood with the dead. and my slow heart said, "you must kill; you must kill: soldier, soldier, morning is red." on the shapes of the slain in their crumpled disgrace i stared for a while through the thin cold rain.... "o lad that i loved, there is rain on your face, and your eyes are blurred and sick like the plain." i stood with the dead.... they were dead; they were dead; my heart and my head beat a march of dismay: and gusts of the wind came dulled by the guns ... "fall in!" i shouted; "fall in for your pay!" suicide in trenches i knew a simple soldier boy who grinned at life in empty joy, slept soundly through the lonesome dark, and whistled early with the lark. in winter trenches, cowed and glum with crumps and lice and lack of rum, he put a bullet through his brain. no one spoke of him again. * * * * * you smug-faced crowds with kindling eye who cheer when soldier lads march by, sneak home and pray you'll never know the hell where youth and laughter go. attack at dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun in the wild purple of the glowering sun smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud the menacing scarred slope; and, one by one, tanks creep and topple forward to the wire. the barrage roars and lifts. then, clumsily bowed with bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear, men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire. lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear, they leave their trenches, going over the top, while time ticks blank and busy on their wrists, and hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists, flounders in mud. o jesu, make it stop! counter-attack we'd gained our first objective hours before while dawn broke like a face with blinking eyes, pallid, unshaved ind thirsty, blind with smoke. things seemed all light at first. we held their line, with bombers posted, lewis guns well placed, and clink of shovels deepening the shallow trench. the place was rotten with dead; green clumsy legs high-booted, sprawled and grovelled along the saps and trunks, face downward in the sucking mud, wallowed like trodden and bags loosely filled; and naked sodden buttocks, mats of hair, bulged, clotted heads, slept in the plastering slime. and then the rain began,--the jolly old rain! a yawning soldier knelt against the bank, staring across the morning blear with fog; he wondered when the allemands would get busy; and then, of course, they start'd with five-nines traversing, sure as fate, and never a dud. mute in the clamour of shells he watched them burst spouting dark earth and wire with gusts from hell, while posturing giants dissolved in drifts of smoke. he crouched and flinched, dizzy with galloping fear, sick for escape,--loathing the strangled horror and butchered, frantic gestures of the dead. an officer came blundering down the trench: "stand-to and man the fire-step!" on he went ... gasping and bawling, "fire-step ... counter-attack!" then the haze lifted. bombing on the right down the old sap: machine-guns on the left; and stumbling figures looming out in front. "o christ, they're coming at us!" bullets spat, and he remembered his rifle ... rapid fire ... and started blazing wildly ... then a bang crumpled and spun him sideways, knocked him out to grunt and wriggle: none heeded him; he choked and fought the flapping veils of smothering gloom, lost in a blurred confusion of yells and groans. down, and down, and down, he sank and drowned, bleeding to death. the counter-attack had failed. the effect "the effect of our bombardment was terrific. one man told me he had never seen so many dead before." _war correspondent_. "_he'd never seen so many dead before_." they sprawled in yellow daylight while he swore and gasped and lugged his everlasting load of bombs along what once had been a road. "_how peaceful are the dead_." who put that silly gag in some one's head? "_he'd never seen so many dead before_." the lilting words danced up and down his brain, while corpses jumped and capered in the rain. no, no; hfc wouldn't count them any more ... the dead have done with pain: they've choked; they can't come back to life again. when dick was killed last week he looked like that, flapping along the fire-step like a fish, after the blazing crump had knocked him flat ... "_how many dead? as many as ever you wish_. _don't count 'em; they're too many_. _who'll buy my nice fresh corpses, two a penny?_" remorse lost in the swamp and welter of the pit, he flounders off the duck-boards; only he knows each flash and spouting crash,--each instant lit when gloom reveals the streaming rain. he goes heavily, blindly on. and, while he blunders, "could anything be worse than this?"--he wonders, remembering how he saw those germans run, screaming for mercy among the stumps of trees: green-faced, they dodged and darted: there was one livid with terror, clutching at his knees.... our chaps were sticking 'em like pigs.... "o hell!" he thought--"there's things in war one dare not tell poor father sitting safe at home, who reads of dying heroes and their deathless deeds." in an underground dressing-station quietly they set their burden down: he tried to grin; moaned; moved his head from side to side. * * * * * he gripped the stretcher; stiffened; glared; and screamed, "o put my leg down, doctor, do!" (he'd got a bullet in his ankle; and he'd been shot horribly through the guts.) the surgeon seemed so kind and gentle, saying, above that crying, "you _must_ keep still, my lad." but he was dying. died of wounds his wet, white face and miserable eyes brought nurses to him more than groans and sighs: but hoarse and low and rapid rose and fell his troubled voice: he did the business well. the ward grew dark; but he was still complaining, and calling out for "dickie." "curse the wood! "it's time to go; o christ, and what's the good?-- we'll never take it; and it's always raining." i wondered where he'd been; then heard him shout, "they snipe like hell! o dickie, don't go out" ... i fell asleep ... next morning he was dead; and some slight wound lay smiling on his bed. ii. "they" the bishop tells us: "when the boys come back they will not be the same; for they'll have fought in a just cause: they lead the last attack on anti-christ; their comrade's blood has bought new right to breed an honourable race. they have challenged death and dared him face to face." "we're none of us the same!" the boys reply. "for george lost both his legs; and bill's stone blind; poor jim's shot through the lungs and like to die; and bert's gone syphilitic: you'll not find a chap who's served that hasn't found _some_ change." and the bishop said: "the ways of god are strange!" base details if i were fierce, and bald, and short of breath, i'd live with scarlet majors at the base, and speed glum heroes up the line to death. you'd see me with my puffy petulant face, guzzling and gulping in the best hotel, reading the roll of honour. "poor young chap," i'd say--"i used to know his father well; yes, we've lost heavily in this last scrap." and when the war is done and youth stone dead, i'd toddle safely home and die--in bed. lamentations i found him in a guard-room at the base. from the blind darkness i had heard his crying and blundered in. with puzzled, patient face a sergeant watched him; it was no good trying to stop it; for he howled and beat his chest. and, all because his brother had gone west, raved at the bleeding war; his rampant grief moaned, shouted, sobbed, and choked, while he was kneeling half-naked on the floor. in my belief such men have lost all patriotic feeling. the general "good-morning; good-morning!" the general said when we met him last week on our way to the line, now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead, and we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine. "he's a cheery old card," grunted harry to jack as they slogged up to arras with rifle and pack. * * * * * but he did for them both by his plan of attack. how to die dark clouds are smouldering into red while down the craters morning burns. the dying soldier shifts his head to watch the glory that returns: he lifts his fingers toward the skies where holy brightness breaks in flame; radiance reflected in his eyes, and on his lips a whispered name. you'd think, to hear some people talk, that lads go west with sobs and curses, and sullen faces white as chalk, hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses. but they've been taught the way to do it like christian soldiers; not with haste and shuddering groans; but passing through it with due regard for decent taste. editorial impressions he seemed so certain "all was going well," as he discussed the glorious time he'd had while visiting the trenches. "one can tell you've gathered big impressions!" grinned the lad who'd been severely wounded in the back in some wiped-out impossible attack. "impressions? yes, most vivid! i am writing a little book called _europe on the rack_, based on notes made while witnessing the fighting. i hope i've caught the feeling of 'the line,' and the amazing spirit of the troops. by jove, those flying-chaps of ours are fine! i watched one daring beggar looping loops, soaring and diving like some bird of prey. and through it all i felt that splendour shine which makes us win." the soldier sipped his wine. "ah, yes, but it's the press that leads the way!" fight to a finish the boys came back. bands played and flags were flying, and yellow-pressmen thronged the sunlit street to cheer the soldiers who'd refrained from dying, and hear the music of returning feet. of all the thrills and ardours war has brought, this moment is the finest." (so they thought.) snapping their bayonets on to charge the mob, grim fusiliers broke ranks with glint of steel. at last the boys had found a cushy job. * * * * * i heard the yellow-pressmen grunt and squeal; and with my trusty bombers turned and went to clear those junkers out of parliament. atrocities you told me, in your drunken-boasting mood, how once you butchered prisoners. that was good! i'm sure you felt no pity while they stood patient and cowed and scared, as prisoners should. how did you do them in? come, don't be shy: you know i love to hear how germans die, downstairs in dug-outs. "camerad!" they cry; then squeal like stoats when bombs begin to fly. * * * * * and you? i know your record. you went sick when orders looked unwholesome: then, with trick and lie, you wangled home. and here you are, still talking big and boozing in a bar. the fathers snug at the club two fathers sat, gross, goggle-eyed, and full of chat. one of them said; "my eldest lad writes cheery letters from bagdad. but arthur's getting all the fun at arras with his nine-inch gun." "yes," wheezed the other, "that's the luck! my boy's quite broken-hearted, stuck in england training all this year. still, if there's truth in what we hear, the huns intend to ask for more before they bolt across the rhine." i watched them toddle through the door-- these impotent old friends of mine. "blighters" the house is crammed: tier beyond tier they grin and cackle at the show, while prancing ranks of harlots shrill the chorus, drunk with din; "we're sure the kaiser loves the dear old tanks!" i'd like to see a tank come down the stalls, lurching to rag-time tunes, or "home, sweet home,"-- and there'd be no more jokes in music-halls to mock the riddled corpses round bapaume. glory of women you love us when we're heroes, home on leave, or wounded in a mentionable place. you worship decorations; you believe that chivalry redeems the war's disgrace. you make us shells. you listen with delight, by tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled. you crown our distant ardours while we fight, and mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed. you can't believe that british troops "retire" when hell's last horror breaks them, and they run, trampling the terrible corpses--blind with blood. _o german mother dreaming by the fire_, _while you are knitting socks to send your son_ _his face is trodden deeper in the mud_. their frailty he's got a blighty wound. he's safe; and then war's fine and bold and bright. she can forget the doomed and prisoned men who agonize and fight. he's back in france. she loathes the listless strain and peril of his plight. beseeching heaven to send him home again, she prays for peace each night. husbands and sons and lovers; everywhere they die; war bleeds us white. mothers and wives and sweethearts,--they don't care so long as he's all right. does it matter? does it matter?--losing your legs?... for people will always be kind, and you need not show that you mind when the others come in after football to gobble their muffins and eggs. does it matter?--losing your sight?... there's such splendid work for the blind; and people will always be kind, as you sit on the terrace remembering and turning your face to the light. do they matter?--those dreams from the pit?... you can drink and forget and be glad, and people won't say that you're mad; for they'll know that you've fought for your country, and no one will worry a bit. survivors no doubt they'll soon get well; the shock and strain have caused their stammering, disconnected talk. of course they're "longing to go out again,"-- these boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk, they'll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed subjection to the ghosts of friends who died,-- their dreams that drip with murder; and they'll be proud of glorious war that shatter'd all their pride ... men who went out to battle, grim and glad; children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad. craiglockhart, oct. . joy-bells ring your sweet bells; but let them be farewells to the green-vista'd gladness of the past that changed us into soldiers; swing your bells to a joyful chime; but let it be the last. what means this metal in windy belfries hung when guns are all our need? dissolve these bells whose tones are tuned for peace: with martial tongue let them cry doom and storm the sun with shells. bells are like fierce-browed prelates who proclaim that "if our lord returned he'd fight for us." so let our bells and bishops do the same, shoulder to shoulder with the motor-bus. arms and the man young croesus went to pay his call on colonel sawbones, caxton hall: and, though his wound was healed and mended, he hoped he'd get his leave extended. the waiting-room was dark and bare. he eyed a neat-framed notice there above the fireplace hung to show disabled heroes where to go for arms and legs; with scale of price, and words of dignified advice how officers could get them free. elbow or shoulder, hip or knee,-- two arms, two legs, though all were lost, they'd be restored him free of cost. then a girl-guide looked in to say, "will captain croesus come this way?" when i'm among a blaze of lights ... when i'm among a blaze of lights, with tawdry music and cigars and women dawdling through delights, and officers at cocktail bars,-- sometimes i think of garden nights and elm trees nodding at the stars. i dream of a small firelit room with yellow candles burning straight, and glowing pictures in the gloom, and kindly books that hold me late. of things like these i love to think when i can never be alone: then some one says, "another drink?"-- and turns my living heart to stone. the kiss to these i turn, in these i trust; brother lead and sister steel. to his blind power i make appeal; i guard her beauty clean from rust. he spins and burns and loves the air, and splits a skull to win my praise; but up the nobly marching days she glitters naked, cold and fair. sweet sister, grant your soldier this; that in good fury he may feel the body where he sets his heel quail from your downward darting kiss. the tombstone-maker he primmed his loose red mouth, and leaned his head against a sorrowing angel's breast, and said: "you'd think so much bereavement would have made unusual big demands upon my trade. the war comes cruel hard on some poor folk-- unless the fighting, stops i'll soon be broke." he eyed the cemetery across the road-- "there's scores of bodies out abroad, this while, that should be here by rights; they little know'd how they'd get buried in such wretched style." i told him, with a sympathetic grin, that germans boil dead soldiers down for fat; and he was horrified. "what shameful sin! o sir, that christian men should come to that!" the one-legged man propped on a stick he viewed the august weald; squat orchard trees and oasts with painted cowls; a homely, tangled hedge, a corn-stooked field, with sound of barking dogs and farmyard fowls. and he'd come home again to find it more desirable than ever it was before. how right it seemed that he should reach the span of comfortable years allowed to man! splendid to eat and sleep and choose a wife, safe with his wound, a citizen of life. he hobbled blithely through the garden gate, and thought: "thank god they had to amputate!" return of the heroes _a lady watches from the crowd,_ _enthusiastic, flushed, and proud._ "oh! there's sir henry dudster! such a splendid leader! how pleased he looks! what rows of ribbons on his tunic! such dignity ... saluting ... (_wave your flag ... now, freda!_) ... yes, dear, i saw a prussian general once,--at munich. "here's the next carriage!... jack was once in leggit's corps; that's him!... i think the stout one is sir godfrey stoomer. they must feel sad to know they can't win any more great victories!... aren't they glorious men?... so full of humour!" iii. twelve months after hullo! here's my platoon, the lot i had last year. "the war 'll be over soon." "what 'opes?" "no bloody fear!" then, "number seven, 'shun! all present and correct." they're standing in the sun, impassive and erect. young gibson with his grin; and morgan, tired and white; jordan, who's out to win a d.c.m. some night: and hughes that's keen on wiring; and davies (' ), who always must be firing at the boche front line. * * * * * "old soldiers never die; they simply fide a-why!" that's what they used to sing along the roads last spring; that's what they used to say before the push began; that's where they are to-day, knocked over to a man. to any dead officer well, how are things in heaven? i wish you'd say, because i'd like to know that you're all right. tell me, have you found everlasting day, or been sucked in by everlasting night? for when i shut my eyes your face shows plain; i hear you make some cheery old remark-- i can rebuild you in my brain, though you've gone out patrolling in the dark. you hated tours of trenches; you were proud of nothing more than having good years to spend; longed to get home and join the careless crowd of chaps who work in peace with time for friend. that's all washed out now. you're beyond the wire; no earthly chance can send you crawling back; you've finished with machine-gun fire-- knocked over in a hopeless dud-attack. somehow i always thought you'd get done in, because you were so desperate keen to live: you were all out to try and save your skin, well knowing how much the world had got to give. you joked at shells and talked the usual "shop," stuck to your dirty job and did it fine: with "jesus christ! when _will_ it stop? three years.... it's hell unless we break their line." so when they told me you'd been left for dead i wouldn't believe them, feeling it _must_ be true. next week the bloody roll of honour said "wounded and missing"--(that's the thing to do when lads are left in shell-holes dying slow, with nothing but blank sky and wounds that ache, moaning for water till they know it's night, and then it's not worth while to wake!) * * * * * good-bye, old lad! remember me to god,. and tell him that our politicians swear they won't give in till prussian rule's been trod under the heel of england.... are you there?... yes ... and the war won't end for at least two years; but we've got stacks of men.... i'm blind with tears, staring into the dark. cheero! i wish they'd killed you in a decent show. sick leave when i'm asleep, dreaming and lulled and warm,-- they come, the homeless ones, the noiseless dead. while the dim charging breakers of the storm bellow and drone and rumble overhead, out of the gloom they gather about my bed. they whisper to my heart; their thoughts are mine. "why are you here with all your watches ended? from ypres to frise we sought you in the line." in bitter safety i awake, unfriended; and while the dawn begins with slashing rain i think of the battalion in the mud. "when are you going out to them again? are they not still your brothers through our blood?" banishment i am banished from the patient men who fight. they smote my heart to pity, built my pride. shoulder to aching shoulder, side by side, they trudged away from life's broad wealds of light. their wrongs were mine; and ever in my sight they went arrayed in honour. but they died,-- not one by one: and mutinous i cried to those who sent them out into the night. the darkness tells how vainly i have striven to free them from the pit where they must dwell in outcast gloom convulsed and jagged and riven by grappling guns. love drove me to rebel. love drives me back to grope with them through hell; and in their tortured eyes i stand forgiven. autumn october's bellowing anger breaks and cleaves the bronzed battalions of the stricken wood in whose lament i hear a voice that grieves for battle's fruitless harvest, and the feud of outraged men. their lives are like the leaves scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown along the westering furnace flaring red. o martyred youth and manhood overthrown, the burden of your wrongs is on my head. repression of war experience now light the candles; one; two; there's a moth; what silly beggars they are to blunder in and scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame-- no, no, not that,--it's bad to think of war, when thoughts you've gagged all day come back to scare you; and it's been proved that soldiers don't go mad unless they lose control of ugly thoughts that drive them out to jabber among the trees. now light your pipe; look, w'hat a steady hand. draw a deep breath; stop thinking; count fifteen, and you're as right as rain.... why won't it rain?... i wish there'd be a thunder-storm to-night, with bucketsful of water to sluice the dark, and make the roses hang their dripping heads. books; what a jolly company they are, standing so quiet and patient on their shelves, dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green and every kind of colour. which will you read? come on; o _do_ read something; they're so wise. i tell you all the wisdom of the world is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet you sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out, and listen to the silence: on the ceiling there's one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters; and in the breathless air outside the house the garden waits for something that delays. there must be crowds of ghosts among the trees,-- not people killed in battle,--they're in france,-- but horrible shapes in shrouds--old men who died slow, natural deaths,--old men with ugly souls, who wore their bodies out with nasty sins. * * * * * you're quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home; you'd never think there was a bloody war on!... o yes, you would ... why, you can hear the guns. hark! thud, thud, thud,--quite soft ... they never cease-- those whispering guns--o christ, i want to go out and screech at them to stop--i'm going crazy; i'm going stark, staring mad because of the guns. together splashing along the boggy woods all day, and over brambled hedge and holding clay, i shall not think of him: but when the watery fields grow brown and dim, and hounds have lost their fox, and horses tire, i know that he'll be with me on my way home through the darkness to the evening fire. he's jumped each stile along the glistening lanes his hand will be upon the mud-soaked reins; hearing the saddle creak, he'll wonder if the frost will dome next week. i shall forget him in the morning light; and while we gallop on he will not speak: but at the stable-door he'll say good-night. the hawthorn tree not much to me is yonder lane where i go every day; but when there's been a shower of rain and hedge-birds whistle gay, i know my lad that's out in france with fearsome things to see would give his eyes for just one glance at our white hawthorn tree. * * * * * not much to me is yonder lane where _he_ so longs to tread; but when there's been a shower of rain i think i'll never weep again until i've heard he's dead. concert party (egyptian base camp) they are gathering round ... out of the twilight; over the grey-blue sand, shoals of low-jargoning men drift inward to the sound,-- the jangle and throb of a piano ... tum-ti-tum ... drawn by a lamp, they come out of the glimmering lines of their tents, over the shuffling sand. o sing us the sopgs, the songs of our own land, you warbling ladies in white. dimness conceals the hunger in our faces, this wall of faces risen out of the night, these eyes that keep their memories of the places so long beyond their sight. jaded and gay, the ladies sing; and the chap in brown tilts his grey hat; jaunty and lean and pale, he rattles the keys... some actor-bloke from town... "_god send you home_"; and then "_a long, long trail_"; "_i hear you calling me_"; and "_dixieland_" ... sing slowly ... now the chorus ... one by one. we hear them, drink them; till the concert's done. silent, i watch the shadowy mass of soldiers stand. silent, they drift away, over the glimmering sand. kantara, _april_, . night on the convoy (alexandria-marseilles) out in the blustering darkness, on the deck a gleam of stars looks down. long blurs of black, the lean destroyers, level with our track, plunging and stealing, watch the perilous way through backward racing seas and caverns of chill spray. one sentry by the davits, in the gloom stands mute; the boat heaves onward through the night. shrouded is every chink of cabined light: and sluiced by floundering waves that hiss and boom and crash like guns, the troop-ship shudders ... doom. now something at my feet stirs with a sigh; and slowly growing used to groping dark, i know that the hurricane-deck, down all its length, is heaped and spread with lads in sprawling strength,-- blanketed soldiers sleeping. in the stark danger of life at war, they lie so still, all prostrate and defenceless, head by head ... and i remember arras, and that hill where dumb with pain i stumbled among the dead. * * * * * we are going home. the troop-ship, in a thrill of fiery-chamber'd anguish, throbs and rolls. we are going home ... victims ... three thousand souls. _may_, . a letter home (to robert graves) i here i'm sitting in the gloom of my quiet attic room. france goes rolling all around, fledged with forest may has crowned. and i puff my pipe, calm-hearted, thinking how the fighting started, wondering when we'll ever end it, back to hell with kaiser send it, gag the noise, pack up and go, clockwork soldiers in a row. i've got better things to do than to waste my time on you. ii robert, when i drowse to-night, skirting lawns of sleep to chase shifting dreams in mazy light, somewhere then i'll see your face turning back to bid me follow where i wag my arms and hollo, over hedges hasting after crooked smile and baffling laughter, running tireless, floating, leaping, down your web-hung woods and valleys, garden glooms and hornbeam alleys, where the glowworm stars are peeping, till i find you, quiet as stone on a hill-top all alone, staring outward, gravely pondering jumbled leagues of hillock-wandering. iii you and i have walked together in the starving winter weather. we've been glad because we knew time's too short and friends are few. we've been sad because we missed one whose yellow head was kissed by the gods, who thought about him till they couldn't do without him. now he's here again; i've seen soldier david dressed in green, standing in a wood that swings to the madrigal he sings. he's come back, all mirth and glory, like the prince in a fairy story. winter called him far away; blossoms bring him home with may. iv well, i know you'll swear it's true that you found him decked in blue striding up through morning-land with a cloud on either hand. out in wales, you'll say, he marches arm-in-arm with oaks and larches; hides all night in hilly nooks, laughs at dawn in tumbling brooks. yet, it's certain, here he teaches outpost-schemes to groups of beeches. and i'm sure, as here i stand, that he shines through every land, that he sings in every place where we're thinking of his face. v robert, there's a war in france; everywhere men bang and blunder, sweat and swear and worship chance, creep and blink through cannon thunder. rifles crack and bullets flick, sing and hum like hornet-swarms. bones are smashed and buried quick. yet, through stunning battle storms, all the while i watch the spark lit to guide me; for i know dreams will triumph, though the dark scowls above me where i go. _you_ can hear me; _you_ can mingle radiant folly with my jingle. war's a joke for me and you while we know such dreams are true! reconciliation when you are standing at your hero's grave, or near some homeless village where he died, remember, through your heart's rekindling pride, the german soldiers who were loyal and brave. men fought like brutes; and hideous things were done: and you have nourished hatred, harsh and blind. but in that golgotha perhaps you'll find the mothers of the men who killed your son. _november_, . memorial tablet (great war) squire nagged and bullied till i went to fight (under lord derby's scheme). i died in hell-- (they called it passchendaele); my wound was slight, and i was hobbling back, and then a shell burst slick upon the duck-boards; so i fell into the bottomless mud, and lost the light. in sermon-time, while squire is in his pew, he gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare; for though low down upon the list, i'm there: "in proud and glorious memory"--that's my due. two bleeding years i fought in france for squire; i suffered anguish that he's never guessed; once i came home on leave; and then went west. what greater glory could a man desire? the death-bed he drowsed and was aware of silence heaped round him, unshaken as the steadfast walls; aqueous like floating rays of amber light, soaring and quivering in the wings of sleep,-- silence and safety; and his mortal shore lipped by the inward, moonless waves of death. some one was holding water to his mouth. he swallowed, unresisting; moaned and dropped through crimson gloom to darkness; and forgot the opiate throb and ache that was his wound. water--calm, sliding green above the weir; water--a sky-lit alley for his boat, bird-voiced, and bordered with reflected flowers and shaken hues of summer: drifting down, he dipped contented oars, and sighed, and slept. night, with a gust of wind, was in the ward, blowing the curtain to a glimmering curve. night. he was blind; he could not see the stars glinting among the wraiths of wandering cloud; queer blots of colour, purple, scarlet, green, flickered and faded in his drowning eyes. rain; he could hear it rustling through the dark; fragrance and passionless music woven as one; warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers that soak the woods; not the harsh rain that sweeps behind the thunder, but a trickling peace gently and slowly washing life away. * * * * * he stirred, shifting his body; then the pain leaped like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore his groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs. but some one was beside him; soon he lay shuddering because that evil thing had passed. and death, who'd stepped toward him, paused and stared. light many lamps and gather round his bed. lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live. speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet. he's young; he hated war; how should he die when cruel old campaigners win safe through? but death replied: "i choose him." so he went, and there was silence in the summer night; silence and safety; and the veils of sleep. then, far away, the thudding of the guns. aftermath _have you forgotten yet?_... for the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days, like traffic checked awhile at the crossing of city ways: and the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow like clouds in the lit heavens of life; and you're a man reprieved to go, taking your peaceful share of time, with joy to spare. _but the past is just the same,--and war's a bloody game_.... _have you forgotten yet?_... _look down, and swear by the slain of the war that you'll never forget_. do you remember the dark months you held the sector at mametz,-- the nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets? do you remember the rats; and the stench of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench,-- and dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain? do you ever stop and ask, "is it all going to happen again?" do you remember that hour of din before the attack,-- and the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then as you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men? do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back with dying eyes and lolling heads,--those ashen-grey masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay? _have you forgotten yet?_... _look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you'll never forget_. song-books of the war in fifty years, when peace outshines remembrance of the battle lines, adventurous lads will sigh and cast proud looks upon the plundered past. on summer morn or winter's night, their hearts will kindle for the fight, reading a snatch of soldier-song, savage and jaunty, fierce and strong; and through the angry marching rhymes of blind regret and haggard mirth, they'll envy us the dazzling times when sacrifice absolved our earth. some ancient man with silver locks will lift his weary face to say: "war was a fiend who stopped our clocks although we met him grim and gay." and then he'll speak of haig's last drive, marvelling that any came alive out of the shambles that men built and smashed, to cleanse the world of guilt. but the boys, with grin and sidelong glance, will think, "poor grandad's day is done." and dream of lads who fought in france and lived in time to share the fun. everyone sang everyone suddenly burst out singing; and i was filled with such delight as prisoned birds must find in freedom winging wildly across the white orchards and dark green fields; on; on; and out of sight. everyone's voice was suddenly lifted, and beauty came like the setting sun. my heart was shaken with tears and horror drifted away ... o but every one was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done. _april_, . proofreaders fairies and fusiliers by robert graves to the royal welch fusiliers _i have to thank mr. harold monro, of the poetry book shop, for permission to include in this volume certain poems of which he possesses the copyright; also the editor of the "nation" for a similar courtesy._ r.g. contents to an ungentle critic an old twenty-third man to lucasta on going to the war--for the fourth time two fusiliers to robert nichols dead cow farm goliath and david babylon mr. philosopher the cruel moon finland a pinch of salt the caterpillar sorley's weather the cottage the last post when i'm killed letter to s.s. from mametz wood a dead boche faun the spoilsport the shivering beggar jonah john skelton i wonder what it feels like to be drowned? double red daisies careers i'd love to be a fairy's child the next war strong beer marigolds the lady visitor in the pauper ward love and black magic smoke-rings a child's nightmare escape the bough of nonsense not dead a boy in church corporal stare the assault heroic the poet in the nursery in the wilderness cherry-time free verse to an ungentle critic _the great sun sinks behind the town through a red mist of volnay wine...._ but what's the use of setting down that glorious blaze behind the town? you'll only skip the page, you'll look for newer pictures in this book; you've read of sunsets rich as mine. _a fresh wind fills the evening air with horrid crying of night birds...._ but what reads new or curious there when cold winds fly across the air? you'll only frown; you'll turn the page, but find no glimpse of your "new age of poetry" in my worn-out words. must winds that cut like blades of steel and sunsets swimming in volnay, the holiest, cruellest pains i feel, die stillborn, because old men squeal for something new: "write something new: we've read this poem--that one too, and twelve more like 'em yesterday"? no, no! my chicken, i shall scrawl just what i fancy as i strike it, fairies and fusiliers, and all old broken knock-kneed thought will crawl across my verse in the classic way. and, sir, be careful what you say; there are old-fashioned folk still like it. an old twenty-third man "is that the three-and-twentieth, strabo mine, marching below, and we still gulping wine?" from the sad magic of his fragrant cup the red-faced old centurion started up, cursed, battered on the table. "no," he said, "not that! the three-and-twentieth legion's dead, dead in the first year of this damned campaign-- the legion's dead, dead, and won't rise again. pity? rome pities her brave lads that die, but we need pity also, you and i, whom gallic spear and belgian arrow miss, who live to see the legion come to this, unsoldierlike, slovenly, bent on loot, grumblers, diseased, unskilled to thrust or shoot. o, brown cheek, muscled shoulder, sturdy thigh! where are they now? god! watch it struggle by, the sullen pack of ragged ugly swine. is that the legion, gracchus? quick, the wine!" "strabo," said gracchus, "you are strange tonight. the legion is the legion; it's all right. if these new men are slovenly, in your thinking, god damn it! you'll not better them by drinking. they all try, strabo; trust their hearts and hands. the legion is the legion while rome stands, and these same men before the autumn's fall shall bang old vercingetorix out of gaul." to lucasta on going to the war-- for the fourth time it doesn't matter what's the cause, what wrong they say we're righting, a curse for treaties, bonds and laws, when we're to do the fighting! and since we lads are proud and true, what else remains to do? lucasta, when to france your man returns his fourth time, hating war, yet laughs as calmly as he can and flings an oath, but says no more, that is not courage, that's not fear-- lucasta he's a fusilier, and his pride sends him here. let statesmen bluster, bark and bray, and so decide who started this bloody war, and who's to pay, but he must be stout-hearted, must sit and stake with quiet breath, playing at cards with death. don't plume yourself he fights for you; it is no courage, love, or hate, but let us do the things we do; it's pride that makes the heart be great; it is not anger, no, nor fear-- lucasta he's a fusilier, and his pride keeps him here. two fusiliers and have we done with war at last? well, we've been lucky devils both, and there's no need of pledge or oath to bind our lovely friendship fast, by firmer stuff close bound enough. by wire and wood and stake we're bound, by fricourt and by festubert, by whipping rain, by the sun's glare, by all the misery and loud sound, by a spring day, by picard clay. show me the two so closely bound as we, by the red bond of blood, by friendship, blossoming from mud, by death: we faced him, and we found beauty in death, in dead men breath. to robert nichols (from frise on the somme in february, , in answer to a letter saying: "i am just finishing my 'faun's holiday.' i wish you were here to feed him with cherries.") here by a snowbound river in scrapen holes we shiver, and like old bitterns we boom to you plaintively: robert how can i rhyme verses for your desire-- sleek fauns and cherry-time, vague music and green trees, hot sun and gentle breeze, england in june attire, and life born young again, for your gay goatish brute drunk with warm melody singing on beds of thyme with red and rolling eye, all the devonian plain, lips dark with juicy stain, ears hung with bobbing fruit? why should i keep him time? why in this cold and rime, where even to dream is pain? no, robert, there's no reason: cherries are out of season, ice grips at branch and root, and singing birds are mute. dead cow farm an ancient saga tells us how in the beginning the first cow (for nothing living yet had birth but elemental cow on earth) began to lick cold stones and mud: under her warm tongue flesh and blood blossomed, a miracle to believe: and so was adam born, and eve. here now is chaos once again, primeval mud, cold stones and rain. here flesh decays and blood drips red, and the cow's dead, the old cow's dead. goliath and david (for d.c.t., killed at fricourt, march, ) yet once an earlier david took smooth pebbles from the brook: out between the lines he went to that one-sided tournament, a shepherd boy who stood out fine and young to fight a philistine clad all in brazen mail. he swears that he's killed lions, he's killed bears, and those that scorn the god of zion shall perish so like bear or lion. but ... the historian of that fight had not the heart to tell it right. striding within javelin range, goliath marvels at this strange goodly-faced boy so proud of strength. david's clear eye measures the length; with hand thrust back, he cramps one knee, poises a moment thoughtfully, and hurls with a long vengeful swing. the pebble, humming from the sling like a wild bee, flies a sure line for the forehead of the philistine; then ... but there comes a brazen clink, and quicker than a man can think goliath's shield parries each cast. clang! clang! and clang! was david's last. scorn blazes in the giant's eye, towering unhurt six cubits high. says foolish david, "damn your shield! and damn my sling! but i'll not yield." he takes his staff of mamre oak, a knotted shepherd-staff that's broke the skull of many a wolf and fox come filching lambs from jesse's flocks. loud laughs goliath, and that laugh can scatter chariots like blown chaff to rout; but david, calm and brave, holds his ground, for god will save. steel crosses wood, a flash, and oh! shame for beauty's overthrow! (god's eyes are dim, his ears are shut.) one cruel backhand sabre-cut "i'm hit! i'm killed!" young david cries, throws blindly forward, chokes ... and dies. and look, spike-helmeted, grey, grim, goliath straddles over him. babylon the child alone a poet is: spring and fairyland are his. truth and reason show but dim, and all's poetry with him. rhyme and music flow in plenty for the lad of one-and-twenty, but spring for him is no more now than daisies to a munching cow; just a cheery pleasant season, daisy buds to live at ease on. he's forgotten how he smiled and shrieked at snowdrops when a child, or wept one evening secretly for april's glorious misery. wisdom made him old and wary banishing the lords of faery. wisdom made a breach and battered babylon to bits: she scattered to the hedges and ditches all our nursery gnomes and witches. lob and puck, poor frantic elves, drag their treasures from the shelves. jack the giant-killer's gone, mother goose and oberon, bluebeard and king solomon. robin, and red riding hood take together to the wood, and sir galahad lies hid in a cave with captain kidd. none of all the magic hosts, none remain but a few ghosts of timorous heart, to linger on weeping for lost babylon. mr. philosopher old mr. philosopher comes for ben and claire, an ugly man, a tall man, with bright-red hair. the books that he's written no one can read. "in fifty years they'll understand: now there's no need. "all that matters now is getting the fun. come along, ben and claire; plenty to be done." then old philosopher, wisest man alive, plays at lions and tigers down along the drive-- gambolling fiercely through bushes and grass, making monstrous mouths, braying like an ass, twisting buttercups in his orange hair, hopping like a kangaroo, growling like a bear. right up to tea-time they frolic there. "my legs _are_ wingle," says ben to claire. the cruel moon the cruel moon hangs out of reach up above the shadowy beech. her face is stupid, but her eye is small and sharp and very sly. nurse says the moon can drive you mad? no, that's a silly story, lad! though she be angry, though she would destroy all england if she could, yet think, what damage can she do hanging there so far from you? don't heed what frightened nurses say: moons hang much too far away. finland feet and faces tingle in that frore land: legs wobble and go wingle, you scarce can stand. the skies are jewelled all around, the ploughshare snaps in the iron ground, the finn with face like paper and eyes like a lighted taper hurls his rough rune at the wintry moon and stamps to mark the tune. a pinch of salt when a dream is born in you with a sudden clamorous pain, when you know the dream is true and lovely, with no flaw nor stain, o then, be careful, or with sudden clutch you'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much. dreams are like a bird that mocks, flirting the feathers of his tail. when you seize at the salt-box over the hedge you'll see him sail. old birds are neither caught with salt nor chaff: they watch you from the apple bough and laugh. poet, never chase the dream. laugh yourself and turn away. mask your hunger, let it seem small matter if he come or stay; but when he nestles in your hand at last, close up your fingers tight and hold him fast. the caterpillar under this loop of honeysuckle, a creeping, coloured caterpillar, i gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray, i nibble it leaf by leaf away. down beneath grow dandelions, daisies, old-man's-looking-glasses; rooks flap croaking across the lane. i eat and swallow and eat again. here come raindrops helter-skelter; i munch and nibble unregarding: hawthorn leaves are juicy and firm. i'll mind my business: i'm a good worm. when i'm old, tired, melancholy, i'll build a leaf-green mausoleum close by, here on this lovely spray, and die and dream the ages away. some say worms win resurrection, with white wings beating flitter-flutter, but wings or a sound sleep, why should i care? either way i'll miss my share. under this loop of honeysuckle, a hungry, hairy caterpillar, i crawl on my high and swinging seat, and eat, eat, eat--as one ought to eat. sorley's weather when outside the icy rain comes leaping helter-skelter, shall i tie my restive brain snugly under shelter? shall i make a gentle song here in my firelit study, when outside the winds blow strong and the lanes are muddy? with old wine and drowsy meats am i to fill my belly? shall i glutton here with keats? shall i drink with shelley? tobacco's pleasant, firelight's good: poetry makes both better. clay is wet and so is mud, winter rains are wetter. yet rest there, shelley, on the sill, for though the winds come frorely, i'm away to the rain-blown hill and the ghost of sorley. the cottage here in turn succeed and rule carter, smith, and village fool, then again the place is known as tavern, shop, and sunday-school; now somehow it's come to me to light the fire and hold the key, here in heaven to reign alone. all the walls are white with lime, big blue periwinkles climb and kiss the crumbling window-sill; snug inside i sit and rhyme, planning, poem, book, or fable, at my darling beech-wood table fresh with bluebells from the hill. through the window i can see rooks above the cherry-tree, sparrows in the violet bed, bramble-bush and bumble-bee, and old red bracken smoulders still among boulders on the hill, far too bright to seem quite dead. but old death, who can't forget, waits his time and watches yet, waits and watches by the door. look, he's got a great new net, and when my fighting starts afresh stouter cord and smaller mesh won't be cheated as before. nor can kindliness of spring, flowers that smile nor birds that sing. bumble-bee nor butterfly, nor grassy hill nor anything of magic keep me safe to rhyme in this heaven beyond my time. no! for death is waiting by. the last post the bugler sent a call of high romance-- "lights out! lights out!" to the deserted square. on the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer, "god, if it's _this_ for me next time in france ... o spare the phantom bugle as i lie dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns, dead in a row with the other broken ones lying so stiff and still under the sky, jolly young fusiliers too good to die." when i'm killed when i'm killed, don't think of me buried there in cambrin wood, nor as in zion think of me with the intolerable good. and there's one thing that i know well, i'm damned if i'll be damned to hell! so when i'm killed, don't wait for me, walking the dim corridor; in heaven or hell, don't wait for me, or you must wait for evermore. you'll find me buried, living-dead in these verses that you've read. so when i'm killed, don't mourn for me, shot, poor lad, so bold and young, killed and gone--don't mourn for me. on your lips my life is hung: o friends and lovers, you can save your playfellow from the grave. letter to s.s. from mametz wood i never dreamed we'd meet that day in our old haunts down fricourt way, plotting such marvellous journeys there for jolly old "après-la-guerre." well, when it's over, first we'll meet at gweithdy bach, my country seat in wales, a curious little shop with two rooms and a roof on top, a sort of morlancourt-ish billet that never needs a crowd to fill it. but oh, the country round about! the sort of view that makes you shout for want of any better way of praising god: there's a blue bay shining in front, and on the right snowden and hebog capped with white, and lots of other jolly peaks that you could wonder at for weeks, with jag and spur and hump and cleft. there's a grey castle on the left, and back in the high hinterland you'll see the grave of shawn knarlbrand, who slew the savage buffaloon by the nant-col one night in june, and won his surname from the horn of this prodigious unicorn. beyond, where the two rhinogs tower, rhinog fach and rhinog fawr, close there after a four years' chase from thessaly and the woods of thrace, the beaten dog-cat stood at bay and growled and fought and passed away. you'll see where mountain conies grapple with prayer and creed in their rock chapel which ben and claire once built for them; they call it söar bethlehem. you'll see where in old roman days, before revivals changed our ways, the virgin 'scaped the devil's grab, printing her foot on a stone slab with five clear toe-marks; and you'll find the fiendish thumbprint close behind. you'll see where math, mathonwy's son, spoke with the wizard gwydion and bad him from south wales set out to steal that creature with the snout, that new-discovered grunting beast divinely flavoured for the feast. no traveller yet has hit upon a wilder land than meirion, for desolate hills and tumbling stones, bogland and melody and old bones. fairies and ghosts are here galore, and poetry most splendid, more than can be written with the pen or understood by common men. in gweithdy bach we'll rest awhile, we'll dress our wounds and learn to smile with easier lips; we'll stretch our legs, and live on bilberry tart and eggs, and store up solar energy, basking in sunshine by the sea, until we feel a match once more for _anything_ but another war. so then we'll kiss our families, and sail across the seas (the god of song protecting us) to the great hills of caucasus. robert will learn the local _bat_ for billeting and things like that, if siegfried learns the piccolo to charm the people as we go. the jolly peasants clad in furs will greet the welch-ski officers with open arms, and ere we pass will make us vocal with kavasse. in old bagdad we'll call a halt at the sâshuns' ancestral vault; we'll catch the persian rose-flowers' scent, and understand what omar meant. bitlis and mush will know our faces, tiflis and tomsk, and all such places. perhaps eventually we'll get among the tartars of thibet. hobnobbing with the chungs and mings, and doing wild, tremendous things in free adventure, quest and fight, and god! what poetry we'll write! a dead boche to you who'd read my songs of war and only hear of blood and fame, i'll say (you've heard it said before) "war's hell!" and if you doubt the same, today i found in mametz wood a certain cure for lust of blood: where, propped against a shattered trunk, in a great mess of things unclean, sat a dead boche; he scowled and stunk with clothes and face a sodden green, big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired, dribbling black blood from nose and beard. faun here down this very way, here only yesterday king faun went leaping. he sang, with careless shout hurling his name about; he sang, with oaken stock his steps from rock to rock in safety keeping, "here faun is free, here faun is free!" today against yon pine, forlorn yet still divine, king faun leant weeping. "they drank my holy brook, my strawberries they took, my private path they trod." loud wept the desolate god, scorn on scorn heaping, "faun, what is he, faun, what is he?" the spoilsport my familiar ghost again comes to see what he can see, critic, son of conscious brain, spying on our privacy. slam the window, bolt the door, yet he'll enter in and stay; in tomorrow's book he'll score indiscretions of today. whispered love and muttered fears, how their echoes fly about! none escape his watchful ears, every sigh might be a shout. no kind words nor angry cries turn away this grim spoilsport; no fine lady's pleading eyes, neither love, nor hate, nor ... port. critics wears no smile of fun, speaks no word of blame nor praise, counts our kisses one by one, notes each gesture, every phrase. my familiar ghost again stands or squats where suits him best; critic, son of conscious brain, listens, watches, takes no rest. the shivering beggar near clapham village, where fields began, saint edward met a beggar man. it was christmas morning, the church bells tolled, the old man trembled for the fierce cold. saint edward cried, "it is monstrous sin a beggar to lie in rags so thin! an old grey-beard and the frost so keen: i shall give him my fur-lined gaberdine." he stripped off his gaberdine of scarlet and wrapped it round the aged varlet, who clutched at the folds with a muttered curse, quaking and chattering seven times worse. said edward, "sir, it would seem you freeze most bitter at your extremities. here are gloves and shoes and stockings also, that warm upon your way you may go." the man took stocking and shoe and glove, blaspheming christ our saviour's love, yet seemed to find but little relief, shaking and shivering like a leaf. said the saint again, "i have no great riches, yet take this tunic, take these breeches, my shirt and my vest, take everything, and give due thanks to jesus the king." the saint stood naked upon the snow long miles from where he was lodged at bowe, praying, "o god! my faith, it grows faint! this would try the temper of any saint. "make clean my heart, almighty, i pray, and drive these sinful thoughts away. make clean my heart if it be thy will, this damned old rascal's shivering still!" he stooped, he touched the beggar man's shoulder; he asked him did the frost nip colder? "frost!" said the beggar, "no, stupid lad! 'tis the palsy makes me shiver so bad." jonah a purple whale proudly sweeps his tail towards nineveh; glassy green surges between a mile of roaring sea. "o town of gold, of splendour multifold, lucre and lust, leviathan's eye can surely spy thy doom of death and dust." on curving sands vengeful jonah stands. "yet forty days, then down, down, tumbles the town in flaming ruin ablaze." with swift lament those ninevites repent. they cry in tears, "our hearts fail! the whale, the whale! our sins prick us like spears." jonah is vexed; he cries, "what next? what next?" and shakes his fist. "stupid city, the shame, the pity, the glorious crash i've missed." away goes jonah grumbling, murmuring and mumbling; off ploughs the purple whale, with disappointed tail. john skelton what could be dafter than john skelton's laughter? what sound more tenderly than his pretty poetry? so where to rank old skelton? he was no monstrous milton, nor wrote no "paradise lost," so wondered at by most, phrased so disdainfully, composed so painfully. he struck what milton missed, milling an english grist with homely turn and twist. he was english through and through, not greek, nor french, nor jew, though well their tongues he knew, the living and the dead: learned erasmus said, _hie 'unum britannicarum lumen et decus literarum._ but oh, colin clout! how his pen flies about, twiddling and turning, scorching and burning, thrusting and thrumming! how it hurries with humming, leaping and running, at the tipsy-topsy tunning of mistress eleanor rumming! how for poor philip sparrow was murdered at carow, how our hearts he does harrow jest and grief mingle in this jangle-jingle, for he will not stop to sweep nor mop, to prune nor prop, to cut each phrase up like beef when we sup, nor sip at each line as at brandy-wine, or port when we dine. but angrily, wittily, tenderly, prettily, laughingly, learnedly, sadly, madly, helter-skelter john rhymes serenely on, as english poets should. old john, you do me good! i wonder what it feels like to be drowned? look at my knees, that island rising from the steamy seas! the candles a tall lightship; my two hands are boats and barges anchored to the sands, with mighty cliffs all round; they're full of wine and riches from far lands.... _i wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_ i can make caves, by lifting up the island and huge waves and storms, and then with head and ears well under blow bubbles with a monstrous roar like thunder, a bull-of-bashan sound. the seas run high and the boats split asunder.... _i wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_ the thin soap slips and slithers like a shark under the ships. my toes are on the soap-dish--that's the effect of my huge storms; an iron steamer's wrecked. the soap slides round and round; he's biting the old sailors, i expect.... _i wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_ double red daisies double red daisies, they're my flowers, which nobody else may grow. in a big quarrelsome house like ours they try it sometimes--but no, i root them up because they're my flowers, which nobody else may grow. _claire has a tea-rose, but she didn't plant it; ben has an iris, but i don't want it. daisies, double red daisies for me, the beautifulest flowers in the garden._ double red daisy, that's my mark: i paint it in all my books! it's carved high up on the beech-tree bark, how neat and lovely it looks! so don't forget that it's my trade mark; don't copy it in your books. _claire has a tea-rose, but she didn't plant it; ben has an iris, but i don't want it. daisies, double red daisies for me, the beautifulest flowers in the garden._ careers father is quite the greatest poet that ever lived anywhere. you say you're going to write great music-- i chose that first: it's unfair. besides, now i can't be the greatest painter and do christ and angels, or lovely pears and apples and grapes on a green dish, or storms at sea, or anything lovely, because that's been taken by claire. it's stupid to be an engine-driver, and soldiers are horrible men. i won't be a tailor, i won't be a sailor, and gardener's taken by ben. it's unfair if you say that you'll write great music, you horrid, you unkind (i simply loathe you, though you are my sister), you beast, cad, coward, cheat, bully, liar! well? say what's left for me then! but _we_ won't go to your ugly music. (listen!) ben will garden and dig, and claire will finish her wondrous pictures all flaming and splendid and big. and i'll be a perfectly marvellous carpenter, and i'll make cupboards and benches and tables and ... and baths, and nice wooden boxes for studs and money, and you'll be jealous, you pig! i'd love to be a fairy's child children born of fairy stock never need for shirt or frock, never want for food or fire, always get their heart's desire: jingle pockets full of gold, marry when they're seven years old. every fairy child may keep two strong ponies and ten sheep; all have houses, each his own, built of brick or granite stone; they live on cherries, they run wild-- i'd love to be a fairy's child. the next war you young friskies who today jump and fight in father's hay with bows and arrows and wooden spears, playing at royal welch fusiliers, happy though these hours you spend, have they warned you how games end? boys, from the first time you prod and thrust with spears of curtain-rod, from the first time you tear and slash your long-bows from the garden ash, or fit your shaft with a blue jay feather, binding the split tops together, from that same hour by fate you're bound as champions of this stony ground, loyal and true in everything, to serve your army and your king, prepared to starve and sweat and die under some fierce foreign sky, if only to keep safe those joys that belong to british boys, to keep young prussians from the soft scented hay of father's loft, and stop young slavs from cutting bows and bendy spears from welsh hedgerows. another war soon gets begun, a dirtier, a more glorious one; then, boys, you'll have to play, all in; it's the cruellest team will win. so hold your nose against the stink and never stop too long to think. wars don't change except in name; the next one must go just the same, and new foul tricks unguessed before will win and justify this war. kaisers and czars will strut the stage once more with pomp and greed and rage; courtly ministers will stop at home and fight to the last drop; by the million men will die in some new horrible agony; and children here will thrust and poke, shoot and die, and laugh at the joke, with bows and arrows and wooden spears, playing at royal welch fusiliers. strong beer "what do you think the bravest drink under the sky?" "strong beer," said i. "there's a place for everything, everything, anything, there's a place for everything where it ought to be: for a chicken, the hen's wing; for poison, the bee's sting; for almond-blossom, spring; a beerhouse for me." "there's a prize for every one every one, any one, there's a prize for every one, whoever he may be: crags for the mountaineer, flags for the fusilier, for english poets, beer! strong beer for me!" "tell us, now, how and when we may find the bravest men?" "a sure test, an easy test: those that drink beer are the best, brown beer strongly brewed, english drink and english food." oh, never choose as gideon chose by the cold well, but rather those who look on beer when it is brown, smack their lips and gulp it down. leave the lads who tamely drink with gideon by the water brink, but search the benches of the plough, the tun, the sun, the spotted cow, for jolly rascal lads who pray, pewter in hand, at close of day, "teach me to live that i may fear the grave as little as my beer." marigolds with a fork drive nature out, she will ever yet return; hedge the flowerbed all about, pull or stab or cut or burn, she will ever yet return. look: the constant marigold springs again from hidden roots. baffled gardener, you behold new beginnings and new shoots spring again from hidden roots. pull or stab or cut or burn, they will ever yet return. gardener, cursing at the weed, ere you curse it further, say: who but you planted the seed in my fertile heart, one day? ere you curse me further, say! new beginnings and new shoots string again from hidden roots pull or stab or cut or burn, love must ever yet return. the lady visitor in the pauper ward why do you break upon this old, cool peace, this painted peace of ours, with harsh dress hissing like a flock of geese, with garish flowers? why do you churn smooth waters rough again, selfish old skin-and-bone? leave us to quiet dreaming and slow pain, leave us alone. love and black magic to the woods, to the woods is the wizard gone; in his grotto the maiden sits alone. she gazes up with a weary smile at the rafter-hanging crocodile, the slowly swinging crocodile. scorn has she of her master's gear, cauldron, alembic, crystal sphere, phial, philtre--"fiddlededee for all such trumpery trash!" quo' she. "a soldier is the lad for me; hey and hither, my lad! "oh, here have i ever lain forlorn: my father died ere i was born, mother was by a wizard wed, and oft i wish i had died instead-- often i wish i were long time dead. but, delving deep in my master's lore, i have won of magic power such store i can turn a skull--oh, fiddlededee for all this curious craft!" quo' she. "a soldier is the lad for me; hey and hither, my lad! "to bring my brave boy unto my arms, what need have i of magic charms-- 'abracadabra!' and 'prestopuff'? i have but to wish, and that is enough. the charms are vain, one wish is enough. my master pledged my hand to a wizard; transformed would i be to toad or lizard if e'er he guessed--but fiddlededee for a black-browed sorcerer, now," quo' she. "let cupid smile and the fiend must flee; hey and hither, my lad." smoke-rings boy most venerable and learned sir, tall and true philosopher, these rings of smoke you blow all day with such deep thought, what sense have they? philosopher small friend, with prayer and meditation i make an image of creation. and if your mind is working nimble straightway you'll recognize a symbol of the endless and eternal ring of god, who girdles everything-- god, who in his own form and plan moulds the fugitive life of man. these vaporous toys you watch me make, that shoot ahead, pause, turn and break-- some glide far out like sailing ships, some weak ones fail me at my lips. he who ringed his awe in smoke, when he led forth his captive folk, in like manner, east, west, north, and south, blows us ring-wise from his mouth. a child's nightmare through long nursery nights he stood by my bed unwearying, loomed gigantic, formless, queer, purring in my haunted ear that same hideous nightmare thing, talking, as he lapped my blood, in a voice cruel and flat, saying for ever, "cat! ... cat! ... cat!..." that one word was all he said, that one word through all my sleep, in monotonous mock despair. nonsense may be light as air, but there's nonsense that can keep horror bristling round the head, when a voice cruel and flat says for ever, "cat! ... cat! ... cat!..." he had faded, he was gone years ago with nursery land when he leapt on me again from the clank of a night train, overpowered me foot and head, lapped my blood, while on and on the old voice cruel and flat says for ever, "cat!... cat!... cat!..." morphia drowsed, again i lay in a crater by high wood: he was there with straddling legs, staring eyes as big as eggs, purring as he lapped my blood, his black bulk darkening the day, with a voice cruel and flat, "cat!... cat!... cat!..." he said, "cat!... cat!..." when i'm shot through heart and head, and there's no choice but to die, the last word i'll hear, no doubt, won't be "charge!" or "bomb them out!" nor the stretcher-bearer's cry, "let that body be, he's dead!" but a voice cruel and flat saying for ever, "cat!... cat!... cat!" escape (_august_ , .--officer previously reported died of wounds, now reported wounded: graves, captain r., royal welch fusiliers.) ... but i _was_ dead, an hour or more. i woke when i'd already passed the door that cerberus guards, and half-way down the road to lethe, as an old greek signpost showed. above me, on my stretcher swinging by, i saw new stars in the subterrene sky: a cross, a rose in bloom, a cage with bars, and a barbed arrow feathered in fine stars. i felt the vapours of forgetfulness float in my nostrils. oh, may heaven bless dear lady proserpine, who saw me wake, and, stooping over me, for henna's sake cleared my poor buzzing head and sent me back breathless, with leaping heart along the track. after me roared and clattered angry hosts of demons, heroes, and policeman-ghosts. "life! life! i can't be dead! i won't be dead! damned if i'll die for any one!" i said.... cerberus stands and grins above me now, wearing three heads--lion, and lynx, and sow. "quick, a revolver! but my webley's gone, stolen!... no bombs ... no knife.... the crowd swarms on, bellows, hurls stones.... not even a honeyed sop ... nothing.... good cerberus!... good dog!... but stop! stay!... a great luminous thought ... i do believe there's still some morphia that i bought on leave." then swiftly cerberus' wide mouths i cram with army biscuit smeared with ration jam; and sleep lurks in the luscious plum and apple. he crunches, swallows, stiffens, seems to grapple with the all-powerful poppy ... then a snore, a crash; the beast blocks up the corridor with monstrous hairy carcase, red and dun-- too late! for i've sped through. o life! o sun! the bough of nonsense an idyll back from the somme two fusiliers limped painfully home; the elder said, _s_. "robert, i've lived three thousand years this summer, and i'm nine parts dead." _r_. "but if that's truly so," i cried, "quick, now, through these great oaks and see the famous bough "where once a nonsense built her nest with skulls and flowers and all things queer, in an old boot, with patient breast hatching three eggs; and the next year ..." _s_. "foaled thirteen squamous young beneath, and rid wales of drink, melancholy, and psalms, she did." said he, "before this quaint mood fails, we'll sit and weave a nonsense hymn," _r_. "hanging it up with monkey tails in a deep grove all hushed and dim...." _s_. "to glorious yellow-bunched banana-trees," _r_. "planted in dreams by pious portuguese," _s_. "which men are wise beyond their time, and worship nonsense, no one more." _r_. "hard by, among old quince and lime, they've built a temple with no floor," _s_. "and whosoever worships in that place, he disappears from sight and leaves no trace." _r_. "once the galatians built a fane to sense: what duller god than that?" _s_. "but the first day of autumn rain the roof fell in and crushed them flat." _r_. "ay, for a roof of subtlest logic falls when nonsense is foundation for the walls." i tell him old galatian tales; he caps them in quick portuguese, while phantom creatures with green scales scramble and roll among the trees. the hymn swells; on a bough above us sings a row of bright pink birds, flapping their wings. not dead walking through trees to cool my heat and pain, i know that david's with me here again. all that is simple, happy, strong, he is. caressingly i stroke rough hark of the friendly oak. a brook goes bubbling by: the voice is his. turf burns with pleasant smoke; i laugh at chaffinch and at primroses. all that is simple, happy, strong, he is. over the whole wood in a little while breaks his slow smile. a boy in church "gabble-gabble,... brethren,... gabble-gabble!" my window frames forest and heather. i hardly hear the tuneful babble, not knowing nor much caring whether the text is praise or exhortation, prayer or thanksgiving, or damnation. outside it blows wetter and wetter, the tossing trees never stay still. i shift my elbows to catch better the full round sweep of heathered hill. the tortured copse bends to and fro in silence like a shadow-show. the parson's voice runs like a river over smooth rocks. i like this church: the pews are staid, they never shiver, they never bend or sway or lurch. "prayer," says the kind voice, "is a chain that draws down grace from heaven again." i add the hymns up, over and over, until there's not the least mistake. seven-seventy-one. (look! there's a plover! it's gone!) who's that saint by the lake? the red light from his mantle passes across the broad memorial brasses. it's pleasant here for dreams and thinking, lolling and letting reason nod, with ugly serious people linking sad prayers to a forgiving god.... but a dumb blast sets the trees swaying with furious zeal like madmen praying. corporal stare back from the line one night in june, i gave a dinner at bethune-- seven courses, the most gorgeous meal money could buy or batman steal. five hungry lads welcomed the fish with shouts that nearly cracked the dish; asparagus came with tender tops, strawberries in cream, and mutton chops. said jenkins, as my hand he shook, "they'll put this in the history book." we bawled church anthems _in choro_ of bethlehem and hermon snow, with drinking songs, a jolly sound to help the good red pommard round. stories and laughter interspersed, we drowned a long la bassée thirst-- trenches in june make throats damned dry. then through the window suddenly, badge, stripes and medals all complete, we saw him swagger up the street, just like a live man--corporal stare! stare! killed last may at festubert. caught on patrol near the boche wire, tom horribly by machine-gun fire! he paused, saluted smartly, grinned, then passed away like a puff of wind, leaving us blank astonishment. the song broke, up we started, leant out of the window--nothing there, not the least shadow of corporal stare, only a quiver of smoke that showed a fag-end dropped on the silent road. the assault heroic down in the mud i lay, tired out by my long day of five damned days and nights, five sleepless days and nights, ... dream-snatched, and set me where the dungeon of despair looms over desolate sea, frowning and threatening me with aspect high and steep-- a most malignant keep. my foes that lay within shouted and made a din, hooted and grinned and cried: "today we've killed your pride; today your ardour ends. we've murdered all your friends; we've undermined by stealth your happiness and your health. we've taken away your hope; now you may droop and mope to misery and to death." but with my spear of faith, stout as an oaken rafter, with my round shield of laughter, with my sharp, tongue-like sword that speaks a bitter word, i stood beneath the wall and there defied them all. the stones they cast i caught and alchemized with thought into such lumps of gold as dreaming misers hold. the boiling oil they threw fell in a shower of dew, refreshing me; the spears flew harmless by my ears, struck quivering in the sod; there, like the prophet's rod, put leaves out, took firm root, and bore me instant fruit. my foes were all astounded, dumbstricken and confounded, gaping in a long row; they dared not thrust nor throw. thus, then, i climbed a steep buttress and won the keep, and laughed and proudly blew my horn, _"stand to! stand to! wake up, sir! here's a new attack! stand to! stand to!"_ the poet in the nursery the youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling in a dim library, just behind the chair from which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling a song about some lovers at a fair, pulling his long white beard and gently grumbling that rhymes were beastly things and never there. and as i groped, the whole time i was thinking about the tragic poem i'd been writing,... an old man's life of beer and whisky drinking, his years of kidnapping and wicked fighting; and how at last, into a fever sinking, remorsefully he died, his bedclothes biting. but suddenly i saw the bright green cover of a thin pretty book right down below; i snatched it up and turned the pages over, to find it full of poetry, and so put it down my neck with quick hands like a lover, and turned to watch if the old man saw it go. the book was full of funny muddling mazes, each rounded off into a lovely song, and most extraordinary and monstrous phrases knotted with rhymes like a slave-driver's thong. and metre twisting like a chain of daisies with great big splendid words a sentence long. i took the book to bed with me and gloated, learning the lines that seemed to sound most grand; so soon the pretty emerald green was coated with jam and greasy marks from my hot hand, while round the nursery for long months there floated wonderful words no one could understand. in the wilderness christ of his gentleness thirsting and hungering, walked in the wilderness; soft words of grace he spoke unto lost desert-folk that listened wondering. he heard the bitterns call from ruined palace-wall, answered them brotherly. he held communion with the she-pelican of lonely piety. basilisk, cockatrice, flocked to his homilies, with mail of dread device, with monstrous barbéd slings, with eager dragon-eyes; great rats on leather wings and poor blind broken things, foul in their miseries. and ever with him went, of all his wanderings comrade, with ragged coat, gaunt ribs--poor innocent-- bleeding foot, burning throat, the guileless old scapegoat; for forty nights and days followed in jesus' ways, sure guard behind him kept, tears like a lover wept. cherry-time cherries of the night are riper than the cherries pluckt at noon gather to your fairy piper when he pipes his magic tune: merry, merry, take a cherry; mine are sounder, mine are rounder, mine are sweeter for the eater under the moon. and you'll be fairies soon. in the cherry pluckt at night, with the dew of summer swelling, there's a juice of pure delight, cool, dark, sweet, divinely smelling. merry, merry, take a cherry; mine are sounder, mine are rounder mine are sweeter for the eater in the moonlight. and you'll be fairies quite. when i sound the fairy call, gather here in silent meeting, chin to knee on the orchard wall, cooled with dew and cherries eating. merry, merry, take a cherry; mine are sounder, mine are rounder, mine are sweeter. for the eater when the dews fall. and you'll be fairies all. i've watched the seasons passing slow, so slow, in the fields between la bassée and bethune; primroses and the first warm day of spring, red poppy floods of june, august, and yellowing autumn, so to winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow, and you've been everything. dear, you've been everything that i most lack in these soul-deadening trenches--pictures, books, music, the quiet of an english wood, beautiful comrade-looks, the narrow, bouldered mountain-track, the broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black, and peace, and all that's good. free verse i now delight in spite of the might and the right of classic tradition, in writing and reciting straight ahead, without let or omission, just any little rhyme in any little time that runs in my head; because, i've said, my rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed like prussian soldiers on parade that march, stiff as starch, foot to foot, boot to boot, blade to blade, button to button cheeks and chops and chins like mutton. no! no! my rhymes must go turn 'ee, twist 'ee, twinkling, frosty, will-o'-the-wisp-like, misty; rhymes i will make like keats and blake and christina rossetti, with run and ripple and shake. how pretty to take a merry little rhyme in a jolly little time and poke it, and choke it, change it, arrange it, straight-lace it, deface it, pleat it with pleats, sheet it with sheets of empty conceits, and chop and chew, and hack and hew, and weld it into a uniform stanza, and evolve a neat, complacent, complete, academic extravaganza! [illustration: let's go!!] rookie rhymes by the men of the st. and nd. provisional training regiments plattsburg, new york may --august [illustration] harper & brothers publishers new york and london rookie rhymes copyright, , by harper & brothers printed in the united states of america published september, contents _page_ publication committee foreword robert tapley, co. , st p. t. r. part i--poems standing in line morris bishop, co. , st p. t. r. the first time onward christian science d. e. currier, d battery, st p. t. r. they believe in us back home anch kline, co. , st p. t. r. ode to a lady in white stockings robert cutler, co. , st p. t. r. "avoirdupois" d. e. currier, d battery, st p.t.r. go! j. s. o'neale, jr., co. , d p. t. r. the plattsburg code r. l. hill, co. , d p. t. r. a conference donald e. currier, d battery, st p. t. r. sunday in barracks anch kline, co. , st p. t. r. the ballad of montmorency gray pendleton king, co. , d p. t. r. girls robert m. benjamin, co. , st p. t. r. a lament h. chapin, co. , st p. t. r. the manual george s. clarkson, co. , st p. t. r. those "patriotic" songs frank j. felbel, co. , d p. t. r. saturday p.m. harold amory, co. , st p. t. r. how things have changed c. k. stodder, co. , st p. t. r. arma feminamque w. r. witherell, co. , d p. t. r. out o' luck w. k. rainsford, co. , d p. t. r. sherman was right joe f. trounstine, co. , d p. t. r. troopship chanty harold speakman, co. , d p. t. r. those rumors f. l. bird, d battery, st p. t. r. war's horrors kenneth mcintosh, d lieut. o. r. c., co. , st p. t. r. the call allen bean macmurphy, co. , st p. t. r. beans charles h. ramsey, co. , st p. t. r. forward "?" john w. wilber, co. , st p. t. r. chant of a derelict ed. burrows, co. , st p. t. r. preoccupation charles h. ramsey, co. , st p. t. r. inoculation day morris bishop, co. , st p. t. r. don't weaken r. t. fry, co. , st p. t. r. the three harold speakman, co. , d p. t. r. to the little black dog a. n. phillips, jr., d battery, st p. t. r. when east is west w. r. witherell, co. , d p. t. r. to my sweetheart every rookie in co. , st p. t. r. play the game e. f. d., co. , st p. t. r. the stadium, plattsburg harold speakman, co. , st p. t. r. rubaiyat of a plattsburg candidate w. kerr rainsford, co. , st p. t. r. dreams l. irving, co. , st p. t. r. a d regiment "who's who" j. elmer cates, co. , d p. t. r. eureka e. f. d., co. , st p. t. r. fourth company, n. e. song george s. clarkson, co. , st p. t. r. part ii--songs and parodies long, long trail g. gilmore davis, co. , st p. t. r. willie's pa j. felbel and l. h. davidow, co. , d p. t. r. company , new england paul j. field, co. , st p. t. r. to the reserve cavalry f. e. horpel, co. , st p. t. r. we're on our way to deutschland lieut. fletcher clark, o. r. c., co. , st p. t. r. i want to be a colonel f. e. horpel, co. , st p. t. r. i want to be a doughboy kenneth bonner, co. , st p. t. r. our battle hymn james c. mcmullin, co. , st p. t. r. new england will be leading lieut. cyril c. reynolds, o. r. c., co. , st p. t. r. on the banks of the river rhine j. j. riodan, co. , d p. t. r. "the simulating of the green" lieut. joseph gazzam, jr., o. r. c., co. , st p. t. r. don't send me home e. m. anderson, co. , st p. t. r. company nine o. w. hauserman, co. , st p. t. r. we're on our way to europe t. l. wood, co. , st p. t. r. company song james c. mcmullin, co. , st p. t. r. double time w. j. littlefield, d battery, st p. t. r. the th new england anonymous, co. , st p. t. r. marching on the rhine lieut. cyril c. reynolds, o. r. c., co. , st p. t. r. eggs--agerated robert b. house, co. , st p. t. r. with apologies to kipling's "the vampire" r. e. hall, st troop, st p. t. r. finis illustrations cover illustration, c. l. yates, co. , st p. t. r. let's go!! _frontispiece_ lieut. p. l. crosby, o. r. c., co. , d p. t. r. the first time _page_ r. k. leavitt, co. , st p. t. r. right dress--march! " c. l. yates, co. , st p. t. r. a test of discipline " c. l. yates, co. , st p. t. r. what's your name? " r. k. leavitt, co. , st p. t. r. a conference " r. k. leavitt, co. , st p. t. r. always with another fellow " mr. sleeper, co. , st p. t. r. there's a hungry surgeon waiting " r. k. leavitt, co. , st p. t. r. a shadow-pointin' boche " r. k. leavitt, co. , st p. t. r. s. o. s. " mr. baskerville, co. , d p. t. r. a miss at o'clock " c. l. yates, co. , st p. t. r. mess? yes!! " r. k. leavitt, co. , st p. t. r. title by anch kline, co. , st p. t. r. when east is west " r. k. leavitt, co. , st p. t. r. with the rookie to the end " mrs. gertrude crosby, wife of lieut. p. l. crosby, co. , d p. t. r. the end of a perfect day _end papers_ lieut. p. l. crosby, o. r. c., co. , d p. t. r. publication committee edward f. dalton, chairman co. , st p. t. r. st p. t. r. w. dyar, co. p. j. field, co. g. b. blaine, co. a. f. woodies, co. j. c. mcmullin, co. r. t. frye, co. m. b. phipps, co. d. loring, jr., co. c. h. ramsey, co. w. w. webber, co. s. s. gordon, tr. r. b. leake, btry. d. e. currier, btry. nd p. t. r. w. j. littlefield, btry. t. c. jessup, co. e. e. henderson, co. f. j. felbel, co. lieut. kenneth mcintosh, co. capt. richardson, co. pendleton king, co. h. mackay, co. herbert clock, co. e. s. murphy, btry. c. g. shaw, btry. m. n. kernochan, btry. foreword _river that rolls to the restless deep from sylvan-born placidity, stained issue of the undefiled by your own wayward will exiled from the crystal lap of a land-locked sea,_ _read me the meaning of your mood. the waters murmur as they flow, "strife is the law by which we live; stagnation, our alternative: this is the only truth we know."_ _the tides of mortal toilers meet to merge their rhythms in bloody fray, and, wave to wave, their armies call-- nay, summon us that we shall all assume the role we choose to play._ _so, at the cry, in loyal breasts, as smaller self-concern recedes, still burns the old achillean fire, still eager questing souls desire not life but living, not days but deeds._ part i poems standing in line when i applied for plattsburg i stood for hours in line to get a piece of paper which they said i had to sign; when i had signed i stood in line (and my, that line was slow!) and asked them what to do with it; they said they didn't know. and when i came to plattsburg i had to stand in line, to get a requisition, from five o'clock till nine; i stood in line till night for the captain to endorse it; but the q. m. had one leggin' left; i used it for a corset. we stand in line for hours to get an issue for the squad; we stand in line for hours and hours to use the cleaning-rod; and hours and hours and hours and hours to sign the roll for pay; and walk for miles in double files on inoculation day. oh, heaven is a happy place, its streets are passing fair, and when they start to call the roll up yonder i'll be there; but when they start to call that roll i certainly will resign if some reserve archangel tries to make me stand in line. [illustration] the first time my legs are moving to and fro i feel like a balloon; how my head swims, first time i go to boss the damn platoon. my throat and mouth are full of paste there's nothing in my hat; my belt is winding round my waist but where's my stomach at? onward christian science our christian science battery without a gun or horse, is just a simple oversight, that will be changed, of course. but while we're waiting patiently, and longing for the day, they have a funny little game they make us fellows play. bill hallstead _simulates_ the gun he's sort of short and fat and doesn't look much like a gun, but he's pretty good at that. and they've elected me a horse, off-horse of the wheel pair; i tie a white cloth on my arm so they can see i'm there. then when the battery is formed with each man in his place, they line the "pieces" in a row just like a chariot race. bill barnum's "greatest show on earth" has not a thing on us; we tear around the old parade and kick up _clouds_ of dust. for it's gallop all the morning long, they never let us walk. why, it gets so realistic that i whinney when i talk. i wouldn't be a bit surprised if i should hear some day that instead of mess they'd issue us that lbs. of hay. and so i'm looking for the man the one who said to me: "you don't want to be a 'doughboy,' go and join the battery." [illustration: right dress--march] they believe in us back home "lots of love to our lieutenant," writes my mother; and the letters from my brother contain facetious remarks about "majors" ... he calls me "the colonel" and laughs.... but they mean it seriously, those back home. they can't seem to realize how shaky is our berth up here ... how every "retreat" means a brief respite; each "reveille" the dread of some more foolish blunder ... some new bone-play. and yet sometimes our timid vanity blossoms under the warmth of their regard; our hopes take strength from their confidence in us. there came a blue envelope in the mail today. a square envelope delicately scented with myrrh.... and she ended with "_adieu, cher capitaine_." that very morning i started even our sphinx-faced commander by bawling out: "right dress--march!" "_adieu, cher capitaine_," she had written, and i can see the flecks of soft star dust in her eyes as she thought it. bitterly i swore at my luck ... then sent her that photograph taken of me on july fourth.... of me astride the horse of an officer. i scrawled a jest under it. but what else could i do? [illustration: a test of discipline] ode to a lady in white stockings lady, in your stockings white, as you flutter by the road, you inspire me to write an ode. though upon my manly back there reposes half a ton, why repine against a pack or gun? though the fire-tressed orb makes mirage upon the street; though the baking soil absorb my feet; though the sergeants stamp and rave; though the captain's eye is flame; pray, how should my heart behave-- the same? i become a thing of steel, buoyant none the less as cork; radiant from hat to heel i walk. lady, in your stockings white, don't you note my altered step? don't you feel, enchanting sprite, my pep? "avoirdupois" i sing the song of a fat man out on the skirmish line, with a pack chock full of lead and bricks a'hanging on behind. maybe you think it's funny when you're out there on the run, beside all that equipment to be pullin' half a ton. the captain has a heart of stone it makes no odds to him; he's there to teach you to skirmish, and you'll skirmish fat or thin. d'you suppose he gives a tinker's damn if when you're lying prone, the pack comes up behind your ears and whacks you on the dome? he just hollers "fire faster," though he knows you couldn't hit the broad side of a barn door, if you were fifty feet from it. he doesn't care a little bit, if you're gasping hard for breath, he's there to teach you to skirmish, if you skirmish yourself to death. oh, well, it's true about fat men being always full of fun, good lord, they've got to be, 'cause they can neither fight nor run. [illustration: what's your name?] go! your lips say "go!" eyes plead "stay!" your voice so low faints away to nothing, dear-- god keep me here! god end the war, and let us two travel far on love's road, you and i in peace, never to cease. your lips say "go!" eyes plead "stay"-- ah, how i know what price you pay. the plattsburg code by lake champlain, where bourbon tossed the dice of fortune and romance, where red-coats won and red-coats lost, we soldiers train to fight in france. though with no pomp and elegance of gold-laced beaux, we have their same old code of pluck and nonchalance-- "god give us guts to play the game." may winds that sing like troubadours of musket, sword and daring deed, and ideals won in early wars, inspire each warrior to succeed; to fight that nations may be freed, and through all hardships make his aim the punch of old-time heroes' creed-- god give us guts to play the game. and if to-morrow--who can tell?-- we hike along a hot white french highway, exposed to shrapnel shell, or occupy a first-line trench, 'midst poisoned gas and dead men's stench, and hand grenades that burst and maim; may not all hell our spirit quench-- god give us guts to play the game. if through entangled wires and mud, charging the boche, we madly run, with comrades dropping, dyed with blood, and sickening sights and sounds that stun, and in death's duel meet the hun 'midst shell holes, smoke, and battle flame, steel clashing steel and gun to gun-- god give us guts to play the game. [illustration] a conference i was sleeping in the barracks, a week or so ago. and in the midst of pleasant dreams i heard the whistle blow. lord, how i hate those whistles! well, it was time to "rouse," so we marched down 'mongst the thistles beside the old ice house. i looked around in misery, at last i took a seat, with nothing to lean up against and no place for my feet. as i sat there in the drizzle of a good old plattsburg rain, i wondered if i'd fizzle the lesson once again. the captain, who, like nero observing rome in flames, was seated on a packing-box perusing all the names. "mr. whitney, won't you tell us of patrols both front and rear? speak up, mr. whitney, so the men in back can hear." "and please now, mr. warnock, just tell us if you will what you'd do with this problem if you were sergeant hill?" "no! i'll ask you if i want you; never mind the hands. warnock, _you_ are sergeant hill, just call out your commands." "whitney! warnock! gee, what luck!" i chortled in my glee. my name is brown, t'was very plain he'd never get to me. so i listened to the questions and the answers one by one, and wondered if that rd degree was ever to be done. i thought of cups with handles on, of napkins and clean hands; i thought of all the pretty girls that live in _christian_ lands. i thought of cakes, and pies, and things, i thought of home in pain, and wondered if i'd ever sleep till o'clock again. i wished i had some lager beer or a nice silver fizz; when, "mr. brown, you tell us what a special order is." i rose, saluted, brushed my pants then mutely gazed around. i stood transfixed; the captain said "_sit down, mr. brown!_" sunday in barracks little silences sit in the corners munching their finger tips. i lie stretched flat upon my bunk.... i count the cracks in the pine-boards above me. i am alone. these others who fill the air with talk about right and wrong ... life and death ... with heavy-nailed footsteps and sometimes heavier profanity ... what becomes of them on sunday? dinners ... the beauty of women ... pretty talk. camaraderie beside the lake ... fellow for fellow, what does it matter? my little silences slide along the floor ... clamber up my bunk to grin at me in my loneliness. then i think of the millions who have none for whom to be lonely, french, english, german, russ.... what does it matter the language? we are all one, levelled in solitude. and i laugh at the silences, and laugh to see them scurrying back to their corners, gibbering. the ballad of montmorency gray i since we came to plattsburg training camp upon the th of may, a lot of clever candidates have fallen by the way; but the strangest fall among them all was montmorency gray. ii monty was a clever lad, as bright as bright could be; he came up days ahead of time-- ahead of you and me-- and got in strong right from the start. o a clever lad was he! iii for monty was an officer of uncle sam's reserve; his uniform was spic and span in every line and curve; and what he lacked in other things, he made up for in nerve. iv he learned the i.d.r. by heart before the st of june; he used to study late at night, and in the morning soon; no wonder that the captain let him lead the st platoon. v he asked the cutest questions in the study hall at night; he knew the difference between a cut and fill at sight. and when it said: "what do you do?" he always did just right. vi he memorized the map from chestnut hill to steven's run; he didn't have to draw a scale, as we have always done; he _knew_ that you could see five-six-- ty-six from six-o-one. vii and then this tragic episode of which i write occurred. it happened sometime in the night of june the rd that montmorency stole away, and left no sign or word. viii we found at dawn that he had gone and left us in the lurch. the colonel sent detachments out for miles around to search; a strong patrol to every knoll, to every house, and church. ix they found no trace in any place; it caused a lot of talk; they wired down to every town from plattsburg to new york. as it was plain he took no train he must have had to walk. x 'twas well into the fall before the mystery was cleared. (they'd never heard a single word since monty disappeared), when the colonel had a caller, an old farmer, with a beard. xi he said his name was topper, and he lived in table rock, and what he told the colonel gave the old man quite a shock; they were closeted together until after ten o'clock. xii from gettysburg to plattsburg mr. topper came to say how he'd found a man in uniform down near his home one day, who, judging from his clothing, must have walked a long, long way. xiii he told the sad and tragic tale of how he came to find, while on his way to hershey's mill with a load of corn to grind, the young man wandering on a hill, and wandering in his mind. xiv he took him to his farmhouse, where for seven weeks he lay and talked and muttered to himself in a most peculiar way. he gave his name before he died as montmorency gray. xv he seemed more sick than lunatic, mr. topper had to grant; as meek and mild as a little child, he did not rave or rant, he only cried, until he died: "you ought to, _but you can't_!" [illustration: always with another fellow] girls they wander everywhere about the dears in pink, the dreams in yellow, with fetching smile, with pretty pout, and always with another fellow. they spend their mornings baking cakes, their afternoons in making cookies; and, oh! the soul within me aches-- their sweets are all for other rookies. often, when 'neath their eyes we pass, i hear some maiden sigh divinely, and murmur to another lass, "dear, isn't _jackie_ marching finely?" ah, girls, a sorry lot is his-- dull are his days, his nights are dreary-- who knows no maiden where he is, who has no dame to call him "dearie." a lament (after c. lamb) all, all are gone, the old familiar glasses that used to range along the fragrant bar; gone, all are gone, and in their places milk, pop and dietade its beauty mar. the big four now has turned to prohibition, anhäuser busch no longer sells at par, bar-maids have joined the army of salvation, the voice of bryan governs from afar; all, all are gone, the old familiar glasses, where once they glistened on the fragrant bar. the manual did you ever run into the butt of your gun, or dig the front sight with your nose? did your stomach turn over and stand up on end, when you dropped the damn thing on your toes? when coming to port did the rifle fall short, and the swivel ram into your fist? when the rest did present did you so intent find a count that the others had missed? and when at "inspection" you clutched to perfection, then shot up the piece with a thrust, was there some dirty pup who pushed your cut-off up so your bolt dug a cave in the dust? then when on the range your windage you'd change for the flag that the anarchists wave, and the old cocking piece smeared your nose with red "grease," did you learn what it meant to be brave? how your old back did ache when you got the bad breaks with the rifle that now has such charms, and i'll make a good bet that you'll never forget that exhausting old manual of arms. those "patriotic" songs i to put the pay in patriot is the order of the day. and some delight to sing of fight for royalties that pay. the louder that the eagle screams the more the dollars shout, and, if you please, atrocities like this are handed out:-- (chorus) i love you, dear america, i love the starry flag, we're proud to fight for you-oo-oo; we never boast or brag. we always will remember you, we always will be true; maryland, my maryland! hurrah, boys, hurrah! as we go marching on to victory. ii that some are actuated by intentions of the best, is surely clear, and so we fear to class them with the rest. and yet conceive some long-haired chap, or sentimental miss, who takes the time to fit a rhyme to music, say, like this:-- (chorus) i love you, yes, i love you, and when i'm across the sea, i'll take your picture to the front, 'twill always be with me. i shall not mind the bullets when i am far away, you'll be a soldier's sweetheart, my girl in u. s. a. iii to make the war more horrible some chap will surely try to set to rag the starry flag, and dance the battle cry. we only hope we may be spared; it did not fail to come, a dashing trot of shell and shot, of bugle call and drum. (chorus) that khaki glide! o! that army slide, it seems to say: "march away, march away!" i feel so queer each time i hear the music of that military band. it's just too grand! fills me full of joy and pride, see them marching side by side, that's just the good old khaki glide! [illustration] saturday p.m. i when you've had a shave and a shower, and have picked up all the news; when you've donned your sunday stetson and your shiny pair of shoes; when your work for the week is over, you think that you are through. you're wrong, my son, you're wrong, my son there's something more for you. it's the needle, the needle, the prophylactic needle. there's a hungry surgeon waiting and he's waiting just for you. ii tho' you lasted through the horrors of a test in skirmish drill, and proved yourself a captain when you bellowed "fire at will!" you are very much mistaken if you think you've finished then; there is something after luncheon for all the plattsburg men. it's the needle, the needle, etc. iii tho' you stood a strict inspection and your dirty gun got by; tho' you'd grease spots on your breeches, and the captain winked his eye; tho' you ate your fill at dinner, and enjoyed a lucky strike; there is something at one-thirty that i know you will not like. it's the needle, the needle, etc. iv tho' you proved yourself a hero after three hours in the line, and when the doctor jabbed you just said, "let's have a shine!" and smoked a large-sized stogie and thought that it was fun, my noble-hearted candidate, you'd only half begun. it's the needle, the needle, etc. v when you woke up at twelve-thirty in a state of some alarm, to feel a tortured muscle in the region of your arm; when you heard the groaning barracks, you wiped your brow and said: "two million more next week-end, and i guess that i'll be dead." the needle, the needle, the prophylactic needle. you softly damn the surgeon, and his needle tinged with red. how things have changed when first i landed in this camp i used to write most every day to all my friends i left behind, and ask them what they had to say about the old town and the girls, or what they thought about the war; and in return the daily mail it brought me letters by the score. but now my friends write me and ask what keeps me from replying, and when i answer, "it's the work," why, they just think i'm lying. so now the letters i receive are few and very far between; they're mostly from my family and never any from a queen. [illustration] arma feminamque no man would doubt a woman's nerve, we know you're brave enough; you put a man to shame at times, you're tender--and you're tough. and yet i feel, with all your grit and talk of cave-men stuff, that you're sorter out of place when i'm twistin' up my face, a-thrustin' and a-jabbin' with my gun-knife. there's some things in this queer old world that's awkward things to see, they can't be tied with ribbon and they can't be served with tea. they're not the least bit sociable and women--as for me, i wish you'd stay away, while i'm training for the day that i'm goin' to get in action with a gun-knife. this ain't no country club affair of smiles and clever skill; there ain't no silver cups around when doughboys train to kill. it's you or me--and do it quick, a simple murder drill. so i want no women 'round, when i'm tearin' up the ground, a shadow-pointin' boches with my gun-knife. [illustration] out o' luck if, in spite of hopes and promises, your pay day doesn't come, if the sergeant antedates the call, or friday's fish is bum, or the waiter empties soup on you--don't let 'em see you glum. you're out o' luck, that's all. you're out o' luck. if you must deploy your skirmish line with nothing in your dome, or send supporting picket-lines to countermarch the somme, the chances are you've guessed it wrong and "may as well go home." you're out o' luck, that's all. you're out o' luck. if you drop between the battle-lines and no one finds the place, or jump into a pit and drive a bay'nit through your face, or try to stop a ten-inch shell and leave an empty space. you're out o' luck, that's all. you're out o' luck. [illustration: s.o.s.] sherman was right you may talk about your marching and your stiff, close-order drill; you may cuss out recitations, and of skirmish have your fill; the difficult manoeuvers which you do most every day may get your goat like everything, and spoil your plattsburg stay. but for me it's far, far harder makes me feel more like a prune, to march at strict attention past the hostess house at noon. troopship chanty the sea is green as green-pea soup and half-way down the green-o, a u-boat's lying snug and tight all bellied out with dynamite, and twenty guns between-o! and twenty guns between-o! so scrape yer hatchways clear of brine, and bawl yer jolly song-o. for if she "blows," my lads, why, then we'll blow her back to hell again, with compliments along-o! with compliments along-o! those rumors he sauntered in with a knowing grin, the news he'd been to hear; we knew right well he'd come to tell the latest from the rear. "a hundred went," he said, "to-day, "five hundred more must go they say; "looks bad, bill, guess you're on your way; "darn few of us can hope to stay. "i got this straight from a friend of mine, "a friend of his in company , "heard from a friend in company , "that company lost fifty men." with this you'd think our hopes would sink, it ought to change our humor. we knew the source, so smiled of course, it was an l. t. rumor. war's horrors i hate to talk of a regular without the proper respect; but given a chance to criticize, there's a bunch that i'd select. and they are those musical miscreants, those malefactors of noise, those rookie second cavalrymen, the amateur bugle boys. they blow retreat, and from head to feet coagulate your spine; or at company drill they send a chill a-shivering down the line. just try to salute to their twittering toot, their yodeling, rasping groan, their blithering bleat, and you'll swear that they beat the hindu quarter-tone, by gad! the hindu quarter-tone. the call spring to arms, ye sons of freedom, lift your country's ensign high; join her undefeated army, succor france, her old ally. stand for freedom, truth and justice, crush the prussian tyrant's power; emulate your worthy forebears in their homeland's crucial hour. britain, mother of your nation; france, her hope in ages past; belgium, home of peaceful people, seared by foul oppression's blast; russia, newly born to freedom; seeking honor, god and right, call on you to aid in crushing, prussianism's cursed blight. are ye men? then meet the challenge as your fathers did of old; help the cause of all the races, with your muscle, brain, and gold. [illustration: on the firing line "a miss at o'clock"] beans consider then the army bean so various and quaint. sometimes we find they're just plain beans, and then again they ain't. they're funny shades of yellow, brown, green, and red, and white; while striped and spotted, polka dotted beans our taste delight. but nix on beans manchurian, and beans of age silurian, which same could stand a buryin', when they come on--good night! forward "?" on the parade, soft and low, rookie hiccoughed, "forward, ho!" another youngster feeling smart, tried to shout, "forward, hart!" one requested, "forward, how!" from somewhere else, there came a "yow!" * * * * * perhaps a mile or so away we heard not "harp!" nor "harch!" but stalwart major koehler's voice thunder, "forward, march!" chant of a derelict sad is my song, mates, for i've got the axe, i've got to go, i've got to go; farewell to plattsburg and life in the shacks, home i must go, i must go. told not to let such a small matter grieve me, sent to the parents who hate to receive me, hearing my story, they'll never believe me, i've got to go, got to go. no more to sleep in a two-story bunk, back i must go, i must go; no more to sag 'neath a pack full of junk, home i must go, i must go. leaving the books i could never have learned, buying a straw hat--the old one was burned-- even the wrist watch must now be interned, back i must go, i must go. here is the moral of this plaintive cough, sung as i go, moaned as i go; here is the reason for my sounding off, now as i go, as i go: comrades in arms, oh! be prompt at formations, neat in your dress, and observe regulations, else, you, like me, will rejoin your relations, home you must go, you must go. [illustration: mess? yes!!] preoccupation the captain stops and yells to me, "wake up there, rear rank number three!" and then, perchance, he makes some mention of how i do not pay attention. but is it _my_ fault? no, it's you, with your persistent eyes of blue, that halt the flow of reason's stream and make me dream and dream and dream, until the captain comes and--well, to put it plain--he gives me _hell_. inoculation day my blood the surgeons fortify with antiseptic serum; the dread bacilli i defy, what cause have i to fear 'em? we form outside the pest-house door at one o'clock precisely, but if we get our dose at four we think we're doing nicely. and in our arm the surgeon stabs a hypodermic squirter, e'en as the hungry hobo jabs his fork in a frankfurter. i'm full of dope for smallpox germs, for typhus and such evils, for broken heart and army worms, for chestnut blight and weevils. i'm doped against the bayonet wielded by german demons; but no one seems to think i'll get dear old delirium tremens. don't weaken when you feel on the bum and the outlook is glum, and you're wonderin' what's comin' next; when most every thing's drear and life loses its cheer, and the skip and reverses are vexed; if this plattsburgish heat knocks you clean off your feet, or your bunkies they ain't even speakin'; keep your shirt on your back, don't knock over the stack, it's a great life, if you don't weaken. when they launder your sock till it ain't fit to hock, when they shrink up your shirt like a rag; if you blister your toes and then sunburn your nose and then can't even go on a jag; why, you're sure out of luck, but just pass the old buck, keep a stiff upper lip like a deacon; though you shoot ten straight blanks do not kick with the cranks, summon a grin and don't weaken. if you're late for retreat and must police the street, if at reveille you're still in your bed; if your girl sends you flags which some other cuss bags, or they clip all the hair off your head; if the mess comes out burned, so your stomach gets turned, or the "upper man" keeps you from sleepin'; don't you growl, that won't help, for they'll dub you a whelp; can the grouch--but don't weaken. the three three dead men rose on nimble toes above the frozen clay; and as they sped, each of the dead told how he died that day. said one, "i sent the regiment to safety as i fell." the second cried, "before i died i hurled the foe to hell." as for the third, he spoke no word but hastened on his way, until at last a whisper passed: "how did _you_ die today?" "there was a maid slept unafraid within a hut," he said. "i searched the place and for a space i thought that all had fled. "but her breast glowed white in the morning light as the early dawn grew red; tiptoe i came in lust and shame and stood beside her bed. "and there i fought an evil thought and won--and turned to go; then as i went into my tent a bullet struck me low." the others heard and spoke no word (for dead men understand), but 'round they turned and their deep eyes burned as they gripped his leaden hand. to the little black dog we see you in the morning when reveille implores; we meet you in the evening at end of daily chores. on march, fatigue, or drilling our friend we find you still, with kindly, pleasant bearing and independent will. you're small, you're thin, you're homely, you're battered, scratched, and lame; but in our tasks before us pray god we be as game! [illustration] when east is west see that man in khaki clothes, squirming in the dust; toying with a sketching board, uniform all mussed. squinting 'long a little stick, grunting fit to bust-- turning out a road sketch for his captain. first he drills a "starting point." then he takes a "shot;" someone's scare-crow gets a line, closes jones's lot. paces stiffly down the road, worried--tense--and hot-- turning out a road sketch for his captain. now an "intersection point;" watch the compass turn. think to see him finger it bloomin' thing would burn. missed an inch by motor truck; eyes it proud and stern-- turning out a road sketch for his captain. plants an orchard in the road; leaves a forest bare. runs a railroad through a house; fakes a village square. twenty contours in a swamp, thirteen in the air-- calls the thing a road sketch for his captain. to my sweetheart i love you when the bugle calls, "awake, the day's begun!" i love you as we work and sweat and drill beneath the sun. i love you at retreat, and when the sun sinks out of view; sweetheart of mine! quite all the time, i--love--you. play the game when everything goes wrong and it's hard to force a song, the proper stunt we claim, is to grin, and play the game. if things break worse than fair, say the frenchmen, "_c'est la guerre_." which to them is just the same, as to grin, and play the game. if you find the mess is punk-- kidney beans and other junk-- try to eat it just the same; stretch a grin, and play the game. when for nothing you've been bawled, though you've done your best get called, and you know you're not to blame; force a grin, and play the game. when we're hit by some big shell, and almost catch a glimpse of hell; when we think how close we came, we'll just grin, and play the game. while our work is being done we will show the mighty hun, in the land from whence we came, how we grin, and play the game. when the last long line is passed, and the victory's ours at last, greater far will be the fame, if we've grinned, and played the game. the stadium, plattsburg i hear the mighty song of singing men crashing among the pine-trees through the night, and thund'ring, trumpet-wise, down every glen, a song to france, whose soul is bleeding white. but hark!--out rings a deeper, stronger cry. a nation, which has newly learned to give, is singing as its sons go forth to die, because, god knows, they're going forth--to live! * * * * * o little maid of france, who rests in heaven, crowned with the lilies three (and lilies seven), send us the clear-eyed faith that came to thee, praying beneath the pines, in domremy. rubaiyat of a plattsburg candidate awake! 'tis morning, though it should not be-- come, can the yawns, it's speed they want to see-- and stagger forth upon a hostile world, in flannel shirt and cotton pants o. d. before the phantoms of the night were done, methought i idled somewhere in the sun, debating whether beauty to pursue, or touch a bell, and cultivate a bun. and lovely maids in garments pale did seem to shimmer round me in continuous stream, each with a glass of something in her hand, and then i turned--and lo! it was a dream! and ere the cock crew he that stood before the barracks, shouted "half a minute more! belts, bayonets, and pieces--on the jump-- and signal-flags and alidades," o lor'! i sometimes think that never battles din were so unwelcome as the words "fall in!" nor any victory could taste so sweet as french vermouth with ice and gordon gin. yesterday's problem 'twixt the red and blue involved our journey down the road peru; the day before we took the peru road-- i'll bet a hat we're there to-morrow, too. myself when fresh and full of zeal and spunk, hung on the words whence wisdom should be drunk; but this was all the harvest that i reaped-- to say "as fast as possible" is punk. platoon commanders, captains by the score, each takes his turn--and then is seen no more; but no one ever thinks of him again one half so kindly as they thought before. to-day's commander, with commands profuse, to-morrow to the rear rank will reduce. think, and you know not what he meant to say-- he knows not neither, so--ah, what's the use? waste not your hour to criticize or blame, you would have done it worse, or just the same. better to pack your troubles with your kit, to keep your shirt on, and to play the game. some for the shriek of shot and shell, and some sigh for the bottle of new england rum. oh, face the facts, and let the fiction go-- i'll bet "_la vie des tranchèes_" will be bum. one moment's rest, then back into the mill with butt and point to lacerate and kill. i often wonder what the germans teach one half so cultured as our "bay'net drill." for war is hell, and plattsburg not a jest, and yet, by gravy, we will do our best, till submarine and kaiser are forgot, or angel gabriel hollers out, "at rest!" dreams says captain peek to company two, "let's have an exam to-day; "so get your rifles and bayonet, boys, "and fall in right away. "line up whenever you're ready to go; "at route step do squads right: "light up your pipes, roll up your sleeves, "we'll try to make this light." with joyful faces they march to parade, fall out and rest on the grass. "will someone please perform right face? "we'll let slight errors pass." then captain peek shuts up that book "i won't give one black mark. "officers, beat it; get the hook! "i'll drill you right till dark. "you seem to know the drill all right; "don't bother about those maps; "put on your 'civies' as fast as you can, "and don't come back for taps." 'twill be thus perhaps in a happier land, when they've run that american drive, where we drill in white all armed with harps; but not while our cap's alive. a nd regiment "who's who" major collins is careful of his regiment's health. lemonade and other things, taken on march, have been known to cause soldiers to die, and pie? perish the suggestion! 'tis safe to bet the major was not born in new england. if in a deep wood or desert vast one would never be lost with captain barnes. he knows how to orient the landscape by sun or star. lieutenant meyer is tall, he holds his hat on by a strap under his chin. a cyclone couldn't blow it off. captain latrobe came on from texas way, "sif bofe" his saddle and himself. he might as well have saved the freight on the saddle, for he has no horse to ride on. he leads his steedless troop on charger invisible. arnold, major now, fares better. his horse is real and has white feet. do not talk to his command while it is marching, nor count for the men, or the winning smile will turn into a volcano, and you will be reduced to a shapeless mass. beware! carr's horse is black, and a beauty, too, but neighs out loud; hence never should be used to patrol. the enemy would listen, and know you were near. the straightest man on horseback is, doubtless, wainwright; and he doesn't lean backward to do it, either. matthews has a deep voice; no ear trumpet is needed to hear his commands. he believes in exercise. his men should be able to throw samson or sandow, if they are not dead by august eleventh. waldron knows how to patrol-- at least he wrote a book for thirty cents. he next should write a book on how to spot a periscope when we cross the sea. if we don't know that, we'll never spot anything else but bubbles on the ocean's face. capt. goodwyn just came up from panama, and brought chivalry with him. it's as hot here as there, but he is showing us how to make it hotter for certain people to the eastward. there is a fat q.m., whose name is unknown, but not his form. once seen never forgotten; he must have the keys to the ice-box. eureka it may be from hot tallahassee, it may be from cold northern nome, but there's nothing that can be compared with that big little letter from home. fourth company, n.e. song 'way up in plattsburg, right near the northern border, they sent us off in may, there for three months to stay, so we could all become lieutenants. then when they put us all in comp'nies we made new england four. it's the finest little company that ever did squads right and ran into a tree. new england, you've got to hand it to us-- good old company four! 'way up in plattsburg--that's where they make us soldiers-- they drill us every day. damn little time for play, 'cause when we do not drill we study. new england number four's our comp'ny, we're always full of pep. now if you want some men for good, hard work you'll always find this company will never shirk. new england, you've got to hand it to us-- good old company four! part ii songs and parodies long, long trail (_air: there's a long trail_) there's a long, long trail before us, into no-man's land in france, where the shrapnel shells are bursting, and we must advance. there'll be lots of drill and hiking, before our dreams all come true, but some day we'll show the germans, how the yankees come through. willie's pa (_air: solomon levi_) i o, willie jones's fond mamma brought him to plattsburg town, to see his father at the camp go marching up and down; and willie grew excited as the band began to play, and when he saw his papa march, the people heard him say: (chorus) "o, look at him, ma-ma, ain't he simply grand? see the way he holds his gun and swings his other hand. the captain's walking up in front, and now he's calling 'hep,' and everyone but my papa is marching out of step." ii o, willie jones, he loved to see the soldiers marching by, he went down to the target range to see the bullets fly, and every time they made a shot, he cried "ain't that a beaut!" and clapped his hands in glee to see his papa start to shoot. (chorus) "o, look at him, ma-ma, see him hold his gun, and every time he shoots it off it hits him on the bun. he puts his hand around the thing and gives an awful pull, the red flag there is waving, o! it must have been a bull." company new england (_air: "lord geoffry amherst"_) oh, good old uncle sam declared a war on kaiser bill, when, his pledges "bill" neglected to fulfill; and the war department ordered that a training camp should be, so they sent us up to plattsburg, don't you see? so they sent us up to plattsburg, don't you see? and the men from all new england came along and gathered there, and the companies they chose with greatest care. but out of all the candidates selected but a few to organize new england number . (chorus) oh, captain peek and company two they'll be names known to fame the whole world o'er. they will ever be glorious when the hohenzollerns reign no more. to the reserve cavalry (_air: the infantry, the infantry, with dirt behind their ears_) i the cavalry, the cavalry, they haven't any horse, they're taking riding lessons by a correspondence course, you'd think they were equestrians to hear the way they talk, but when it comes to riding, why! we always see them walk. ii the cavalry, the cavalry, are marching down the street, the cavalry, the cavalry, with blisters on their feet, the artillery is mounted now and ready for the course; but we never see the cavalry with any kind of horse. we're on our way to deutschland (_air: hit the line for harvard_) we're on our way to deutschland, we're yankees through and through, and we'll show the huns of germ'ny what the u. s. a. can do. with france and old england, victory or die; and we'll give a rousing cheer, boys, as the allied flags go by. i want to be a colonel (_air: i want to be back home in dixie_) i want to be, i want to be, i want to be at least a colonel, have the majors handing me salutes, and a man to black my boots. i want to be, i want to be, at least a colonel, c-o-l-o-n-e-l, hold down a desk and give the captains hell. i want to be, i want to be, i want to be a colonel _now_! i want to be a doughboy (_air: i want to be a yale boy_) i want to be a doughboy, doughboy tried and true; i want to be a doughboy, with a hat cord of baby blue. i want to be a doughboy, do as the doughboys do; so, papa, if i can when i get to be a man, i want to be a doughboy, too. our battle hymn (air: "battle hymn of the republic") i we have heard a lot about a place they call "somewhere in france," and we're going "over there" to put some pep in the advance; "there's a long, long trail before us," but you bet we'll take the chance, as five goes marching on. (chorus) glory, glory, for we're going to beat the hun, old hindenburg will execute a new strategic run, and kaiser bill will find he has no place beneath the sun, when five goes marching on. ii we are handy with the rifle and the bayonet and such; and though fritz is used to running and is sort of hard to touch, we will show him when we get there that it doesn't matter much, when five is marching on. (chorus) iii you may say that we're not modest, but our faults we will confess, we hate to rise at reveille, we're not too fond of mess; and we never, never, never get a good line at right dress, but we do keep marching on. (chorus) iv now all you other fellows who are going overseas, just remember that we guarantee the foeman to appease; so when you hear we're coming you may rest or stand at ease, when five goes marching on. (chorus) new england will be leading (_air: john brown's body_) new england will be leading when we're marching up the rhine, new york will be the rear guard and we'll leave them far behind, we'll conquer german cities and we'll capture kaiser bill, as we go marching on. glory, glory to new england! glory, glory to new england! glory, glory to new england! as we go marching on. on the banks of the river rhine (_air: "through those wonderful glasses of mine"_) germany, we're coming over, we are going straight to france; we are praying for a chance, just to make your soldiers dance. kaiser bill, your doom is coming; take a tip, old top, resign! for we'll drink beer in june, by the light of the moon, on the banks of the river rhine. "the simulating of the green" (_air: "wearing of the green"_) oh, major dear, and did you hear the news that's going round? we cavalry must simulate till horses can be found; we gallop and we single-foot as handsome as can be, but on our own two feet we ride--a horse you'll never see. 'tis the most amazing spectacle that's ever graced the green; a hundred men a-riding where no horses can be seen. oh, colonel dear, ye'll grieve to hear artillery's the same, compared to simulating guns, a horse is rather tame; last night i was the left rear wheel--it made me moighty sore, but dommed if i will be the swab and crawl inside the bore. 'tis the most amazing spectacle that's ever graced the green, a-firing rounds and salvos where no cannons can be seen. don't send me home (_air: don't take me home_) don't send me home, please don't send me home. tell me, where did i make that break? oh, oh, oh, oh, have a little pity. i'm a poor candidate, in search of war i roam. i'll do anything you want me to, but don't send me home. company nine (_air: "far above cayuga's water"_) hark, ye rookies, to the chorus of old company nine; captains, colonels, all adore us, when we fall in line. tho' we're doughboys, we're not slow boys, thanks to sargeant hill; and when we take our stand in deutschland, lord help kaiser bill! in the morning at the warning, "clothes on company nine!" feeling rocky, into khaki jumps our valiant line. we shun strawberries in the valley off the peru road, but in mess shack none can beat us at the order "load!" in pabst-less plattsburg, bone-dry rookies, waiting for our kale, our healths we drink in foamless bumpers, full of adam's ale. but when the "sammies" take their münchener on the river rhine, the toast will be to old new england and to company nine. we're on our way to europe (_air: "my wife's away in europe"_) we're on our way to europe, and we won't come back. and we won't come back. we're going to shoot an awful pill into the hide of kaiser bill. von hindenburg can't stop us; we laugh at him, hee! hee! we've shot the pistol twice before, can't hit the side of a barn door. we're on our way to europe to lay bill cross our knee. company song (_original music by mr. h. t. morgan_) on guard! we're always on our toes; plattsburg has taught us pep. we're good at being red or blue, but oh, that step! though we may lose a few patrols, just watch the allied drive. right where they reach the rhine, there you'll find new england five. forward! we're on our way to france; we'll make it hot for fritz. with bayonet or rifle, watch us score all hits. heads up! we're after hindenburg, we'll show him we're alive; when we get through with him, he will know new england five. double time (_air: tammany_) double time, double time! we're the boys with running feet, and we never mind the heat. double time, double time! battr'y three, you always see at double time. double time, double time! on the run we always keep, we even do it in our sleep. double time, double time! when we eat our food goes down at double time. double time, double time! always jump and run like hell, faster than a british shell. double time, double time! boche can't hit us, for we move at double time. double time, double time! it's the surest road to fame, if you live and don't get lame. double time, double time! hammond's favorite outdoor sport is double time. the th new england (_air: michael roy_) the eighth new england infantry is the one that shows them how; if kaiser bill could see us drill, the war would be over now. out in front of the hostess house, as we go marching by where the ladies are sitting, they drop their knitting, and all begin to cry: "for oh! for oh! what a wonderful company! it must be either the general staff or company n. e." if elihu root could see us shoot out on the rifle range he'd send us to russia to help lick prussia--oh, what a glorious change! if general pershing could hear us cursing the whistle that blows too soon, there'd be a decree that reveille would come in the afternoon. "for oh! for oh! what a wonderful company! it must be either the general staff or company n. e." marching on the rhine (_air: rocky road to dublin_) when marching on the rhine, boys, we'll be singing this song as we're marching along. when marching on the rhine, boys, on our hunt for kaiser bill, we'll shoot the germans out of france, we'll keep them on the run; when we get there the world will know, new england has begun, to fight for uncle sammy. we'll do our best, and never will rest, until old glory rises to the sun. over the sea, boys, over the sea to victory, new england will fight on forever. eggs--agerated since i've come to plattsburg i've eaten so many eggs, that feathers now adorn my skin, and spurs are on my legs. with apologies to kipling's "the vampire" a fool there was, and he made his prayer, (even as you and i) tho't he would hold down a colonel's chair, so he came up here to do and dare, but the skipper decided he wasn't there, (even as you and i). oh, the days we waste, and the pay we waste, and the work of our hands and feet belong to the days we did not know, (and now we know we never could know) enough to stand still at retreat. oh, the sleep we lost and the weight we lost, and the things we had to eat can never come back to make us want, (we hope they can't and pray they sha'n't) if they did we'd admit we were beat. the fool was stripped to his foolish hide, (even as you and i) and they wouldn't let him be rear guide, (so some of him lived, but the most of him died) and he stayed a "rookie" just outside (even as you and i). _finis_ _there's a lot that's pretty funny in the life we lead up here, the problems and the hikin' and the mess; but sometimes when i'm all alone i get a little blue, and that's the way with everyone, i guess._ _i often sit and wonder what it's really all about, and what the end of all this will be; it seems almost impossible that we will be at war, and see the things a soldier has to see._ _it's something more than just parade and something more than drill, and something more than hiking in the rain. it means that lots of friends we've made are going over seas, and some of them will not come back again._ _there's not a single man of us who really wants to fight, and maybe die somewhere in france--but then, it's war, and since it must be done, we'll try to do it right. god willing, we'll acquit ourselves like men._ [illustration: with the rookie to the end.] * * * * * transcriber's note: table of contents: the page numbering in the table of contents is off by one beginning with the call which the table of contents indicates should be on page . it actually begins on the next page. by the end of the book the page numbering is off by two. the final poem "finis" is on page . these numbers have been retained as printed. closing quotes were added to both stanzas of the poem "the th new england" which begins on page . it was the road to jericho [illustration] [illustration] it was the road to jericho by annie fellows johnston author of the little colonel· the desert of waiting· etc. illustrated by john r neill new york britton publishing company [illustration] copyright by annie fellows johnston [illustration] [illustration] it was the road to jericho it was the road to jericho, and brave indeed the man who went alone and waited not to join the caravan. for robber hoards swooped down the cliffs like eagles on their prey, and mercy was not known to them, theirs but to kill and slay. [illustration] along the road to jericho a man went riding by, he heard a groan of mortal pain, he heard a piercing cry. [illustration] he got him down from off his beast, he found the one who bled, the thieves had bruised and beaten him and left him well nigh dead. (the levite and the priest had passed, the calls to them were vain). he bound his wounds. with oil and wine he eased the grevious pain. then to the inn he carried him and paid the keeper's price, as one who does a deed for love, nor counts it sacrifice. lo, as he passed upon his way, his robe it showed a stain-- two red marks on his white sleeve, where the bleeding head had lain. one, made in pity when he stooped to lift the wounded up, the other, when in love he bent to offer him the cup. [illustration] two red, red lines which made a cross, and marked him as the man whose name is, till the end of time "the good samaritan." part ii [illustration] the world pressed toward its jericho, the goal of its desire-- its marts, its pleasures and its shrines its dreams of great empire. a hoard of gold it bore along to barter and to buy. but on the road, by thieves beset, it, too, was left to die. the son of god came down that way to succour and to save, to bind its wounds, to heal its sin to lift it from the grave. lo! he too, went upon his way when he had paid the price. marked by the red red lines that make the cross of sacrifice. [illustration] where all the woe of all the world upon his heart had lain and all the sin of earth pressed sore there gleamed that double stain. and now we cannot name his name who is the lord of heaven, without a thought of that symbol by love and pity given. now onward to our jericho we press with bated breath. for evil grows the way, and dark. on every hand stalks death. part iii [illustration] the robber hoards that strip and slay take more than gold, forsooth, they kill our holiest of hopes-- they take all love--all youth! they smite the mother and the maid-- the babe that cries unfed, and little children, sore afraid sob in the night for bread. [illustration] oh, who shall staunch such world-wide woe-- such universe of pain? and who has oil and wine enough? and must they cry in vain? [illustration] nay! on the road to jericho there be a million now, who bear christ's pity in their hearts, his sign upon their brow. and millions more shall follow them to bind and to restore. till all the highway is made safe and war shall be no more. now god give grace to all who hear and may his love suffice to blaze upon each heart each day the cross of sacrifice. [illustration] [illustration] * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation repaired. the original text spelled "grievous" as "grevious." this was retained so as to not change the poem's meter. the original text had the contraction for "it is" (it's) in place of every possessive "its." this was corrected. ardours and endurances [illustration: _malcolm arbuthnot_ _ _] ardours and endurances also a faun's holiday & poems and phantasies by robert nichols author of "invocation: war poems and others" [illustration] new york frederick a. stokes company publishers contents book i ardours and endurances the summons: page i. to---- ii. the past iii. the reckoning farewell to place of comfort the approach: i. in the grass: halt by roadside ii. the day's march iii. nearer battle: i. noon ii. night bombardment iii. comrades: an episode iv. behind the lines: night, france v. at the wars vi. out of trenches: the barn, twilight vii. battery moving up to a new position from rest camp: dawn viii. eve of assault: infantry going down to trenches ix. the assault x. the last morning xi. fulfilment the dead: i. the burial in flanders ii. boy iii. plaint of friendship by death broken iv. by the wood the aftermath: i. at the ebb ii. alone iii. thanksgiving iv. annihilated v. shut of night vi. the full heart vii. sonnet: our dead viii. deliverance book ii a faun's holiday book iii poems and phantasies a triptych: first panel: the hill ii. second and centre panel: the tower iii. third panel: the tree four songs from "the prince of ormuz": i. the prince of ormuz sings to badoura ii. the song of the princess beside the fountain iii. the song of the prince in disguise iv. the princess badoura's last song to her lover the gift of song fragments from "orestes": i. warning unheeded ii. orestes to the furies black songs: i. at braydon ii. midday on the edge of the downs iii. in dorsetshire man's anacreontic the blackbird change transfiguration plaint of pierrot ill-used girl's song from "the tailor" last song in an opera danaË: mystery in eight poems the ecstasy the water-lily deem you the roses the passion last words my thanks are due to the editor of the _times_ and of the _nation_, to the editors of the _palatine review_, and to messrs. blackwell, oxford, the publishers of "oxford poetry, ," and "oxford poetry, ," for permission to reprint certain of these poems. r. m. b. n. . introduction . _of the nature of the poet_: "we are (often) so impressed by the power of poetry that we think of it as something made by a wonderful and unusual person: we do not realize the fact that all the wonder and marvel is in our own brains, that the poet is ourselves. he speaks our language better than we do merely because he is more skilful with it than we are; his skill is part of our skill, his power of our power; generations of english-speaking men and women have made us sensible to these things, and our sensibility comes from the same source that the poet's power of stimulating it comes from. given a little more sensitiveness to external stimuli, a little more power of associating ideas, a co-ordination of the functions of expression somewhat more apt, a sense of rhythm somewhat keener than the average--given these things we should be poets, too, even as he is.... _he is one of us._" . _of what english poetry consists_: "english poetry is not a rhythm of sound, but a rhythm of ideas, and the flow of attention-stresses (_i.e._, varying qualities of words and cadence) which determines its beauty is inseparably connected with the thought; for each of them is a judgment of identity, or a judgment of relation, or an expression of relation, and not a thing of mere empty sound.... he who would think of it as a pleasing arrangement of vocal sounds has missed all chance of ever understanding its meaning. there awaits him only the barren generalities of a foreign prosody, tedious, pedantic, fruitless. and he will flounder ceaselessly amid the scattered timbers of its iambuses, spondees, dactyls, tribrachs, never reaching the firm ground of truth." "an introduction to the scientific study of english poetry,"[ ] _by_ mark liddell. [ ] _published by grant richards ( ). this remarkable book, establishing english poetry as a thing governed from within by its own necessities, and not by rules of æsthetics imposed on it from without, formulates principles which, unperceived, have governed english poetry from the earliest times, which find their greatest exemplar in shakespeare, and which, though beginning to be realized by the less pedantic of the moderns, are in its pages for the first time lucidly expounded and--such is their adequacy--can, in the end, only be regarded as indubitably proven._--r. m. b. n., . * * * * * book i ardours and endurances to the memory of my trusty and gallant friends: harold stuart gough (_king's royal rifle corps_) and richard pinsent (_the worcester regiment_) "for what is life if measured by the space, not by the act?" ben jonson. the summons i.--to---- asleep within the deadest hour of night and, turning with the earth, i was aware how suddenly the eastern curve was bright, as when the sun arises from his lair. but not the sun arose: it was thy hair shaken up heaven in tossing leagues of light. since then i know that neither night nor day may i escape thee, o my heavenly hell! awake, in dreams, thou springest to waylay and should i dare to die, i know full well whose voice would mock me in the mourning bell, whose face would greet me in hell's fiery way. ii.--the past how to escape the bondage of the past? i fly thee, yet my spirit finds no calms save when she deems her rocked within those arms to which, from which she ne'er was caught or cast. o sadness of a heart so spent in vain, that drank its age's fuel in an hour: for whom the whole world burning had not power to quick with life the smouldered wick again! iii.--the reckoning the whole world burns, and with it burns my flesh. arise, thou spirit spent by sterile tears; thine eyes were ardent once, thy looks were fresh, thy brow shone bright amid thy shining peers. fame calls thee not, thou who hast vainly strayed so far for her; nor passion, who in the past gave thee her ghost to wed and to be paid; nor love, whose anguish only learned to last. honour it is that calls: canst thou forget once thou wert strong? listen; the solemn call sounds but this once again. put by regret for summons missed, or thou hast missed them all. body is ready, fortune pleased; o let not the poor past cost the proud future's fall. farewell to place of comfort farewell to place of comfort for the last time, maybe, upon the knoll i stand. the eve is golden, languid, sad.... day like a tragic actor plays his rôle to the last whispered word, and falls gold-clad. i, too, take leave of all i ever had. they shall not say i went with heavy heart: heavy i am, but soon i shall be free; i love them all, but o i now depart a little sadly, strangely, fearfully, as one who goes to try a mystery. the bell is sounding down in dedham vale: be still, o bell! too often standing here when all the air was tremulous, fine, and pale, thy golden note so calm, so still, so clear, out of my stony heart has struck a tear. and now tears are not mine. i have release from all the former and the later pain; like the mid-sea i rock in boundless peace, soothed by the charity of the deep sea rain.... calm rain! calm sea! calm found, long sought in vain. o bronzen pines, evening of gold and blue, steep mellow slope, brimmed twilit pools below, hushed trees, still vale dissolving in the dew, farewell! farewell! there is no more to do. we have been happy. happy now i go. the approach i.--in the grass: halt by roadside in my tired, helpless body i feel my sunk heart ache; but suddenly, loudly the far, the great guns shake. is it sudden terror burdens my heart? my hand flies to my head. i listen.... and do not understand. is death so near, then? from this blaze of light do i plunge suddenly into vortex? night? guns again! the quiet shakes at the vengeful voice.... it is terrible pleasure. i do not fear: i rejoice. ii.--the day's march the battery grides and jingles, mile succeeds to mile; shaking the noonday sunshine, the guns lunge out awhile, and then are still awhile. we amble along the highway; the reeking, powdery dust ascends and cakes our faces with a striped, sweaty crust. under the still sky's violet the heat thróbs on the air.... the white road's dusty radiance assumes a dark glare. with a head hot and heavy, and eyes that cannot rest, and a black heart burning in a stifled breast, i sit in the saddle, i feel the road unroll, and keep my senses straightened toward to-morrow's goal. there, over unknown meadows which we must reach at last, day and night thunders a black and chilly blast. heads forget heaviness, hearts forget spleen, for by that mighty winnowing being is blown clean. light in the eyes again, strength in the hand, a spirit dares, dies, forgives, and can understand! and, best! love comes back again after grief and shame, and along the wind of death throws a clean flame. * * * * * the battery grides and jingles, mile succeeds to mile; suddenly battering the silence the guns burst out awhile. * * * * * i lift my head and smile. iii.--nearer nearer and ever nearer.... my body, tired but tense, hovers 'twixt vague pleasure and tremulous confidence. arms to have and to use them and a soul to be made worthy if not worthy; if afraid, unafraid. to endure for a little, to endure and have done: men i love about me, over me the sun! and should at last suddenly fly the speeding death, the four great quarters of heaven receive this little breath. battle i.--noon it is midday: the deep trench glares.... a buzz and blaze of flies.... the hot wind puffs the giddy airs.... the great sun rakes the skies. no sound in all the stagnant trench where forty standing men endure the sweat and grit and stench, like cattle in a pen. sometimes a sniper's bullet whirs or twangs the whining wire; sometimes a soldier sighs and stirs as in hell's frying fire. from out a high cool cloud descends an aeroplane's far moan.... the sun strikes down, the thin cloud rends.... the black speck travels on. and sweating, dizzied, isolate in the hot trench beneath, we bide the next shrewd move of fate be it of life or death. ii.--night bombardment softly in the silence the evening rain descends.... the soft wind lifts the rain-mist, flurries it, and spends its grief in mournful sighs, drifting from field to field, soaking the draggled sprays which the low hedges wield as they labour in the wet and the load of the wind. the last light is dimming; night comes on behind. i hear no sound but the wind and the rain, and trample of horses, loud and lost again where the waggons in the mist rumble dimly on bringing more shell. the last gleam is gone. it is not day or night; only the mists unroll and blind with their sorrow the sight of my soul. i hear the wind weeping in the hollow overhead: she goes searching for the forgotten dead hidden in the hedges or trodden into muck under the trenches, or maybe limply stuck somewhere in the branches of a high lonely tree-- he was a sniper once. they never found his body. i see the mist drifting. i hear the wind and rain, and on my clammy face the oozed breath of the slain seems to be blowing. almost i have heard in the shuddering drift the lost dead's last word: go home, go home, go to my house; knock at the door, knock hard, arouse my wife and the children--that you must do-- what do you say?--tell the children, too-- knock at the door, knock hard, arouse the living. say: the dead won't come back to this house. o ... but it's cold--i soak in the rain-- shrapnel found me--i shan't come home again-- no, not home again! the mourning voices trail away into rain, into darkness ... the pale soughing of the night drifts on in between. _the voices were as if the dead had never been._ o melancholy heavens, o melancholy fields, the glad, full darkness grows complete and shields me from your appeal. with a terrible delight i hear far guns low like oxen at the night. flames disrupt the sky. the work is begun. "action!" my guns crash, flame, rock and stun again and again. soon the soughing night is loud with their clamour and leaps with their light. the imperative chorus rises sonorous and fell: my heart glows lighted as by fires of hell. sharply i pass the terse orders down. the guns blare and rock. the hissing rain is blown athwart the hurtled shell that shrilling, shrilling goes away into the dark, to burst a cloud of rose over german trenches. a pause: i stand and see lifting into the night like founts incessantly the pistol-lights' pale spores upon the glimmering air.... under them furrowed trenches empty, pallid, bare.... and rain snowing trenchward ghostly and white. o dead in the hedges, sleep ye well to-night! iii.--comrades: an episode before, before he was aware the 'verey' light had risen ... on the air it hung glistering.... and he could not stay his hand from moving to the barbed wire's broken strand. a rifle cracked. he fell. night waned. he was alone. a heavy shell whispered itself passing high, high overhead. his wound was wet to his hand: for still it bled on to the glimmering ground. then with a slow, vain smile his wound he bound, knowing, of course, he'd not see home again-- home whose thought he put away. his men whispered: "where's mister gates?" "out on the wire." "i'll get him," said one.... dawn blinked, and the fire of the germans heaved up and down the line. "stand to!" too late! "i'll get him." "o the swine! when we might get him in yet safe and whole!" "corporal didn't see 'un fall out on patrol, or he'd 'a got 'un." "sssh!" "no talking there." a whisper: "'a went down at the last flare." meanwhile the maxims toc-toc-tocked; their swish of bullets told death lurked against the wish. no hope for him! his corporal, as one shamed, vainly and helplessly his ill-luck blamed. * * * * * then gates slowly saw the morn break in a rosy peace through the lone thorn by which he lay, and felt the dawn-wind pass whispering through the pallid, stalky grass of no-man's land.... and the tears came scaldingly sweet, more lovely than a flame. he closed his eyes: he thought of home and grit his teeth. he knew no help could come.... * * * * * the silent sun over the earth held sway, occasional rifles cracked and far away a heedless speck, a 'plane, slid on alone, like a fly traversing a cliff of stone. "i must get back," said gates aloud, and heaved at his body. but it lay bereaved of any power. he could not wait till night.... and he lay still. blood swam across his sight. then with a groan: "no luck ever! well, i must die alone." occasional rifles cracked. a cloud that shone, gold-rimmed, blackened the sun and then was gone.... the sun still smiled. the grass sang in its play. someone whistled: "over the hills and far away." gates watched silently the swift, swift sun burning his life before it was begun.... suddenly he heard corporal timmins' voice: "now then, 'urry up with that tea." "hi ginger!" "bill!" his men! timmins and jones and wilkinson (the 'bard'), and hughes and simpson. it was hard not to see them: wilkinson, stubby, grim, with his "no, sir," "yes, sir," and the slim simpson: "indeed, sir?" (while it seemed he winked because his smiling left eye always blinked) and corporal timmins, straight and blonde and wise, with his quiet-scanning, level, hazel eyes; and all the others ... tunics that didn't fit.... a dozen different sorts of eyes. o it was hard to lie there! yet he must. but no: "i've got to die. i'll get to them. i'll go." inch by inch he fought, breathless and mute, dragging his carcase like a famished brute.... his head was hammering, and his eyes were dim; a bloody sweat seemed to ooze out of him and freeze along his spine.... then he'd lie still before another effort of his will took him one nearer yard. * * * * * the parapet was reached. he could not rise to it. a lookout screeched: "mr. gates!" three figures in one breath leaped up. two figures fell in toppling death; and gates was lifted in. "who's hit?" said he. "timmins and jones." "why did they that for me?-- i'm gone already!" gently they laid him prone and silently watched. he twitched. they heard him moan "why for me?" his eyes roamed round, and none replied. "i see it was alone i should have died." they shook their heads. then, "is the doctor here?" "he's coming, sir; he's hurryin', no fear." "no good.... lift me." they lifted him. he smiled and held his arms out to the dim, and in a moment passed beyond their ken, hearing him whisper, "o my men, my men!" in hospital, london, _autumn, _. iv.--behind the lines: night, france at the cross-roads i halt and stand stock-still.... the linked and flickering constellations climb slowly the spread black heaven's immensity. the wind wanders like a thought at fault. within the close-shuttered cottage nigh i hear--while its fearful, ag'd master sleeps like the dead-- a slow clock chime with solemn thrill the most sombre hour of time, and see stand in the cottage's garden chill the two white crosses, one at each grave's head.... o france, france, france! i loved you, love you still; but, oh! why took you not my life instead? v.--at the wars now that i am ta'en away, and may not see another day, what is it to my eye appears? what sound rings in my stricken ears? not even the voice of any friend or eyes beloved-world-without-end, but scenes and sounds of the countryside in far england across the tide: an upland field when spring's begun, mellow beneath the evening sun.... a circle of loose and lichened wall over which seven red pines fall.... an orchard of wizen blossoming trees wherein the nesting chaffinches begin again the self-same song all the late april day-time long.... paths that lead a shelving course between the chalk scarp and the gorse by english downs; and, o! too well i hear the hidden, clanking bell of wandering sheep.... i see the brown twilight of the huge empty down.... soon blotted out! for now a lane glitters with warmth of may-time rain, and on a shooting briar i see a yellow bird who sings to me. o yellow-hammer, once i heard thy yaffle when no other bird could to my sunk heart comfort bring; but now i would not have thee sing, so sharp thy note is with the pain of england i may not see again! yet sing thy song: there answereth deep in me a voice which saith: "_the gorse upon the twilit down, the english loam so sunset brown, the bowed pines and the sheep-bells' clamour, the wet, lit lane and the yellow-hammer, the orchard and the chaffinch song, only to the brave belong. and he shall lose their joy for aye if their price he cannot pay, who shall find them dearer far enriched by blood after long war._" vi.--out of trenches: the barn, twilight in the raftered barn we lie, sprawl, scrawl postcards, laugh and speak-- just mere men a trifle weary, worn in heart, a trifle weak: because alway at close of day thought steals to england far away.... "alf!" "o ay." "gi' us a tune, mate." "well, wot say?" "swipe 'the policeman's 'oliday'...." "_tiddle-iddle-um-tum_, _tum_-tum." sprawling on my aching back, think i nought; but i am glad-- dear, rare lads of pick and pack! aie me too! i'm sad.... i'm sad: some must die (maybe i): o pray it take them suddenly! "bill!" "wot ho!" "concertina: let it go-- 'if you were the only girl.'" "cheero!" "_if you were the only girl._" damn. 'abide with me....' not now!-- well ... if you must: just your way. it racks me till the tears nigh flow. the tune see-saws. i turn, i pray behind my hand, shaken, unmanned, in groans that god may understand: miracle! "let, let them all survive this hell." hear 'trumpeter, what are you sounding?' swell. (my god! i guess indeed too well: the broken heart, eyes front, proud knell!) grant but mine sound with their farewell. "_it's the last post i'm sounding._" vii.--battery moving up to a new position from rest camp: dawn not a sign of life we rouse in any square close-shuttered house that flanks the road we amble down toward far trenches through the town. the dark, snow-slushy, empty street.... tingle of frost in brow and feet.... horse-breath goes dimly up like smoke. no sound but the smacking stroke of a sergeant flings each arm out and across to keep him warm, and the sudden splashing crack of ice-pools broken by our track. more dark houses, yet no sign of life.... an axle's creak and whine.... the splash of hooves, the strain of trace.... clatter: we cross the market place. deep quiet again, and on we lurch under the shadow of a church: its tower ascends, fog-wreathed and grim; within its aisles a light burns dim.... when, marvellous! from overhead, like abrupt speech of one deemed dead, speech-moved by some superior will, a bell tolls thrice and then is still. and suddenly i know that now the priest within, with shining brow, lifts high the small round of the host. the server's tingling bell is lost in clash of the greater overhead. peace like a wave descends, is spread, while watch the peasants' reverent eyes.... the bell's boom trembles, hangs, and dies. o people who bow down to see the miracle of calvary, the bitter and the glorious, bow down, bow down and pray for us. once more our anguished way we take toward our golgotha, to make for all our lovers sacrifice. again the troubled bell tolls thrice. and slowly, slowly, lifted up dazzles the overflowing cup. o worshipping, fond multitude, remember us too, and our blood. turn hearts to us as we go by, salute those about to die, plead for them, the deep bell toll: their sacrifice must soon be whole. entreat you for such hearts as break with the premonitory ache of bodies, whose feet, hands, and side, must soon be torn, pierced, crucified. sue for them and all of us who the world over suffer thus, who have scarce time for prayer indeed, who only march and die and bleed. * * * * * the town is left, the road leads on, bluely glaring in the sun, toward where in the sunrise gate death, honour, and fierce battle wait. viii.--eve of assault: infantry going down to trenches downward slopes the wild red sun. we lie around a waiting gun; soon we shall load and fire and load. but, hark! a sound beats down the road. "'ello! wot's up?" "let's 'ave a look!" "come on, ginger, drop that book!" "wot an 'ell of bloody noise!" "it's the yorks and lancs, meboys!" so we crowd: hear, watch them come-- one man drubbing on a drum, a crazy, high mouth-organ blowing, tin cans rattling, cat-calls, crowing.... and above their rhythmic feet a whirl of shrilling loud and sweet, round mouths whistling in unison; shouts: "'o's goin' to out the 'un? "back us up, mates!" "gawd, we will!" "'eave them shells at kaiser bill!" "art from lancashire, melad?" "gi' 'en a cheer, boys; make 'en glad." "'ip 'urrah!" "give fritz the chuck." "good ol' bloody yorks!" "good-luck!" "cheer!" i cannot cheer or speak lest my voice, my heart must break. ix.--the assault note.--( ) "zero" is the hour agreed upon by the staff when the infantry are to go over the parapet and advance to the assault. ( ) guns are said to "lift" when, after pounding the front line of the enemy, they lengthen their range and set up a barrier of fire behind his front line to prevent supports moving up. our infantry then advance. the beating of the guns grows louder. "_not long, boys, now._" my heart burns whiter, fearfuller, prouder. hurricanes grow as guns redouble their fire. through the shaken periscope peeping, i glimpse their wire: black earth, fountains of earth rise, leaping, spouting like shocks of meeting waves. death's fountains are playing. shells like shrieking birds rush over; crash and din rises higher. a stream of lead raves over us from the left ... (we safe under cover!) crash! reverberation! crash! acrid smoke billowing. flash upon flash. black smoke drifting. the german line vanishes in confusion, smoke. cries, and cry of our men, "_gah, yer swine! ye're for it_" die in a hurricane of shell. one cry: "_we're comin' soon! look out!_" there is opened hell over there; fragments fly, rifles and bits of men whirled at the sky: dust, smoke, thunder! a sudden bout of machine guns chattering.... and redoubled battering, as if in fury at their daring!... no good staring. time soon now ... home ... house on a sunny hill.... gone like a flickered page: time soon now ... zero ... will engage.... a sudden thrill-- "fix bayonets!" gods! we have our fill of fear, hysteria, exultation, rage, rage to kill. my heart burns hot, whiter and whiter, contracts tighter and tighter, until i stifle with the will long forged, now used (though utterly strained)-- o pounding heart, baffled, confused, heart panged, head singing, dizzily pained-- to do my part. blindness a moment. sick. there the men are! bayonets ready: click! time goes quick; a stumbled prayer ... somehow a blazing star in a blue night ... where? again prayer. the tongue trips. start: how's time? soon now. two minutes or less. the gun's fury mounting higher.... their utmost. i lift a silent hand. unseen i bless those hearts will follow me. and beautifully, now beautifully my will grips. soul calm and round and filmed and white! a shout: "men, no such order as retire" i nod. the whistle's 'twixt my lips.... i catch a wan, worn smile at me. dear men! the pale wrist-watch.... the quiet hand ticks on amid the din. the guns again rise to a last fury, to a rage, a lust: kill! pound! kill! pound! pound! now comes the thrust! my part ... dizziness ... will ... but trust these men. the great guns rise; their fury seems to burst the earth and skies! they lift. gather, heart, all thoughts that drift; be steel, soul, compress thyself into a round, bright whole. i cannot speak. time. time! i hear my whistle shriek, between teeth set; i fling an arm up, scramble up the grime over the parapet! i'm up. go on. something meets us. head down into the storm that greets us. a wail. lights. blurr. gone. on, on. le[)a]d. le[)a]d. hail. spatter. whirr! whirr! "_toward that patch of brown; direction left._" bullets a stream. devouring thought crying in a dream. men, crumpled, going down.... go on. go. deafness. numbness. the loudening tornado. bullets. mud. stumbling and skating. my voice's strangled shout: "_steady pace, boys!_" the still light: gladness. "_look, sir. look out!_" ha! ha! bunched figures waiting. revolver levelled quick! flick! flick! red as blood. germans. germans. good! o good! cool madness. x.--the last morning come now, o death, while i am proud, while joy and awe are breath, and heart beats loud! while all around me stand men that i love, the wind blares aloud, the grand sun wheels above. naked i stand to-day before my doom, welcome what comes my way, whatever come. what is there more to ask than that i have?-- companions, love, a task, and a deep grave! come then, eternity, if thou my lot; having been thus, i cannot be as if i had not. naked i wait my doom! earth enough shroud! death, in thy narrow room man can lie proud! xi.--fulfilment was there love once? i have forgotten her. was there grief once? grief yet is mine. other loves i have, men rough, but men who stir more grief, more joy, than love of thee and thine. faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth, lined by the wind, burned by the sun; bodies enraptured by the abounding earth, as whose children we are brethren: one. and any moment may descend hot death to shatter limbs! pulp, tear, blast beloved soldiers who love rough life and breath not less for dying faithful to the last. o the fading eyes, the grimed face turned bony, oped mouth gushing, fallen head, lessening pressure of a hand shrunk, clammed, and stony! o sudden spasm, release of the dead! was there love once? i have forgotten her. was there grief once? grief yet is mine. o loved, living, dying, heroic soldier, all, all, my joy, my grief, my love, are thine! the dead i.--the burial in flanders (h. s. g., ypres, ) through the light rain i think i see them going, through the light rain under the muffled skies; across the fields a stealthy wet wind wanders, the mist bedews their tunics, dizzies their brains. shoulder-high, khaki shoulder by shoulder, they bear my boy upon his last journey. night is closing. the wind sighs, ebbs, and falters.... they totter dreaming, deem they see his face. even as vikings of old their slaughtered leader upon their shoulders, so now bear they on all that remains of boy, my friend, their leader, an officer who died for them under the dawn. o that i were there that i might carry, might share that bitter load in grief, in pride!... i see upon bronze faces love, submission, and a dumb sorrow for that cheerful boy. now they arrive. the priest repeats the service. the drifting rain obscures. they are dispersed. the dying sun streams out: a moment's radiance; the still, wet, glistening grave; the trod sward steaming. * * * * * sudden great guns startle, echoing on the silence. thunder. thunder. he has fallen in battle. (o boy! boy!) lessening now. the rain patters anew. far guns rumble and shudder and night descends upon the desolate plain. lawford, _september, _. ii.--boy in a far field, away from england, lies a boy i friended with a care like love; all day the wide earth aches, the cold wind cries, the melancholy clouds drive on above. there, separate from him by a little span, two eagle cousins, generous, reckless, free, two grenfells, lie, and my boy is made man, one with these elder knights of chivalry. boy, who expected not this dreadful day, yet leaped, a soldier, at the sudden call, drank as your fathers, deeper though than they, the soldier's cup of anguish, blood, and gall, not now as friend, but as a soldier, i salute you fallen; for the soldier's name our greatest honour is, if worthily these wayward hearts assume and bear the same: the soldier's is a name none recognize, saving his fellows. deeds are all his flower. he lives, he toils, he suffers, and he dies, and if not all in vain this is his dower: the soldier is the martyr of a nation, expresses but is subject to its will; his is the pride ennobles resignation, as his the rebel spirit-to-fulfil. anonymous, he takes his country's name, becomes its blindest vassal--though its lord by force of arms; its shame is called his shame, as its the glory gathered by his sword. lonely he is: he has nor friend nor lover, sith in his body he is dedicate.... his comrades only share his life, or offer their further deeds to one more heart oblate. living, he's made an 'argument beyond' for others' peace; but when hot wars have birth, for all his brothers' safety becomes bond to fate or whatsoever sways this earth. dying, his mangled body, to inter it, he doth bequeath him into comrade hands; his soul he renders to some captain spirit that knows, admires, pities, and understands! all this you knew by that which doth reside deeper than learning; by apprehension of ancient, dark, and melancholy pride you were a soldier true, and died as one. all day the cold wind cries, the clouds unroll; but to the cloud and wind i cry, "be still!" what need of comfort has the heroic soul? what soldier finds a soldier's grave is chill? lawford, _september, _. iii.--plaint of friendship by death broken (r. p., loos, ) god, if thou livest, thine eye on me bend, and stay my grief and bring my pain to end: pain for my lost, the deepest, rarest friend _man ever had, whence groweth this despair_. i had a friend: but, o! he is now dead; i had a vision: for which he has bled: i had happiness: but it is fled. _god help me now, for i must needs despair._ his eyes were dark and sad, yet never sad; in them moved sombre figures sable-clad; they were the deepest eyes man ever had, they were my solemn joy--_now my despair_. in my perpetual night they on me look, reading me slowly; and i cannot brook their silent beauty, for nor crack nor nook can cover me but they shall find me there. his face was straight, his mouth was wide yet trim; his hair was tangled black, and through its dim softness his perplexed hand would writhe and swim-- hands that were small on arms strong-knit yet spare. he stood no taller than our common span, swam but nor farther leaped nor faster ran; i know him spirit now, who seemed a man. _god help me now, for i must needs despair._ his voice was low and clear, yet it could rise and beat in indignation at the skies; then no man dared to meet his fire-filled eyes, and even i, his own friend, did not dare. with humorous wistfulness he spoke to us, yet there was something more mysterious, beyond his words or silence, glorious: i know not what, but we could feel it there. i mind now how we sat one winter night while past his open window raced the bright snow-torrent golden in the hot firelight.... i see him smiling at the streamered air. i watched him to the open window go, and lean long smiling, whispering to the snow, play with his hands amid the fiery flow and when he turned it flamed amid his hair. without arose a sudden bell's huge clang until a thousand bells in answer rang and midnight oxford hummed and reeled and sang under the whitening fury of the air. his figure standing in the fiery room.... behind him the snow seething through the gloom.... the great bells shaking, thundering out their doom.... soft fiery snow and night his being were. yet he could be simply glad and take his choice, walking spring woods, mimicking each bird voice; when he was glad we learned how to rejoice: if the birds sing, 'tis to my spite they dare. all women loved him, yet his mother won his tenderness alone, for moon and sun and rain were for him sister, brother, lovèd one, and in their life he took an equal share. strength he had, too; strength of unrusted will buttressed his natural charity, and ill fared it with him who sought his good to kill: he was its prince and champion anywhere. yet he had weakness, for he burned too fast; and his unrecked-of body at the last he in impatience on the bayonets cast, body whose spirit had outsoared them there. i had a friend, but, o! he is now dead. fate would not let me follow where he led. in him i had happiness. but he is dead. _god help me now, for i must needs despair._ god, if thou livest, and indeed didst send thine only son to be to all a friend, bid his dark, pitying eyes upon me bend, and his hand heal, or _i must needs despair_. in hospital, _autumn_, . iv.--by the wood how still the day is, and the air how bright! a thrush sings and is silent in the wood; the hillside sleeps dizzy with heat and light; a rhythmic murmur fills the quietude; a woodpecker prolongs his leisured flight, rising and falling on the solitude. but there are those who far from yon wood lie, buried within the trench where all were found. a weight of mould oppresses every eye, within that cabin close their limbs are bound, and there they rot amid the long profound, disastrous silence of grey earth and sky. these once, too, rested where now rests but one, who scarce can lift his panged and heavy head, who drinks in grief the hot light of the sun, whose eyes watch dully the green branches spread, who feels his currents ever slowlier run, whose lips repeat a silent '... dead! all dead!' o youths to come shall drink air warm and bright, shall hear the bird cry in the sunny wood, all my young england fell to-day in fight: that bird, that wood, was ransomed by our blood! i pray you when the drum rolls let your mood be worthy of our deaths and your delight. . the aftermath i.--at the ebb alone upon the monotonous ocean's verge i take my stand, and view with heavy eye the grey wave rise. i hear its sullen surge, its bubbling rush and sudden downward sigh.... my friends are dead ... there fades from me the light of her warm face i loved; upon me stare in the dull noon or deadest hour of night the smiling lips and chill eyes of despair. a light wind blows.... i hear the low wave steal in and collapse like a despondent breath. my life has ebbed: i neither see nor feel: i am suspended between life and death. again the wave caves in. o, i am worn smoother than any pebble on the beach! i would dissolve to that whence i was born, or alway bide beyond the long wave's reach. o will, thou only strengthener of man's heart when all is gone--love and the love of friends, when even earth's comfort has become a part of that futility nor breaks nor mends: strengthen me now against these utmost wrongs; stay my wrecked spirit within thy control, that men may find some fury in my songs which, like strong wine, shall fortify the soul. beneath gold cap, _june_, . ii.--alone the grey wind and the grey sea tossing under the long grey sky.... my heart is lonelier than the wind; my heart is emptier than the sky, and beats more heavily than the cold surge beneath the gull, wheeling with his reiterant cry of loneliness.... all, all is lone: alone!... and so am i. iii.--thanksgiving amazement fills my heart to-night, amaze and awful fears; i am a ship that sees no light, but blindly onward steers. flung toward heaven's toppling rage, sunk between steep and steep, a lost and wondrous fight i wage with the embattled deep. i neither know nor care at length where drives the storm about; only i summon all my strength and swear to ride it out. yet give i thanks; despite these wars, my ship--though blindly blown, long lost to sun or moon or stars-- still stands up alone. i need no trust in borrowed spars; my strength is yet my own. iv.--annihilated upon the sweltering sea's enormous round, asmoke, adazzle, brown and brown and gold, a hushed light falls.... then clouds without a sound darken the sea within their curtain's fold. the sombre clouds through which the sick sun climbs smoke slowly on. below there is no breath. the long black beach turns livid. the sea chimes. i taste the fulness of my spirit's death. v.--shut of night the sea darkens. waves roar and rush. the wind rises. the last birds haste. one star over eve's bitter flush spills on the spouting waste. loud and louder the darkened sea. the wind shrills on a monotone. sky and deep, wrecked confusedly, travail and cry as one. long i look on the deepening sky, the chill star, the forlorn sea breaking; for what does my spirit cry? for what is my heart so aching? is it home? but i have no home. is it tears? but i no more weep. is it love? love went by dumb. is it sleep? but i would not sleep. must i fare, then, in fear and fever on a journey become thrice far-- whose sun has gone down for ever, whose night brings no guiding star? the wind roars, and an ashen beam waving up shrinks away in haste. the waves crash. the star's trickling gleam travels the warring waste. i look up. in the windy height the lone orb, serene and afar, shakes with excess of her light.... beauty, be thou my star! vi.--the full heart alone on the shore in the pause of the night-time i stand and i hear the long wind blow light; i view the constellations quietly, quietly burning; i hear the wave fall in the hush of the night. long after i am dead, ended this bitter journey, many another whose heart holds no light shall your solemn sweetness, hush, awe, and comfort, o my companions, wind, waters, stars, and night. near gold cap, . vii.--sonnet: our dead they have not gone from us. o no! they are the inmost essence of each thing that is perfect for us; they flame in every star; the trees are emerald with their presences. they are not gone from us; they do not roam the flaw and turmoil of the lower deep, but have now made the whole wide world their home, and in its loveliness themselves they steep. they fail not ever; theirs is the diurn splendour of sunny hill and forest grave; in every rainbow's glittering drop they burn; they dazzle in the massed clouds' architrave; they chant on every wind, and they return in the long roll of any deep blue wave. viii.--deliverance out of the night! out of the night i come: free at last: the whole world is my home: i have lost self: i look not on myself again, but if i do i see a man among men. out of the night! out of the night, o flesh: soul i know not from body within thy mesh: accepting all that is, i cannot divide the same: i accept the smoke because i accept the flame. out of the night! out of the night, o friends: o all my dead, think ye our friendship ends? harold, kenneth, dick, many hearts that were true, while i breathe breath, i am breathing you. out of the night! out of the night, o power: many a fight to be won, many an awful hour; many an hour to wish death ere i go to death, many an hour to bless breath ere i cease from breath. out of the night! out of the night, o soul: give thanks to the night: night and day are the whole. i count mere life-breath nothing now i know life's worth lies all in spending! that known, love life and earth. * * * * * book ii a faun's holiday to my brother philip nichols '_o fantaisie, emporte-moi sur tes ailes pour désennuyer ma tristesse!_' flaubert. roughly planned in spring, , at oxford. "midday in arcadia" composed july, ; "catch for spring" adapted from version of during the same month: both at grayshott. taken up again in february, , continued at the hut, bray, and, after being frequently interrupted, finished on february , , at ilsington. the author intends the "hulli" and the "lulli" of the faun's call in 'faun's rally' to be pronounced as if they rhymed with such a word as "fully." a faun's holiday i hark! a sound. is it i sleep? _of the faun's wake i? or do my senses keep awakening._ commune yet with thoughtful night and dream they feel, not see, the light that, with a chord as if a lyre were upward swept by tongues of fire, spreads in all-seeing majesty over crag, dale, curved shore, and sea? if this be sleep, i do not sleep. i hear the little woodnote weep of a shy, darkling bird which cries in a sweet-fluted, sharp surprise at glimpse of me, the faun-beast, sleeping nigh under her. my crook'd leg, sweeping some dream away, perhaps, awoke her, for dew shook from a bough doth soak her. and all elsewhere how still it is!-- the mist beyond the precipice smokes gently up. the bushes hang over the gulph 'cross which i sprang last midnight,--though the unicorn, who with clanged hooves and lowered horn raging pursued, now hidden lies amid the cragside dewberries and sweats his frosty flanks in sleep, dreaming he views again my leap thrice hazardous. the silver chasm sighs, and many a blithe phantasm turns in the sunlight's quivering ray. i couch in peace. thoughts fond and gay feed on my sense of maiden hours and earth refreshed by suns and showers of nightly dew and heavy quiet.-- though last night rang with dinning riot: dionysos in headlong mood ranged through the labyrinthine wood; fleet maids sped, yelping, on with him, brandishing a torn heifer's limb, dissonant cymbals, or black bowl of wine and blood; a wolfish howl fled ululant with them.... now there is depth, the white mist, the great sun, peace. too numb such sunshine!--let me hence _of the faun's out of the solemn imminence descent from of yon chill spire whose shadow creeps the mountain._ toward me from the stagnant deeps of the ravine. for now i will descend and take again my fill of fancy wild and musing joy, such as each dawn brings to alloy the long affliction of a spirit who a complete world did inherit, and feels it crumbling. i will down whither twin bluffs of sheer stone frown over sunk seas of billowing pine terrace on terrace, line on line, below whose heads the broad downs slope away, away till senses grope at something rather felt than seen: the sea,--not wave-tops, but a sheen under the dazed and distant sky.... curled on a cliff-top let me lie. (for yonder, hap, a breeze is blowing, and the sun's first gleam is showing under far wreckage: since our height inherits day while yet their light quakes gold under the low clouds' rift.) down, then! miraculously swift these limbs the gods have given me!... couched mid the gorse, anon i see, opposing this my bluff, the face of the sheer rock, and 'long it trace a sill scarce ample for a goat, yet midway in the ledge-path note a cave's mouth, which thick creepers hide fallen in a silvery tide from a slant crevice overhead. and, lo! the creeper stirs, is shed-- and all falls quiet. till at last issues a voice deep, young and vast: ii _centaur._ up! the ag'd centaurs lie yet sleeping, while crouch i palled of this cavern lair the centaur's and watch the stretched sea-eagle sweeping morning song. down the grey-blue drizzling air. the sea-nymphs, too, will now be waking, if sickle-eyed they have not played across the moonlight sets me aching, longing and slinking, half afraid, down the feathery, tawny sand on sighing tread deep into banks of glistering shell, to halt in dread lest my hoof-scrunch break the spell of the syren-chants that swell from the dim shoals toward the land. but this morn the breeze is blowing freshly: i hear lightly flowing from the bending giant beam bars the forehead of our door the golden raindrops in a stream pattering on the steamy floor. _faun._ it is the centaur's voice i hear! young and lusty, deep and clear: and the panisks at his voice in their fastnesses rejoice, emerging from the creviced crag or cave beneath the mountain's jag, merry, shaggy, light of hoof, to run along the narrow roof, and upon the shelvèd height dance before the swimming light. _centaur._ and i see upon the ledge, astir over the hanging edge, the centaur's a russet briar cold with dew morning song and beyond, forlornly pent (_continued_) in a grey cloud's gliding rent, a pure pool of the brightest blue: so near it seems i've but to cast a flint out on the forward vast to mark it flashing blithely through! and now at last! at last the great sun, the sudden one, stamps upon the cloudy floor; the heavens are split, and through the floor heaven's golden treasures tumbling pour.... and the sun himself, divine, doth descend in such a bursting blaze of shine that his glorious hair is shook over the wide world's craggiest end! and, even i, i dare not look. * * * * * i will shout! i will ramp! just three bounds: then out and stamp where the air like water is eddying up over the precipice;-- wind with an edge to it, sea-damp, blowing from the canyon's race where the dripping sea-wind heaves through a tunnel of the rocks sea-water up in thunderous sheaves against the precipitous water-rapids, to whip from off th' high-hurtled shocks bursts of mist which soak the leaves of each scented bush that cleaves to the cliffs. till fauns and lapiths dance in the sun-bewildered brakes, till even flushed silenus wakes, and--with a short deep-throated troll to the wind and to the wine, both delirious, both divine!-- starts, as he drains the tilted bowl, at din, to rolling uproar grown, of rocks dislodged and bounding down, with splinter of pines and flint-shocked flashes, from the ridge whereon we dance in a loud exuberance of rattling hoofs whose echoes drown the squealing joy or reedy pining of pan's pipe, where pan reclining plays in the clouded mountain's crown! iii _faun._ it is the centaur's voice i hear. the creeper tresses toss with fear, _the faun hails then part before a pow'rful hand. the centaur._ see, see, o see the centaur stand with ruggëd head erect and proud, whose rounded mouth yet chants aloud the joy of mind fulfilled in force: glory of man, glory of horse. hail thou, the sov'reign of the hill! hail thou, upon whose locks distil fresh dews when mid majestic night thou pacest, hid, along the height. thine are the solitudes of snow between bare peaks, thy hooves also are heard within the dusk defile where titans of a sunless while fashioned huge sphinxes in whose eyes the kite now skulks or, girding, cries. thine, too, the sole and sinking pine burned by the sunset--ay, and thine the ledges whence a sudden sift of snow sighs downward, thine the swift uproar of avalanche and all the mountain echoes. to thee call, when the snow melts and there are seen crocuses blazing mid the green of the dewed grass, the sylvan folk: the dryads from the leafless oak or budded elder, that at length thou mayst release them by the strength of thy tough fingers; 'tis on thee the nymphs cry should the runnels be exhausted of the midsummer sun, sith, stamping, thou canst make to run the hoarded waters of the wold. and among men thou art of old thought's emblem: for to thee belong all gifts of deep, wise, epic song. hail, then, whom earth and mankind hails. and ocean, whose high-spouting whales and dripping serpents, that arise swinging their gold crests to the skies to drink in all thy bold descant hail, though they cannot view thee chant, as i who now behold in sooth thy lighted eyes and singing mouth. o grape-hung locks! glorious face, _of the centaur's capacious frame, sinewy grace beauty._ of arm that lifts a skully lyre whose dithyramb whirls ever higher! deep breast-bone, belly, curvèd thews-- such as the tussling oak doth use upon the crumbled scarp to grip-- striking from trunk down through the hip into the stallion's massive shoulders glossy as moonlit ice-bound boulders! stiff, stalwart forelegs, heavy hoof yet fleeter far on heights aloof than ev'n such doubled hares as race blue 'thwart dim fells, or, speck in space, osprey, gale-swept across the tides! thy man's trunk glisters; on thy sides a soft and silver shagginess, inviting slim hands to caress, hangs dewy---- _centaur._ faun, faun, art thou near? _faun._ behold me stand, proud centaur, here upon the bluff where 'neath me lies the sunned pool of the precipice. _centaur._ faun, in my veins the blood 'gins race, the new sun sweats upon my face, _of the dazzles my pupils, golden swims centaur's over my flushed and fervid limbs. ardour._ i feel in me my spirit rise griffon-like flogging up tall skies. now is the morning of the world, and through my heart a flood is hurled of onerous joyance, of desire to clutch the sun and spill its fire down heaven's blue bulwarks! to snatch life and drain its lusty full in strife of all my body with the bent wrestle of every element: close with the whirlwind, front the tide and turn its moony press aside. but in the world i cannot find a match in strength, a foe in mind.... at dawn, at eve the waters burn; all night the constellations turn round the dark pole, and none knows why.... none seeks to know save only i and thou, o faun. we are alone.... yet sometimes, when the wind is gone and all below shines sunned and still, i feel depart from me the will merely to know, to know and wait: i would do more: i would create. though what i know not; but i would spend this my mind and hardihood. yet find no means save physic force:-- sing as a man, stride as a horse. then stride i? swift i overcome the fleetest. sing i? all are dumb. natheless my heart demands in grief ardour, endurance and relief; asks, but receives not. _faun._ shall not i echo thy pain, whom fates deny answer to thought,--as they to thee the lust-of-action's fill? but we accept too much, o sire. 'twere best, though idly, to fulfil our zest. four leagues this canyon runs between _of the us twain or ever there is seen challenge._ the arch of rock whose massy grace bridges yon gap of golden space. deignest thou, then, to race with me from such tall eyries to the sea, if even now i upward leap? _centaur._ leap then! i catch thee e'er the steep subsides in woodland or in down. iv away! my rapping footfalls drown _and of the all but the sobbing of the wind manner of within my ears and loud behind the running._ the thunder of the centaur's hooves where, like a hailstorm, down he moves. past me the spun pines rock and hiss, behind my feet stones pelted whizz, hills rise before me, backward flow, the bare downs, bright'ning, mount below.... on. on. down. down. but, ah, no more! my breath comes keener than the frore indraught of age-long mountain frost; my head turns dizzy, feet are lost. yet scamper feet! a rock--a mound: rap! rap! i soar it at a bound. on. on. down. down. a sudden brook, and now--in mid-air--lo! there look laughingly up at me the eyes of hyads, and their fading cries ring in my ears. can they have seen the centaur hurtle by between them and the clouds? the downs up-fly. now earth's bowl rocks and reels the sky and through my chilly flaming tears the molten sun swoops, bursts, and veers.... still rap my hoofs, though but the sound tells me they yet rocket the ground. the uproar loudens more behind. my crook'd legs cross, my eyes go blind. i claw the sky: for, o! i can scarce lurch. i feel the sudden fan of the great centaur's galey breath upon my nape, and like chill death his hand descends. but, ah! he laughs even as bacchus when he quaffs in jest or taunt a double bowl. i, choking, reel, and, tripping, roll _the faun wildly aside. see! as i fall falls._ a rampant shape majestical storms vehement by, and, storming, swings hand across rushing lyre, which rings to strains, like rolling breakers tossed high o'er an adamantine coast, in praise of elemental mirth, strength, beauty and the golden earth! v beyond the rocks, below the trees, _of downs the great downs lie; nought but the breeze beloved is heard upon them. all day long by pan._ the shadows of the great clouds throng across their sides: a noiseless rout. sometimes a peewit, blown about by airy surge, cries a lone cry ere hurtled down the clarid sky; sometimes is heard a shepherd's voice shouting, and after it the noise of many-pattering crowded sheep herded within the gay dog's keep, who also, barking, shouts. save these nought breaks the breezy silences of the green sun-swept, cloud-swept spaces.... such downs pan loves, and ofttime places his lonely altars on them. i one of such now behold. a high mound bears it, and its nakedness of festal fruit and fragrant dress hints 'tis new-built. up, then, and sound a rally to the sacred ground: _faun._ come ye, merry shepherds all, hulli-lulli-li-lo! faun's rally. listen to my piping call: hulli-li-lo! hasten to pan's festival; leave your sheep. cannot pan a shrewd watch keep o'er his own? safe are they as pent in stall; safe are they, for pan has thrown fear about them like a wall. wherefore, shepherds, hither run. i have set my pipes to lip; now they cry despondingly as mid shaken locks i dip. now shrill--as hark!--i lift them high to swirl the tune about the sky! up and down and round the sky till want i further force to blow.... wherefore, shepherds, hither run, dance behind me as i skip; strike the tóssed támbours in únison, dance, dance and make to dance the sun to your hulli-li-lo! _shepherds._ faun, i come. i hear. we hear-- _faun._ this my hulli-li-lo: now afar and now anear. _shepherds._ never sped the midnight deer half so fast 'fore diana's star-ringed spear as now haste we to appear at thy hulli-li-lo! _faun._ joy, o shepherds, at the sound: hulli-lulli-li-lo! pan's new altar i have found: hulli-li-lo! cowslips prank its holy mound, with ivy have i wreathed it round-- but not yet is the altar's dress complete till with flowers its horns are bound. _shepherds._ faun, we hear, and from the brook flags are pulled; and now we hook honeysuckle high, low down to us with shepherd's crook; breathing floss, clematis twines, rushy stook, apple blossom, down is shook at thy hulli-li-lo! _faun._ wreathe the pedestal anew; hulli-lulli-li-lo! scatter violets scattering dew; hulli-li-lo! honey that the brown bees brew pour, and rosy blossoms strew; spill such wine as in dim-bloomed clusters grew on your father's father's vine. dance you now. i my pipe cease--thus--to blow: dance you on. dance about the sacred mound, dance when every sound is gone.... now the timbrels softly, sprightly beat, and foot it gaily, lightly; tiptoe o'er the secret ground, dance the round. next, to the sole, trilling flute and your own subduèd laughter flutter all in throngs and mazes, chase in streams of ardent faces, with bright eyes and oped mouth mute. now alone, one by one, dance and dream, and dreaming float till the multitude drifts after, and i wake a quicker note: clap your hands aloft and cry; surge in line tumultuously; cry, and with a whirl of voices fright the pigeons whickering by! praise the god of field and fold! shout until the hills have told, by their sudden echoes flying, flying, crying, falling, dying, that upon his name we call, who beside the river lying hears us keep his festival. vi wearied of solitary hills, _the faun enters on which the wannish sunlight spills, the valley._ and which the glooms of high clouds cross, clouds wandering ever at a loss about th' immeasurable sky, i will descend. and by-and-by glimpse beneath the shouldered down a hamlet reeking golden-brown; creep through a willow copse to view under an orchard avenue, a lithe girl in a sun-splashed smock calling her perchëd pigeon flock, and as they coo and flutter over laughing and carolling of her lover. _girl._ '_little pigeon, grave and fleet_'-- all the golden grain you'd eat, greedy! let the little bird pick some. sweet, your cooing's heard; you shall have this. there! be bolder: light you now upon my shoulder.... cooroo? cooroo in my ear? darling, yes, i hear, i hear: from this hand, then, you shall pluck it. foolish love! your wings have struck it, spilt the grain the grass among. --flutter! flutter!--where's my song? '_little pigeon, grave and fleet_'-- too late now your wings you beat by my face: look in the ground; there, they say, all gold is found. little pigeon, grave and fleet, the pigeon song. eye-of-fire, sweet snowy-wings, think you that you can discover on what great green down my lover lies by his sunny sheep and sings? if you can, o go and greet him from me; say: she is waiting.... not for him, o no! but, sweet, say june's nigh and doves, remating, fill the dancing noontide heat with melodious debating. say the swift swoops from the beam; soon the cuckoo must cease calling; kingcups flare beside the stream, that not glides now but runs brawling; that wet roses are asteam in the sun and will be falling. say the chestnut sheds his bloom; honey from straw hivings oozes; there's a nightjar in the coombe; venus nightly burns, and chooses most to blaze above my room; that the laggard 'tis that loses. say the nights are warm and free, and the great stars swarm above him; but soon starless night must be. yet if all these do not move him, tell, o tell--but not too plainly!-- that i long for him and love him. little pigeon, grave and fleet, fly you swiftly, tell him this; and i'll give you grain so golden midas' self has ne'er beholden aught so gold, and--yes!--a kiss. smiling at her eager voice, i will grant the girl her choice, whispering to the pigeon: "lo! yon's the way for you to go: over the willows, past the copse, to where a sylph-like lime-tree tops a lonely knoll; then on and on toward where yesternight there shone a silver comet, scarce descried, against the fainting eventide." vii away then! crashing through the wood, _of the faun's prancing in a whimsey mood, whimseys._ to yowl as a she-wolf does at dark until th' infuriate watch-dogs bark; or bid hushed tales of ghosts go round, of warnings heard, but nothing found, by whistling at the village boor; or poke my rogue face round a door and scare a huffy wife to fits, who swears, "'tis pan himself!" or, "it's that grizzled sailor-man who slew his mate 'twixt bogs and dead man's yew!" next through the dairy steal to slake my thirst with cream, with honeycake cram my sweet maw; slip in the churn a farm cat, that the tub may turn and fright maid molly. i will seek strawberries and stain chin, mouth and cheek with nuzzling in their scarlet bowl; then in the goodman's bed i'll roll because he loves me not; i'll sing until the crowded rafters ring the while about my ears i hang bobbed cherries.... lastly i will clang among the clattering pots and pans, shout, cry "oh help!" snatch up a man's cloak, and slip out. whoop! whoop! they run: _the pursuit._ the hare once spied, the hunt's begun!-- goodman and goodman's wife, pert polly, clown colin, wiggen and maid molly, pant, crying, "thief!" the while behind shrunk dorcas hops, and fills the wind with apish merriment, shrill malice, and cries of--"well run, poll! run, alice! run, child! the master's cloak and all! how sad the goodman's ta'en a fall! mistress down, too--he! he! what pity! run, alice child, my bird, my pretty; show 'em how nimble thou canst be,-- ay, but the girl runs prettily. run, hobbinol, thou gawky man! thou mayest kiss if catch thou can! odd's me! and what's it all about? a thief? that mischief faun!" a shout startles the pigeons from the croft: "we've circled him!" "he's in the loft." but as they, silent, crowd unto 't i jump. for am not i a goat? from out the hayloft's height i leap o'er their craned heads into the deep grass of the orchard. thence i run across lush meadows. one by one they fall behind.... a scarecrow i now seek, and 'bout it carefully enwrap the newly pilfered cloak.... scarecrows are such poor crazy folk.... viii so to a thorny thicket dense _the faun with rosy-coloured may-bloom, whence hides._ i can hear a torrent rumble, and, peering forth, behold it tumble cumbrously into a pool whose white tumult sears the giddied sight. there, half dozed, silent, smile to hear a babble of voices drawing near, spy many a boy and laughing lass racing hands-linked across the grass. _boys and girls._ now has the blue-eyed spring sped dancing through the plain. a catch girls weave a daisy chain; for spring. boys race beside the sedge; dust fills the blinding lane; may lies upon the hedge: all creatures love the spring! the clouds laugh on, and would dance with us if they could; the larks ascend and shrill; a woodpecker fills the wood; jays laugh crossing the hill: all creatures love the spring! the lithe cloud-shadows chase over the whole earth's face, and where winds ruffling veer o'er wooded streams' dark ways mad fish upscudding steer: all creatures love the spring! into the dairy cool run, girls, to drink thick cream! race, boys, to where the stream winds through a rumbling pool, and your bright bodies fling into the foaming cool! for we'll enjoy our spring! ix seaward my forest way i'll take, _of the faun's and at a pool's lit quietude slake journey to the sea._ my thirst, and feel a dull flame creep like the first flux of tidal sleep through all my limbs. yet, when i sink sleepward, start wide-eyed up to drink the sunned wood's wet deliciousness, touch flowers, and feel the sun's caress about my locks, and wander on, or pause to smile up at the sun, guarding my eyes with glowing hand, or, leaned against a beech-trunk, stand watching between the branches' rift, as they gently wave and lift to the bland breeze softly blowing, the noiseless clouds serenely going slowly to the hid, low sea i can hear breathing slumberously. till from the woodland i emerge, greeted by a louder surge, and from the bushy cliff-top spy how the hollow bay doth lie one quiver and murmur under the sun, and how the lightsome wind-puffs run chasing each other crookedly, over the idly heaving sea. next i will turn my eyes, perhaps, _of the to where the languid waters lapse sea-horses._ glittering over a sunburned rock round which the shrieking white gulls flock.... thus browsing in my solitude, i may remember i've a feud with the sea-horses, once who drave me from the sea-light of their cave. enough! and, crashing down, i come to find them drowsing in their home.... so creep i with a crooked stick to where a blinding pool is quick with green electric water-snakes. sprawling across a rock which bakes i stir the molten till they boil and up my hawthorn kick and coil; then scamper, rocketing, to the cave, hurl the stick in. hark! how they rave, and plunge up clattering, kicking, neighing, till triton on his horn 'gins braying, and each hasteneth to belabour with hooves or tear with teeth his neighbour, and from the cavern's blueness rush into the simmering beach's hush, to stand, with heaving flanks, agaze at the hot stones and still sea's blaze: then stampede, scattering high and wide a hail of stones and glittering tide. x i will walk the sunny wood, _of the faun deep and tranquil as my mood, in his and watch how the honeyed sunlight is meditation._ hung in the great boughs of the trees, and the pattern the branchwork weaves under the panoply of leaves, and how high up two butterflies pass, vaulting, out into the skies. or, entering a silent glade, draw a sharp breath and stand dismayed at beauty which doth straight present such a spasm of ravishment sight is confused, and doth confess her wreck in voiceless tenderness: seeing the flower-decked cherry-trees-- unruffled ever by any breeze, unburned by bright dawn's fiery chill-- standing celestially still.... or lay me down 'neath chestnut boughs, and drowse and dream and dream and drowse, drunk with the greenness overhead, until a blossom of sharp red, shook from her high and scalding place, splash with chill scent my upturned face. xi but, lo! amid the woodland green _of the what mantles of strange blue are seen? philosopher._ what sage is he who slowly leads disciples on and little heeds the holiness of sylvan haunt, where even the silver bird dare chant but seldom? where the sunlight lies here scalding gold, and yonder dies into a humid, still, green gloom? hath not he in the forum room to vent himself, that now with rude rabble he scareth solitude from her ultimate hiding-place? now steps he forward a slow pace, and 'gins his discourse. hear him prate, o woods, to silence consecrate; hear him, o flowers, whose golden eyes speak more than all man's orat'ries!-- _philosopher._ meanwhile, though nations in distress cower at a comet's loveliness _and his shaken across the midnight sky; oration._ though the wind roars, and victory, a virgin fierce, on vans of gold stoops through the cloud's white smother rolled over the armies' shock and flow across the broad green hills below, yet hovers and will not circle down to cast t'ward one the leafy crown; though men drive galleys' golden beaks to isles beyond the sunset peaks, and cities on the sea behold whose walls are glass, whose gates are gold, whose turrets, risen in an hour, dazzle between the sun and shower, whose sole inhabitants are kings six cubits high with gryphon's wings and beard and mien more glorious than midas or assaracus; though priests in many a hill-top fane lift anguished hands--and lift in vain-- toward the sun's shaft dancing through the bright roof's square of wind-swept blue; though 'cross the stars nightly arise the silver fumes of sacrifice; though a new helen bring new scars, pyres piled upon wrecked golden cars, stacked spears, rolled smoke, and spirits sped like a streaked flame toward the dead: though all these be, yet grows not old delight of sunned and windy wold, of soaking downs aglare, asteam, of still tarns where the yellow gleam of a far sunrise slowly breaks, or sunset strews with golden flakes the deeps which soon the stars will throng. for earth yet keeps her undersong of comfort and of ultimate peace, that whoso seeks shall never cease to hear at dawn or noon or night. joys hath she, too, joys thin and bright, too thin, too bright, for those to hear who listen with an eager ear, or course about and seek to spy, within an hour, eternity. first must the spirit cast aside this world's and next his own poor pride and learn the universe to scan more as a flower less as a man. then shall he hear the lonely dead sing and the stars sing overhead, and every spray upon the heath and larks above and ants beneath; the stream shall take him in her arms; blue skies shall rest him in their calms; the wind shall be a lovely friend, and every leaf and bough shall bend over him with a lover's grace. the hills shall bare a perfect face full of a high solemnity; the heavenly clouds shall weep, and be content as overhead they swim to be high brothers unto him. no more shall he feel pitched and hurled uncomprehended into this world for every place shall be his place, and he shall recognize its face. at dawn he shall upon his path; no sword shall touch him, nor the wrath of the ranked crowd of clamorous men. at even he shall home again, and lay him down to sleep at ease, one with the night and the night's peace. ev'n sorrow, to be escaped of none, but a more deep communion shall be to him, and death at last no more dreaded than the past, whose shadow in the brain of earth informs him now and gave him birth. up, o faun, up! is he a man _the faun's so dares affront the great god pan? anger._ creep i now close.... (has he not heard ever the lamb cry as the bird descends upon its helpless head to pluck its eyes out? blank with dread did he ne'er press in stumbling haste over the wide moor's tossing waste? or, stripped to plunge, did never eye the sunned pool smiling treacherously, despair and terror in his heart? hate on him!) see: he draws apart that with himself he may commune the while to a low murmuring tune wrung from a golden-stringëd lyre the young men chant. hist! draws he nigher? now crouch i mid a thicket where the spicy hedge-rose warms the air with giddy scent, and for an hour woos with her open-bosomed flower the full gaze of her lord the sun, and through whose thorns the sunbeams run spangling the cavern of the brake with chequered shade such as the snake loves to repose in, that the heat upon his sullen coils may beat, breeding within his ancient heart such malice that his tongue must dart flickering in silence out and in, the while adown his withered skin, from horns above his murderous eyes, the cold surge shudders, ebbs, and dies. and now yon comes, with solemn head _and of the trick sunk upon breast, with laurel spread the faun played, about his thought-bewrinkled brows. thereby symbolizing all hail, philosopher! i rouse the rule of pan thee by a low and single hiss. in nature._ he is frozen still. a sudden bliss seizes me, and a branch i shake as gently as an unseen snake swinging toward him. but he stands, clasps and unclasps his gradual hands in silence save for one long sigh of terror. and i draw more nigh. beneath his glazèd eyes i sway three leaves upon one stilly spray: he blenches. ha! it was well done, that final hiss. i am alone: for with a harsh cry he has fled hideously stumbling, and is led speechless away. the lyre, forgot, lies in the grass.... xii i know a spot _of the spring, where, to the sound of water sighing, frequent haunt the naiads, when the sun is lying of the lonely heavy on mead and fronded tree, naiads._ when birds are silent and the bee swoons in the dewed heart of the rose, sing hushedly. i will repose upon its banks and to the spring an answer make with hands that cling over this lost lyre's murmurous chords and with their voiced quiet mingle words such as my shrouded soul affords when the warm blood within my veins throbs heavily, and the noon sun reigns, who would heaven and earth unite in one blaze of arduous light, till dark woods, fields, bronzed sky, and deep, in one maniac dull dream sleep. xiii _the naiads._ come, ye sorrowful, and steep your tired brows in a nectarous sleep: the naiads' for our kisses lightlier run music. than the traceries of the sun by the lolling water cast up grey precipices vast, lifting smooth and warm and steep out of the palely shimmering deep. come, ye sorrowful, and take kisses that are but half awake: for here are eyes o softer far than the blossom of the star upon the mothy twilit waters, and here are mouths whose gentle laughters are but the echoes of the deep laughing and murmuring in its sleep. come, ye sorrowful, and see the raindrops flaming goldenly on the stream's eddies overhead and dragonflies with drops of red in the crisp surface of each wing threading slant rains that flash and sing, or under the water-lily's cup, from darkling depths, roll slowly up the bronze flanks of an ancient bream into the hot sun's shattered beam, or over a sunk tree's bubbled bole the perch stream in a golden shoal: come, ye sorrowful; our deep holds dreams lovelier than sleep. but if ye sons of sorrow come only wishing to be numb: our eyes are sad as bluebell posies, our breasts are soft as silken roses, and our hands are tenderer than the breaths that scarce can stir the sunlit eglantine that is murmurous with hidden bees. come, ye sorrowful, and steep your tired brows in a nectarous sleep. come, ye sorrowful, for here no voices sound but fond and clear of mouths as lorn as is the rose that under water doth disclose, amid her crimson petals torn, a heart as golden as the morn; and here are tresses languorous as the weeds wander over us, and brows as holy and as bland as the honey-coloured sand lying sun-entranced below the lazy water's limpid flow: come, ye sorrowful, and steep your tired brows in a nectarous sleep. sweet water-voices! now must i _the faun unto your sorrowings reply. prepares but hark! or ever there can sound to reply._ on the lull air the first profound few murmurs of my lyre's grave strings, a voice uprises. who now sings the noon's and his own tristfulness? a slim youth--in a shepherd's dress, yet without sheep--who careless lies upon the hill. his shepherd guise tokens, perhaps, a poet's heart which joys in wandering apart from the dinned ways where chariots roll, from the shrill sophist with his shoal of gapers, from the angry mart, from the full eyes and empty heart of babbling women, from the neat aridity of paven street, a heart that wandering, musing, sings the joy, depth, pain of simple things: _the youth._ the earth is still; only the white sun climbs through the green silence of the branching limes, midday in whose linked flowers hanging from the still tree-top arcadia. distil their soundless syrup drop by drop, while 'twixt the starry bracket of their lips the black bee drowsing floats and drowsing sips. the flimsy leaves hang on the bright blue air calm-suspended. deep peace is everywhere filled with the murmurous rumour of high noon. earth seems with open eyes to sink and swoon. in the sky peace: where nothing moves save the sun that smiles and loves. a quivering peace is on the grass. through the noon gloam butterflies pass, white and hot blue, only to where they can float flat and dream on the soft air.... the trees are asleep, beautiful, slumbrous trees! stirred only by the passion of the breeze, that, like a warm wave welling over rocks, loosens and lifts the mass of drowsing locks. earth, too, under the profound grass sleeps and sleeps, and softly heaves her slumbrous mass. the earth sleeps. sleeps the newly-buried clay or doth divinity trouble it to live alway? no voice uplifts from under the rapt crust. the dust cries to the unregarding dust. over the hill the stopped notes of twin reeds speak like drops from an old wound that bleeds: a yokel's pipe an ancient pastoral sings above the innumerable murmur of hid wings. i hear the cadence, sorrowful and sweet, the oldest burthen of the earth repeat: all love, all passion, all strife, all delight are but the dreams that haunt earth's visioned night. in her eternal consciousness the stir of alexander is no more to her than you or i: being all part of dreams, the shadowiest shadow of a thing that seems, the images the lone pipe-player sees, sitting and playing to the lone, noon breeze. one note, one life! they sleep: soon we as these! xiv now plunge i into deepest woods, where everlastingly there broods such quiet and glamour as must be beneath the threshing upper sea. here burns no sun, but tawny light pervades the vistas still and bright of mazy boles and fallen leaves.... i press yet on. at length there cleaves the twilit hush a pillared gleam. the leafed floor rises. 'tis a beam of sunlight fallen in a dell beyond the mound. there will i dwell, soothed by sunned quietude. for there a carved rock spouts and moists the air with gross-mouthed pour and rising spray.... but hark! what festive cries are they _of the which greet me as i top the mound? satyrs' feast._ below, dispersed and sunk around the green and golden of the glen, lie satyrs; in a leafy den, silenus, crowned with vines and roses, drowses and starts, blinks, drinks, and dozes. banqueting dishes strew the grass, goblets of gold and peacock glass, flagons, urns, many a brimming bowl, and horns from which the flushed fruits roll. high o'er the feast a fronded ash hangs full of sunlight, and the splash of the spring's leap or gurgeing flow into the rippled pool below, where lilies rock, shakes up a bright eddy of golden tremulous light over the leaves. the oread, in a hooded lynx pelt clad, smiles where she lolls ... the while twin fauns with stamping hooves and butting horns join combat for a dripping cup she bears. but now a shout goes up at sight of me: _satyr._ "we feast, we feast; for, lo! the flaming sun hath ceased _the invitation._ to climb the curve of arid sky, and his meridian holds on high, narrowing with his scorching beams the chestnut's shade, exhausting streams, stilling the woodland singer's note, piercing the eyes, shrinking the throat, saddening the heart of man and beast. yet grieve not we but sprawl and feast. leap down, o faun, then, from thy rocks, leap down to us. bedew thy locks with such cool spicy nards as dwell within this ribbed and rosy shell; around thy scalded temples twine sprays of this fountain-wetted vine, and from this golden jorum sip nectarous liquor--ay, and lip smooth nectarines, thy sunk teeth clench in melon dripping sherds, and quench thy salty thirst anew in flow of sparkled or dark wines that glow with sober warmth and merriment, until our gladdened voices blent awake the vigour of our feet, and up we start the grass to beat with fervent foot, drink, dance again, and, ever at the loud refrain clashing our cups, dance on and on, till the noontide lull is gone." so join i them, and drink and sup, and fill again the great bowl up; and, drenched thus down, spin lusty tales of topping bouts 'twixt men and whales; of the east's emperor who hath a pool of wine to be his bath; of hercules his thirst, and how he did all ethiopia plough, and plant with vines, his thirst to sate. we will discuss the ideal state, whose sky is covered by a vine, whose hills are cheese, whose rivers wine, whose trees bear loaves brown, crisp and sweet, whose citizens do nought but eat, but eat and drink, drink, eat, and snore, and eat again, and wish no more than so to drink, snore, eat; who find in this true liberty of mind and true equality, in this fraternity, law, earthly bliss. so swill again and yet again, till a fire flushes all the brain and, trolling lustily and long, each hearty throat bursts into song. _faun and satyrs._ avaunt, mild-eyed melancholy! welcome, mirth and mænad folly! a dithyramb see about the lifted bowl, to dionysos. wrinkled on its bossy scroll, ribald nymphs and satyrs jolly tussle with a prancing goat; while silenus, kneeling, drolly proffers a dry bowl unto 't---- ay, and round the mazer's brim boisterous mermen shouting swim, and each burly arm lifts up, wine that o'erbrims its conchëd cup; wherefore pour a triple potion: if such can be dry in ocean, 'tis as titans we must sup! avaunt, brow and visage pious: none but bacchus boys come nigh us! raise the bowl and shout his name: io, bacchus! for a flame chafes in our blood, o bromios! fire no water e'er could quench, and its heat must scorify us if with wine we do not drench. wherefore overbrim the cup: this to jove now drink i up, who upon thy first of days snátched thee and cówed thy natal blaze, even as 'tis now the merry strength of this thy vintaged berry, that the scorching danger stays. to the vine now! let its golden leaves about our brows be folden. to the swarthy hand that trims it! to the grape! the sun that dims it! to the pipe that doth embolden purpled stamping feet to riot o'er the vatted winepress olden! to the cavern's depth, chill, quiet! last to wine's own ruddy sprite, wakes in rheumy eyes a light-- ay, and ripens youth to man; wine which more works than wisdom can; wine that welcomes hardy morrows; wine that turns to song our sorrows; wine the only magian! deep now! every bowl enhances the world's beauty; see there dances in the sky the leaping sun! 'nay, can thine eye catch but one?' 'six now spin.' 'a seventh advances, flares and vomits, swerves and blazes, now bursts and countlessly it prances, pulsing to my frantic paces!' 'i flame,--gyrate!' 'i shoot out heat!' 'my tricked speech trips, and trip my feet!' 'the earth runs round and heav'n is wheeling!' 'i sway; i reel.' 'earth's wrecked and reeling!' 'dance on.' 'earth's gone.' 'all's white and clear!' 'ah! ah! behind the blaze i hear the oread's laughter pealing!' avaunt, grief! descend, o holy fierce bacchic rapture, divine folly! xv forth from the forest wend i slowly, _of the faun's while in my ears yet rings the holy further wanderings._ dithyramb. the noon is past, but the sun rages. there is cast a dumbness yet o'er earth and sky. down to the river then will i, slowly about its depths to swim, while the stream fondles every limb and soothes its ache. deep i will dip, and, blowing, raise my locks, that drip till the slim hyads troop to see, and revel, too, and play with me, hanging my ears with humid weed or mounting me as water steed. then, musing i will on, and so stray to where a silver slow river circles through the meads, wherein the mooching great ox feeds, and turns a slow eye round the sky, wondering if he can ever die. and there, mayhap, 'twill come to pass i'll hear a sweet voice in the grass, and yet shall mark no singer nigh, till, gently peering, i espy a solemn, elfish child who sits unseen mid towering grass, and knits an endless, endless daisy chain, crooning the while some soft refrain her mother sings her when she closes her twilit eyes. _little girl._ three red, red, roses-- one each for father and mother, and one, the reddest of all, for her baby son. none for wee amoret? oh, none! for she some day, when she grows up, a red rose will be! then, crossed-legged mid the meadow-sweet, _of the faun's i will sink down, laugh low, and greet converse with her blue, inquiring, childish eyes a small with mine, sharp, merry, brown, and wise, she-child._ and tell her tales--of jack who slew ten giants; or mirabel who flew on a white owl to find the prince and give to him the golden quince would change him from a roaring bull to a youth blithe and beautiful; or tales of the goblin and the sloth, who watched the moon and swore an oath to find out what she was: how these explored her mines and found her--cheese. thus will i sit and both amuse until i rise and beg excuse: off 'to el raschid in assyria' or 'the grand-duchess of illyria,' or 'to ask the maiden moon why one only of her shoon she left us last night in the sky, and not her silver self, and why she always climbs the self-same track? lets no one ever see her back?' xvi but neither to the moon go i or to the river gliding by, but to the woods, therein to move among the quiet glades i love, desiring nought but aye to see the beech, ash, oak, and chestnut tree.... till i a nymph meet who persuades me to the broadest of the glades, around whose smooth and sunken space the far woods lie. for in this place, deserted but for a mid-grove of maiden trees, bower of the dove, pan plays, and should the sylvans chance, nymphs, fauns, and sylvans, join in dance. xvii on either hand the slender trees _of the immortal bow to the caressing breeze, dance._ and shake their shocks of silver light against skies marbled greenish-white, save where, within a rent of blue, the tilted slip of moon glints through, glittering upon us as we dance with a soft extravagance of limbs as blonde as autumn boughs, and gold locks floating from moony brows. while anguished pan the pipes doth blow fond and tremulous and low, and anon the timbrel shakes. --it is his sudden heart that breaks for springs before the world grew old, rich vales, and hill-tops fiery cold!-- he watches the scarce moving skies, the trees, the glittering revelries, the moon, the dancers lemon-clad: the world fantastical and sad. the high-flung timbrels pulse and knock; we follow in a dancing flock, touching each other's finger-tips, while from between our parted lips the solemn melodies repeat the rhythm of our shaken feet. then faster! and the round we trace, hair flowing from elated face, eyes lit, breast bare, with lifted knees, and hands that toss as toss the trees.... and slow again ... with cumulate motion, as the long draw and plunge of ocean bursting in a cloud of spray up a white, deserted bay of the sun-circled green bermooths, whose blistering sands the cool foam soothes.... next the bewildering pipes may sing some simple melody of spring, whose cadences remember yet sadly lost springs that we forget. to which as dances april rain on a still pool where leans no stain, save of the cloud's pure splendour spread gloriously overhead, our fast-flickering feet shall twinkle, and our golden anklets tinkle, while fair arms in aery sleeves shiver as the poplar's leaves. and all the while shall pan sit by and play, and pause, perhaps, to sigh, viewing the scarce-moving skies, the hushed and glittering revelries, the infant moon, the slender trees silvering to the shivery breeze, the fair, lorn dancers lemon-clad: the world fantastical and sad. xviii thus may we dance the light away of yet one more unmemoried day. but, the dance ended, i will go beyond the reach of pipes that blow a sadness thrilling through my veins.... for now within my spirit reigns _the faun's shadow: before whose brooding face, sadness._ silent, there trail on gliding pace a multitude of restless fears, obscure griefs and obscurer tears, bewildered sighs, waned phantasies, and all disastrous presences, mutely prophetic of a woe i know not yet, but i shall know. such power pan's grief hath to oppress, and memory!--since now i guess only too well that there must come twilight, calamity, and doom. for once i saw beneath an oak a bard so aged it seemed he woke that moment from a sleep of years and in his voice were sleep and tears.... till, wide-eyed, he, raging, spake, rocking as when woodlands shake under the first urge of the wind, whose roaring murk lightens behind. _prophetic bard._ "be warned! i feel the world grow old, and off olympus fades the gold _the of the simple passionate sun; prophecy._ and the gods wither one by one: proud-eyed apollo's bow is broken, and throned zeus nods nor may be woken but by the song of spirits seven quiring in the midnight heaven of a new world no more forlorn, sith unto it a babe is born, that in a propped, thatched stable lies, while with darkling, reverend eyes dusky emperors, coifed in gold, kneel mid the rushy mire, and hold caskets of rubies, urns of myrrh, whose fumes enwrap the thurifer and coil toward the high dim rafters where, with lutes and warbling laughters, clustered cherubs of rainbow feather, fanning the fragrant air together, flit in jubilant holy glee, and make heavenly minstrelsy to the child their sun, whose glow bathes them his cloudlets from below.... long shall this chimed accord be heard, yet all earth hushed at his first word: then shall be seen apollo's car blaze headlong like a banished star; and the queen of heavenly loves dragged downward by her dying doves; vulcan, spun on a wheel, shall track the circle of the zodiac; silver artemis be lost, to the polar blizzards tossed; heaven shall curdle as with blood; the sun be swallowed in the flood; the universe be silent save for the low drone of winds that lave the shadowed great world's ashen sides as through the rustling void she glides. then shall there be a whisper heard of the grave's secret and its word, where in black silence none shall cry save those who, dead-affrighted, spy how from the murmurous graveyards creep the figures of eternal sleep. last: when 'tis light men shall behold, beyond the crags, a flower of gold blossoming in a golden haze, and, while they guess zeus' halls now blaze shall in the blossom's heart descry the saints of a new hierarchy!" he ceased ... and in the morning sky zeus' anger threatened murmurously. i sped away. the lightning's sword stabbed on the forest. but the word abides with me. i feel its power most darkly in the twilit hour, when night's eternal shadow, cast over earth hushed and pale and vast, darkly foretells the soundless night in which this orb, so green, so bright, now spins, and which shall compass her when on her rondure nought shall stir but snow-whorls which the wind shall roll from the equator to the pole.... for everlastingly there is _of the final something beyond, behind: i wis nature of pan._ all gods are haunted, and there clings, as hound behind fled sheep, the things beyond the universe's ken: gods haunt the half-gods, half-gods men, and man the brute. gods, born of night, feel a blacker appetite gape to devour them; half-gods dread but jealous gods; and mere men tread warily lest a half-god rise and loose on them from empty skies amazement, thunder, stark affright, famine and sudden war's thick night, in which loud furies hunt the pities through smoke above wrecked, flaming cities. for pan, the unknown god, rules all. he shall outlive the funeral, change, and decay, of many gods, until he, too, lets fall his rods of viewless power upon that minute when universe cowers at infinite! xix so far my mind runs, yet i see how little faun-philosophy repays my heart would learn, not teach.... better laugh long, lie, suck a peach couched under tiger-lily flowers which daze the low hot sun with showers of fragrance, while the dusty bee drones, fumbles, falls luxuriantly within their throats; couched, turn a song of flowers all the flowers among: there is a vale beyond blue ida's mount, the faun's and thither often would i, piping, stray afternoon to listen to the music of a fount song. that spelt her tears out in a dorian lay. "long, long ago," she wept, "narcissus came wandering down the sunny-shafted glade; full weary was he of the lamp's gold flame wavering beneath the dusky colonnade. "for at the fall of night forth from the dim gardens stole echo; kneeling by his bed, with small sweet love-words she importuned him who watched the lamp flame idle overhead. "dry was her hot flushed cheek and dark the fire in her great eyes; her lips roamed warm and light over his arm; her murmurs of desire mixed with the many murmurs of the night. "in vain! he came to rest and sing with me and loll his fingers in the liquid cool, and drop slow tears, slow tears luxuriously into the shadowy motion of the pool. "with tongue scarce audible i wooed the lad, whispering how beneath the drumming fall slumbers a rapt, deep lake, so blue, so sad, that no fish swim it, nor about it call "delighting birds from green-bowered shore to shore, nor doth the nightingale, when june begins and the moon mounts a pattin of bright or, hymn her long sorrows and her lord's black sins. "and the boy answered, answered me, and mourned the loveliness of echo. 'yet,' sighed he, 'my soul is fled, and long, thou knowest, bourned in what far dell none knoweth, love, but thee "'who farest thither! sweeter to my ears are thy quiet voices and the gentle breast of rambling water sweeter than my dear's.' then murmured i, 'lean lower, love, and rest.' "there was no sound through all the sleeping wood, save one sharp cry from echo, open-lipped, who, as she followed, from afar did spy how to my arms my lover downward slipped. "softly i rocked him down into the pool, shutting his ears to the loud torrents' din, and kissed and bore him through the portals cool, and laid him sleeping the blue halls within. "so i returned; but never to me came another as beautiful, nor shall come. lonely i flow, and, flowing, lisp his name, till the sky waste and all the earth be dumb." so sang the spring, and, answering my look, through the dark wood from the spring's fountain-head flock upon flock of eyed narcissi shook, and the brook wept in sorrow for the dead. ah, death again! nothing can fend us from the sibyl of the end, whose delight 'tis to find new forms, now in dull sighs, anon in storms, singing, and ever of the same: the trusting heart betrayed; the flame whirled in a night on cities proud; lightnings from skies undimmed by cloud; the wide grave yawned before swift feet; the small success that brings defeat; the smiling lips and deadly eyes of destiny walking in disguise. xx but now the sun sinks i will go _of the whither two full streams meet and flow, evening river._ murmuring as in wedded sleep through evening meadows dim and deep. there will i watch the slow trout rise at the myriad simmering flies, and listen to the water flowing with such faint sounds there is no knowing whether its spirit laughs or weeps among the dreams wherein it sleeps. sunken amid the twilight grass, i will watch the water pass, weaving ever dimmer tales and dimmer as the evening pales.... till from the calm the silent lark drops to the meadows hushed and dark, while in the stagnant silver west, above the tranquil poplars' crest, there glimmers through the murky bar the slowly climbing hesperal star. thus brooding by the hazy stream, i shall hear the water dream tinkily on, and i shall see, as my eyes close quietly. into a soft and long repose, the lone star like a silver rose fade with me on the drifting stream into the quiet night of dream. yet sleep i not; for lo! there wakes _of night's from the dim water-meadow brakes rhapsodist._ a quiring: voice as if a star, fallen to earth from midnight far beyond the haze of highest cloud, bewailed her errëd path aloud. it is the nightingale who sings, fanning soft air with whirrëd wings, probing the dark with jewelled eyes. how oft, how sad, how loud she cries! and all the echoes answer her; the night airs through the close wood stir the stars that through the eddies climb glitter; the silver waters chime; the lily bows her dewy head.... i, too, a sudden tear have shed. for, ah! what voice is this can make the vagrant heart within me ache? that stirs an ancient tenderness, a new need to console, love, bless all things that 'neath this warm night sky rejoice and suffer, age and die? hunger is in my heart like bliss,-- i stretch my arms out and i kiss, gathered in sad and sweet embrace, the whole world's dark and simple face. xxi i wander forth. about my feet _of the the sward is fresh and doubly sweet second singer._ the loved air on my salvëd brow. be still. be still. for hearken: now a second voice behind the grove uprises tremulous with love. how hushed, how moody is the strain! pleading--o, surely, not in vain! sombrely rises every note, lingers, and in dark dells remote echoes until another come. philomel herself falls dumb. philomel herself falls dumb, mindful of her shadowy home; of a slowly falling surge sounding its unending dirge on an alien ocean's verge; of a rain-smitten tower that stood fronting the calm, pale rolling flood; of a slim sister's beauty glows, fatefuller than a midnight rose; of the birth, growth, and scheming dire, of an accursëd king's desire; of night-long vigil, tongueless wrack, and the last exultation black o'er loathly offering, feasting sour, a fell cry in the lonely tower, raging pursuit, flight's vain endeavour, and vengeance stilling all for ever.-- save the voice that nightly cries to the slowly wheeling skies of unrest resolved in calm, time's tears fallen like a balm, sorrows that dead hearts have wrung, by the sad enthusiast sung, sweeter than euphrosyne's tongue. o tremulous voice! who is 't that shakes the night with fervour? through the brakes softly i thread ... emerge, and now across the rising meadow's brow i glimpse, beside the farther wood, under the shadow of its hood, a glimmering shape that does not move. it is the shepherd and his love: close, close they stand, swooning and dim; her shadowed face looks up at him, her sighing breath his forehead warms; he sings, she leans within his arms. _the shepherd._ now arched dark boughs hang dim and still; the deep dew glistens up the hill; the shepherd's silence trembles. all is still. night song. now the sweet siren of the woods, philomel, passionately broods, or, darkling, hymns love's wildest moods. danaë, fainting in her tower, feels a sudden sun swim lower, gasps beneath the starry shower. venus in the pomegranate grove flutters like a fluttering dove under young adonis' love. leda longs until alight in the reeds those wings of white she hears beat the upper night. golden now the glowing moon, diana over endymion downward bends as in a swoon. wherefore, since the gods agree, youth is sweet and night is free, and love pleasure, should not we? song whose desire her kisses bless! _the faun song that wreaks wounds no lips redress, is struck o wounding song! such loneliness with sorrow._ falls, like a stun blow from behind, that my hands grope, my eyes go blind. i gasp.... away, away, o heart! lone, wretched faun, depart, depart; hide thyself, wretched, utterly, climb to the clouds where none may see and mock thy causeless misery! what joy is mine? what is 't i have: immortal life? would 'twere a grave. thus, thus to suffer world-without-end, no love, no hope, no goal, no friend! and the proud, morning centaur, how fares he? what lot doth fate allow?-- more wretched yet! to live and be perfection's lone epitome. to feel in him a fecund power, and lack on which to spend that dower!... i mind me now that once i heard wise, gentle pan pronounce this word: "_whoever like a god would shine must share the loneliness divine._" ah! to be gods, then, is to be one fierce eternal agony. yet, being gods, such feel no pain; their strength is equal to their bane. while i, poor half-god and half-beast, i would be man, the last and least of men! o reasoning vain: were i but man and one in pain, i could not by my utmost wipe one tear away. but now this pipe hangs from my neck, god pan's elect _he takes comfort gift to his children to perfect in the uncommon in awe, joy, grief, and loneliness. gift of god._ sound, pipe, and with thy note express all this my heart! to thee i give all the long days that i must live. i wander on, i fade in mist, o peopled world, and dost thou list? pipe on, difficult pipes of mine; there is something in me divine, and it must out. for this was i born, and i know i cannot die until, perfected pipe, thou send my utmost: god, which is the end. * * * * * book iii poems and phantasies to mr. and mrs. moiseiwitsch a triptych i.--first panel: the hill on a day in maytime mild mary sat on a hill-top with her child. (overhead in the calm sky's arching the curled white clouds went slowly marching.... but underneath the blue abyss all was stiller than water is leagues under the surface of the sea.) and all about her thick and free blossomed the dear familiar flowers. there, while her boy played through the hours, and the high sun shook gold upon her, mary plaited a garland in his honour who should be the king of kings; and when 'tis done this song she sings, as jesus, tired and happy, rests curled in the hollow of her breasts: "in the shadow of my dress, out of the sun and his fierce caress, sleep, my son. "soft the air about the hill, scented, sunny, clear, and still; below in the woods the daffodil nods, and the shy anemone creeps up from the thicket to look on thee, and ten thousand daisies meet in an ocean of stars about thy feet. "daisies have i strung for thee, darling boy, wee white blossoms that shall be dappled, ah! so rosily with thy blood, when they nail thee to the wood cleft from out the crooked tree. can it be, daisies innocent and good, that ye star black calvary? "buttercups i make thy crown, darling boy. (lullaby, o lullaby!) son of sorrow, son of joy, pain and paradise thou art, thou that sighest nestling down in my breast, over my heart that is a lake where the hidden tear-drops ache to be free, till mounting upward for thy sake out they break, down they plash on me and thee. "and heaven in her charity drops seven tears on me and thee. "this thy little childhood's crown, flower on flower, wear thou in thy lullaby till thou facest the soldiers' frown in thine iron hour, till the thorn they crown thee by they press down: ah, the sharp points in my heart! ah, the sword, the sudden smart flaying me as 'twere a flame! crowned indeed, my son, thou art with red flowers of pain and shame! "birds and butterflies and trees, and the long hush of the breeze shimmering over the silken grass, what wouldst thou have more than these?... in the stall the ox and ass gazed on thee with tender eyes; all things love thee; yet there lies some hid thing in thee breeds fear-- brims not falls thy mother's tear. wherefore, baby, must thou go? rose, to be torn in sunder so? little bonny limbs, little bonny face, my lamb, my torment, my disgrace! "o baby, are thine eyelids closed faster than my eyes supposed? with foxes must thy bed be maken, a beggar with beggars must thou go, to be at last forsworn, forsaken? and bear alone thy cross also anigh to the foot of a bare hill? to hang gibbeted and abhorred, for passers-by to wish thee ill? and to thrust against thy will through thy mother's bosom the sharpest sword? "o baby, breathing so quietly, have thou mercy upon me! that in thy madness on thy lonely journey farest, that understandest not nor carest for me and my sadness! woe indeed! thou dost not know man cometh into this world in sorrow to spend in grief to-night, to-morrow in sorrow the third day to go! "o sleep, dear baby, and, heart, sleep; turn to thy slumber, golden, deep, of present possible happiness. let drop the daisies one by one over his body and his dress; afflicted eyes, see but thy son who sleeps secure from hurt, from harm, clasped to my breast, closed in my arm, who murmurs as the flowers by the faint wind shaken, and, putting forth sweet, sleepy hands, feels for the kisses he demands.... slowly, belov'd, dost thou awaken, and sure, in heaven there is no sign: it is not true that thou shalt be taken, who for ever, for ever art mine, art mine!" into the west the calm white sun floated and sank. the day was done. mary returned, and as she went, above her, in the firmament, the stars, that are the flowers of god, mirrored the flowery earth she trod. thus bore she on her destined child, and while she wept, behold! he smiled, and stretched his arms seeking a kiss.... softly she kissed him, and a bliss, deeper than all her human tears, flooded her and put out her fears. oxford, _early spring_, . ii.--second and centre panel: the tower it was deep night, and over jerusalem's low roofs the moon floated, drifting through high vaporous woofs. the moonlight crept and glistened silent, solemn, sweet, over dome and column, up empty, endless street; in the closed, scented gardens the rose loosed from the stem her white showery petals; none regarded them; the starry thicket breathed odours to the sentinel palm; silence possessed the city like a soul possessed by calm. not a spark in the warren under the giant night, save where in a turret's lantern beamed a grave, still light: there in the topmost chamber a gold-eyed lamp was lit-- marvellous lamp in darkness, informing, redeeming it! for, set in that tiny chamber, jesus, the blessed and doomed, spoke to the lone apostles as light to men entombed; and spreading his hands in blessing, as one soon to be dead, he put soft enchantment into spare wine and bread. the hearts of the disciples were broken and full of tears, because their lord, the spearless, was hedgëd about with spears; and in his face the sickness of departure had spread a gloom, at leaving his young friends friendless. they could not forget the tomb. he smiled subduedly, telling, in tones soft as voice of the dove, the endlessness of sorrow, the eternal solace of love; and lifting the earthly tokens, wine and sorrowful bread, he bade them sup and remember one who lived and was dead. and they could not restrain their weeping. but one rose up to depart, having weakness and hate of weakness raging within his heart, and bowed to the robed assembly whose eyes gleamed wet in the light. judas arose and departed: night went out to the night. then jesus lifted his voice like a fountain in an ocean of tears, and comforted his disciples and calmed and allayed their fears. but judas wound down the turret, creeping from floor to floor, and would fly; but one leaning, weeping, barred him beside the door. and he knew her by her ruddy garment and two yet-watching men: mary of seven evils, mary magdalen. and he was frighted at her. she sighed: "i dreamed him dead. we sell the body for silver...." then judas cried out and fled forth into the night!... the moon had begun to set; a drear, deft wind went sifting, setting the dust afret; into the heart of the city judas ran on and prayed to stern jehovah lest his deed make him afraid. but in the tiny lantern, hanging as if on air, the disciples sat unspeaking. amaze and peace were there. for _his_ voice, more lovely than song of all earthly birds, in accents humble and happy spoke slow, consoling words. thus jesus discoursed, and was silent, sitting upright, and soon past the casement behind him slanted the sinking moon; and, rising for olivet, all stared, between love and dread, seeing the torrid moon a ruddy halo behind his head. grayshott, _july_, . iii.--third panel: the tree the crookëd tree creaked as its loaded bough dipped and suddenly jerked up. the rope had slipped, and hideously judas fell, and all the grass was soused and reddened where he was, and the tree creaked its mirth.... mid the hot sky appeared immediate dots tiny and high, till downward wound in batlike herds black, monstrous, gawky birds, and, narrowing their rustling rings, alit, talons foremost. and with flat wings flapped in the branches, and glared, and croaked and croaked, while no compassionate human came and cloaked the thing that stared up at the giddy day with pale blue eyeballs and wry-lipped display of yellow teeth closed on the blue, bit tongue. overhead the light in silence hung, and fiercely showed the sweaty, knotted hands clutching the rope about the swollen glands.... and the birds croaked and croaked, evilly eyeing the thing so lying, which no commiserate pity came and cloaked, but which soaked the earth, so that the flies dizzily swung over its winkless eyes, and in a crawling, shiny, busy brood blackened the sticky blood, and tickled the tongue-choked mouth that sought to cry bitterly and beseechingly against the judgment of th' unflinching sky. the poor dead, lonely thing had not a shroud from that still, frightful glare until a cloud of darkness, flowing like a dye over the edges of the sky, browned and put out the silent sun: a benison of three hours' space. and it had power to put a shadow into that thing's face, and th' invisible birds fell silent by its grace. thus judas lay in shadow and all was still.... then faint light, like water, began again to fill the sky, and a whisper--came it from the grass, whispering dry and sparse, or from the air beyond the neighbouring hill?-- ebbed, as a spirit on a sigh passing beyond alarm: "_it is finished!_" and there was calm under the empty tree and in the brightening sky. grayshott, _july_, . four songs from "the prince of ormuz" i.--the prince of ormuz sings to badoura when she kisses me with her lips, i become a roc, that giant, that fabulous bird and over the desert, vast, yellow, and dumb, i wheel, and my jubilant screaming is heard, a voice, an echo, high up and glad, over the domes and green pools of bagdad. but when she kisses me with her eyes, my heart melts in me; she is my sun; she strokes my snow; i am loosed, i arise: a brook of water i run, i run, crystal water, sunny and sweet, laughing and weeping to fawn at her feet. lawford, _easter_, . ii.--the song of the princess beside the fountain my rose, or ever the three tears were shed i wished lie in its bosom, has fallen apart; off their knapped golden hair all my pure pearls have sped before their mid-ruby could burn on my heart. to-day is as yesterday; as to-day so to-morrow; but fallen my rose, pearls, tears, fallen in sorrow. or ever i woke it was sunset to-day; as fast flows the fountain, as fast flows away, as fast fall away my rose and my tears, my pearls and my sorrow. in hospital, _january_, . iii.--the song of the prince in disguise the look in thine eyes can change me utterly; thine eyes challenge: my heart is lighted, i am thy taper, i burn straight-pointed-- ay, even so doing i waste away. bathe me in thy calm eyes' soft glances; i am thy slave, i bow, i worship; bid me to steal, and i will steal gladly: ah! bid me not, thou robbest my manhood. let thine eyes smile: change comes upon me, i put forth blossoms, flowers of my passion, roses crimson, alas! whose petals, once white, now blush with blood of my heart. gaze not on me: i burn, i perish; gaze not on me: i am thy servant; gaze not on me: i sink a-bleeding; yet gaze! i cannot otherwise live. lawford, _easter_, . iv.--the princess badoura's last song to her lover i have poured my wine into a gold cup, i have plucked my roses, unfastened the stone from my bosom. thou mayest drink my red wine up, or spill where my jewel and roses are thrown. the golden-globed night deepens quickly over me, afraid under its curtains. the spheres stare. o gather me swiftly, my lover; make me forget and forgive me these tears. lawford, _easter_, . the gift of song the gift of song beyond a hill and a river, within a tower of stone, a princess by a casement dreamed, sitting still, alone. her golden hair hung heavy over her kirtle green; her eyes were blue and lonely, her tender mouth had been a joy for splendid kisses, it was so red, so red; but it was parted in singing, and, beginning her song, she said: "three songs in my spirit: elusive, tremulous, light. if you can feel their tremor, this gift is spended aright." without in the silent garden the sunflowers dozed in the sun, bees blackened their tawny faces, their heads drooped one by one. amid a stilly fig-tree, hidden from sun and sight, a nightingale sang over the songs that rejoice the night. and browsing upon sweet grasses in the fair solitude, half in sun, half in shadow, a lordly bay stag stood. upon earth all was silent save when the hid bird sung; in the dark blue afternoon heavens a silent half-moon hung. * * * * * as she commenced singing, the nightingale stopped. in the dead silence the leaves flicked softly; the great stag turned his head. * * * * * thus sung she alone, and only the stag, the fig-tree, the bird and pensive moon in the darkling heavens her lovely singing heard. and as she finished singing, she bowed her golden head low, o low, on her shaking bosom, and, ending her song, she said: "three songs in my spirit: elusive, tremulous, light. you have felt their tremor; this gift is spended aright." the nightingale lifted her voice up, the moon fled out of the skies, the fig-tree split, and two tears rolled out of the great stag's eyes. now, when she had done singing, she closed her eyes, and her breath went out as she lay down backward and folded her hands in death. lyme regis, _july_ , . fragments from a drama on the subject of orestes i.--warning unheeded _kassandra._ i cried in the halls where the feast will be set; the hurrying servants whom i met brushed me aside, asked why i tarried. on their black woolly heads gold platters they carried, piled high with rich fruits; betwixt jewelled hands, goblets of crystal, white blossoming wands, urns breathing incense: all these to be set where truth's feast and the feasters too soon shall be met. the guest shall turn as he laughs and sups, reaching his hand for the golden wine; his face shall change as he sees next to him a mouth that mocks, eyes that look through him, a head sink her glistening brow 'twixt the cups, locks blackening his stoup with a liquor of brine. in the scrolls of the platter of gold there has bled the juice of fruit battered and hairy and red; the goblets of crystal are fissured and cracked like ice the bronze tyre of the chariot has wracked, and the blossoms curl withered because of the heat of urns overset by the slip of red feet when the reveller fell forward unable to save his eyes from the torch, his groin from the glaive. _chorus._ for truth rejected returns as pain. _kassandra._ under the trestles the guests lie slain; the curtains upon the gold cords pull heavily, sagging like nets that are full, for curved in the trough and propped in the fold the red, red catch lies tossed and rolled; the halls and corridors reek with the flood; the pillars are trickled with cyphers of blood; rent garlands lie trampled over the floors; rusty footprints lead out through the high bronze doors to the starlit night and the whispering plain: _chorus._ for truth rejected returns as pain. _kassandra._ i weep for the ruin of a high, proud house; moths fret the still curtains; down the throne runs a mouse; the sun fades on the floors heaped high with dead leaves; the moon runs on the rills that run from the eaves; brown clogs the peristyle; the air has a tang; weeds rot on the terrace; the hanging gates clang; the wind is a weariness; man lives in vain _chorus._ where truth rejected returns as pain. - . ii.--orestes to the furies ye are no madman's dreams, then!... out sword! backward tread o curs that circle the bright blade ye dread. back to where dead-eyed hate, your shameful priest, prepares your bowl of blood, your fleshy feast: where in the thronged and long-hushed marketplace ten thousand faces gaze on one pale face; where the lost victim feels the lonely ban of death terrific loosed by man on man; where black blood froths, where drives the whirring wheel; where hands, ears, lips fall lopped of instant steel; where the intent and dazzling pincher plies till to the silent tortures anguish cries at once for death! and when sharp death is given, others, corded and swooned, antic and sick, are driven under the axe, whose sheeny flash and fall bids the block ring as pile beneath the maul, till man's protest dies to a whisper, dumb beneath the maddened rolling of death's drum! . black song i.--at braydon day wanes slowly; on the hill no sound save the wind uttering chords low ... few ... profound. how the west smokes and quivers! it sears, it blinds my sight; i am burned out wholly, hide me from the light. within dear arms yoke me, gather me. i am sped into your little bosom press, hide my childish head. how long i have struggled i know not; but the past seems twice livelong, beaten at the last! my soul leaps and shudders in pain none understands; with your clear voice calm it, soothe it with your hands. i can say only --so lost am i, so distressed-- "i love you: i am tired." you must guess the rest. i love you: i am tired. i give you my soul, it hurts me. hate has lamed it. take it; make it whole. _late summer_, . ii.--midday on the edge of the downs stillness falls and a glare. the woods in darkness lie. the fields are stretched and stare under the empty sky. vacant the ways of the air, along which no birds fly. only the high sun's flare spills on the empty sky. i lift my aching eyes from the dry wilderness: across me a peewit flies with gestures meaningless.... mine are his piping cries at this world's emptiness! . iii.--in dorsetshire cold and bare the sunlight drifted across the hill, round which the sea wind's current unfathomable and chill, from dawn to silver sunset poured now faint, now shrill. "how to comfort you, share any part? even to understand you too deep an art! yet i'd comfort you, tear out my heart." "do not look on me, dry eyes for my sake; do not smooth my forehead your hands make me ache; o, and turn away your kisses or heart must break." cold and bare the sunlight drifted across the hill, only the sea-wind's current, unfathomable and chill, heard such speech gather, bewail itself ... fall still. toward the hill then zigzagged one wind-harried plover-- rocked for a moment.... cried to love and lover the top of loneliness ere he heeled over. man's anacreontic and other poems man's anacreontic kiss! kiss me and kiss again, make kissing almost pain; close your fingers close on mine, and our grappling looks entwine; kiss again, and when that's done blind me with each facing sun of your clear and golden eyes, till my spirit in me dies, and endures a long eclipse till rekindled at your lips. from this minute i pursue the intense idea that's you-- your you's being. i would draw you from obscurity's dusk maw into my hands--whate'er you are, moth or spirit, gnome or star. yet i would not filch a part, misty soul or flaming heart, which left but, as doth the snake, a pale tissue. i will take and shut all your sweetness up in the gold walls of a cup, sandalled feet to sweeping hair, soul, brain, body, all you are-- curled as a mermaid coiled in brine, now drunk one gush of giddy wine! nay, as a strange lump of snow in my two hands you shall go, and i'll bare my browny breast, press you there, where now you rest! ay, and bless the frozen smart as you melt into my heart! come, i'll twine you round my brows: a defiant diadem, poets of your light shall sing. satraps by you swear stout vows eyeing my twice-marvellous gem-- you: the emerald in my ring. thus i'll keep you night and day, since no stone can run away-- and might dare a pleasure splendid: toss my ring into the air, watch it spinning, heart suspended, lest it slip me unaware, fall clean through my finger bars, shatter in ten thousand stars! yet you shall not be my ring; you shall not be any thing, crown or stone set cunningly, time can separate from me. no! i'll find an alchemist, with a beard of cobwebs grey and fired eyes like moonstones kissed by the last gold beam of day, and older and gentler than a fish, and wiser than an elephant; and when i've told him what we wish, bribe or force him work our want. we two shall opposëd stand, each touch other's finger-tip; at a slow pass of his hand and a soft word from his lip, we will incline smilingly, and as drops together run, shaking off the he and she, close and be forever one. grayshott, _summer_, . the blackbird i stand in a sunny garden; a blackbird sings overhead: "i'm alive ... i've a love ... the sun's shining and where's the man would be dead?" "blackbird, make an ending of fluting that song down your orange beak: i'm alive ... i've a love ... the sun's shining, and--i am the man you seek." stamford, _may_, . change behold, the tides are awake! under the high moon's light, broad bands of silver, they glitter and quake, moving out into the night. off from the shore they slide, out, out into the blue: and i am turned to a shimmering tide flooding on outward to you! hengistbury head, _spring_, . transfiguration two feet apart, straight-limbed on the heathered hill we lie, under the wavering haze of the sun, even as two logs that lie still in the heart of a blaze. side by side we lie through the long late noon together; on us the light wind stoops his strong, hot, sweet scents of heather. no word breaks the air that smothers, lest we miss the dull heart-beat of the earth below each other's, and the soft kiss of breathless heather upon heather, while the sun beats on us encouraging the swiftening blood, till up the limbs and through the ears it run, a thin, red singing flood. love hath put in me might, that was so weak; i am strong with light, my senses seek something indefinable, afar; they go wandering, and return.... with the light drunk off a star they calmly burn, even as the immense sun burns on us till evening turns watery those beams of his; and, rising from that joyance onerous, i stoop a kiss lighter than the balls of fluff the wind sways across the heath, though each invisible, hot puff scarce rocks a spray beneath. i sit, and it is so still, now wind and sun have gone home, i can almost hear distil the dew in the gloam. and from the clear and cool of the twilit air, that is still as a pool iced over and bare, i catch at length the thought i have been searching for: did i absorb the sun's or just your strength, or something more? _summer_, . plaint of pierrot ill-used i am pierrot, and was born on some february morn when through glistering rain shone down the full moon on paris town. (ah the moonshine in my head!) for, upon the fatal minute when the moon's heart changes in it and the tides their flow reverse, i, for better or for worse, born was. (better been born dead than with moonwork in my head!) clown stood foster, but another got me of clown's wife my mother, and as suited my poor station, thieving was made my profession: doorsteps often were my bed (frosty moonshine in my head). yet while pierrot was a thief-- miracle beyond belief, chance fantastic as divine!-- i fell in with columbine: dark eyes, lips of mournful red (dark-bright moonshine in my head). at the corner of the street she and i by night would meet; met, but never told our love, while th' ironic moon above in her reverie smiled, and shed tranquil radiance round each head. till my father by a breath stifled at the hands of death, "--since no other children were-- assigned me as only heir." (silver sequins heaped and spread: billowing silver in my head.) so, in search of fitting knowledge, poor pierrot was sent to college, where pantaloon and pantaloon in answerless riddles o' the moon crammed more moonshine in his head. home, then, pierrot by-and-by hurried spent, resolved to sigh headache, heartache, and the rest, out on columbine's white breast, white as the moon's cloudy bed (hush the moonshine in my head). but, while gone, had entered in spangled, smiling harlequin; laughter cynic and unholy: "pah! pierrot's poor melancholy!" turned but not a word i said (moons like swords within my head!) forth: but money burns so bright! let it burn, then, left and right: "where, o where, is punchinello? scaramouch too, that gay fellow? a brisk life it is we'll lead: drown the moonshine in my head!" midnight: venus by an urn, roses and rose lanterns burn, wine, fount's purl, and mandoline.... pulcinella waits within, faithless she--but in her bed: no more moonlight in my head! ah!... yet dawns a dreary morrow: 'spend at ease, and owe in sorrow,' with light purse to her begone, if but as a hanger-on! (dread and moonlight in my head.) home then: catch upon the way-- 'harlequin fled yesterday. bankruptcy of his employ.' surging of relief and joy: welcome then? past words unsaid? surge of moonlight through my head. so on, beating, to her street: what sight pierrot's eyes doth greet? one coach at her door arrives, from the back another drives.... strange! (mere moonlight in the head). pull the bell: is she within? 'i must see miss columbine.' maid with finger laid by nose, better not inquire too close-- _such puts bullets through the head!_ now i wander back and forth; pierrot goes east, south, west, north; shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders, till the more acute beholders, watching him, have hazarded,-- 'touch of something in the head?' i am pierrot, and was born on some far forgotten morn when the cold moon on the pane struck and, signless, 'gan to wane, when the tides their flow reversed; and i bear, uncured, accursed, aching until i am dead, moonlight, moonlight in my head! devonshire, _november_, . girl's song from "the tailor"[ ] [ ] "the tailor," opera-buffa in three acts, being op. of bernard van dieren. o silver bird, fly down, fly down, bring thy fair gifts to him and me: a purse contains a minted crown, a golden ring for me. ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down. but upon the highest bough see amid the leaves he swings, pipes three notes of laughter low, flirts, and folds his flashy wings. ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down. what is't, bird, thy soul demands? come, i'll rock thee in my breast; i will stroke thee with my hands; where none rested thou shalt rest.... ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down. jewels wouldst thou, then, o bird? see, among the sunny grass a tear has fallen unseen, unheard, brighter than ever diamond was. hark! hark! his joy my voice doth drown: see, see, he leaps, floats, dives him down! . last song in an opera from the apple bough many petals fly tossed of the wind, yet goldenly heavy it hangs on blue autumn eves (_all things come unto him whose heart believes_). the dove, though the tempest-swept sun her bright eyes blind, beats onward fast. till with clapped, sailing wings down at the last to the loved cote she come. _ah, the long way of love, but love comes home!_ the silver river wanders and circles time out of mind, yet turns at length where the sea tosses her smoking sheaves (_all things come unto him whose heart believes_). so golden-feathered love beats his high course, though blind, until that hour when, downward stooping through the flaming shower, into the heart he come. _ah, the long way of love, but love comes home!_ . danaË mystery in eight poems danaË: mystery in eight poems i "what with clangour, clangour of iron din, do they beat till daylight ring? what heat, that i see the night air spin, and sparks dance over the scaffolding? "the birds have flown because of their strife hammering difficult metal; their reek has taken my roses' life, dripping white petal on petal. "what glows gold taller than earthly tree in that maze of mast on mast of the scaffolding? what can it be they build so secret and fast?" ii "what art mooning at, fool? some wanton boy and his limbs? such dreams should be put to school: i'll chasten these fleshly whims!" he has shot the bolts on her room in the brazen tower. "remain there, ninny: your doom till the sand sifts your last hour!" with eyes grieving on space, has she sight among all these blind? because of her dreaming face.... how harshly the great keys grind! they have gone. she clenches her hands, she struggles and makes soft moan.... then smiles, for she understands: the soul is never alone. iii "last night as i was sitting, my faint heart ceased to beat, listening in the silence to the tread of nearing feet. "through the tower dumb in midnight they passed from floor to floor, till at length they halted hard without my door. "i knew 'twas thou who stood'st there, with but a door's divide! with a wild and longing motion i strode and flung it wide. "out into velvet darkness my whirring eyeballs stare. i whisper. nothing answers. and there is no one there." iv canticle "o day so bright, bring thou my love to me, in blinding, deep delight and ecstasy. "o night so wide, so black, keep close till he, the light within my side seen, comes to me. "o wandering wind, sing in his ears the sum of longing, mad his mind, compel he come. "earth i adore, from whom to whom i go, bring him to me before i return so. "sun, nought doth let in journey or depart; make him, arisen, set within my heart. "o high white moon, alone and glittering, as you pull ocean soon, my belovëd bring. "o swelling sea, cavernous in your sweep, make him ingulph, drown me far in his deep. "o day, o night, o moon, o sun, o sea, o wind, bring my delight! bring him to me!" v in the second watch of the night the amazed guards saw with affright gold stars fall in a shower: coins of gold in a sweeping flight, they silently broke on the tower. and the tower's top turned a rose of enwreathed, ruddy light, and, like men smit of their foes, the guards fell at the sight.... and the rose possessed the tower alone all the blue, windless night. vi "soft torrential wind falls through the vast, still deep like thick dreams pouring behind the opened gates of sleep: _ah, not so swift, lord, not so bright, lest i be blown--a feather; not so white, not so white, lest i be withered altogether._ "earth shifts under my feet, glory breaks over my head; speechlessly my wings i beat, and fall mute in breathless dread: _ah, not so swift, lord, not so bright, lest i be blown--a feather; not so white, not so white, lest i be wilted altogether._" vii "mine is a heavenly lover, in him i am wholly blest; my heart it is his coffer wherein his gold doth rest. "dead in the metal tower i lie till night doth come, when in a golden shower he bursts the midnight dome. "and, caught beyond releasing, i yield me to his claim, and by my creature ceasing all that he is i am." viii the silver sun looks down on the silent tower; the guards awaken, nor own to the unguarded hour. they eye each other's face, but to speak none durst; as though the night were ungraced, silent they are dispersed. the cruel king climbs, doth draw near, then by he creeps, marking in rage and awe the smile in which she sleeps. stamford, _autumn_, , _and autumn_, . the ecstasy i lay upon a headland hill: the sun spilt out his gold; the wind blew with a fluttering thrill; the skies were blue and cold. all day above the little cove i heard the long wind flow; the clouds foamed in the blue above, the blue sea foamed below. all day the bare sun fiercely burned; all day in the profound and quivering grass my body turned, one with earth's turning round. till, fledged amid her fluid rings, my soul began to rouse, and slowly beat her silver wings within her darkened house. then with vans lifted up for flight, with stretched and fiery crest, upward she leaped toward the light and drew from out my breast. how long i lay while she was fled, and on the cliff below my body lay stiff, dark, and dead, i knew not nor may know. but long it seemed. sped beyond sight my soul enjoyed release; beyond the clouds, within the light, she entered into peace. * * * * * to-day, amid a world of men, how often must i cry: "happy i never was but then nor shall be till i die!" near gold cap, _late summer_, . the water-lily the lily floated white and red, pouring its scent up to the sun; the rapt sun floating overhead watched no such other one. none marked it as it spread abroad and beautifully learned to cease: but beauty is its own reward, being a form of peace. . deem you the roses.... deem you the roses taste no pleasure unfolding hour by hour toward, through starlit peace and sunny leisure, their sharpest moment, when they dower this great green world, this rustling place, active in music, light, and grace, with their hid hearts, their golden treasure, odours so deep they overpower? see how, hazed in the sunny weather, the silken roses swim, nodding heads frail as a high cloud's feather, expressing joy in beauty's hymn. and, hark! from many a hidden face echoes i hear through silver space: the morning stars that sing together, and the delighting seraphim! lawford, _early summer_, . the passion those whose love, unborn to sight, never did itself disclose save in water's cry; a rose; meteor furrowing the night; mote of any turning ray; pipe of bird mid sunset's flush; rain stilled, leaves flame-wet, and hush of a rainbow's fire and spray; any straight road leads afar 'cross a hill-brow--what's beyond? seven hung notes of music fond; seven dark poplars, one white star; cloud lifting a tower aloft; light and play and shadowy grace of the soul behind a face flitting by on motion soft; lonely figure on a height; those whose love but shines a hint fainter than the far sea's glint to the inland gazer's sight-- these alone, and but in part, guess of what my songs are spun, and who holds communion subtly with my troubled heart. but the substance of my grief scarcely can their thought surmise, who but glimpse through these my eyes joy as fathomless as brief. others in this strange world flung, orphans, too, of destiny, have the virtue, but not i, keeps heart crystal, single tongue; and know not, whose hearts are whole, how--when sickened and unclean, unfit or to see, be seen-- close thorns pack and prick the soul. yet though here soul suffereth, complicate by vision's light, never would i cede this right of a sharpened life and death. for i keep in confidence in my breast a subtle faith 'scapes alway by narrow scathe and i draw my succour thence. one day, or maybe one night-- living? dying?--i shall see the rose open gloriously on its heart of living light. know what any bird may mean, meteor in my heart shall rest, spelled on my brain blaze th' unguessed words of the rainbow's dazzling sheen. o the hour for which i wait! lovers of the secret love watch with me, and we will prove constancy can be elate. for the sigil we have now is but echo, shadow, less than a nothing's nothingness, to what that hour will allow: lost and found! the shining ones! music, passion, scent, delight, light and depth and space and height: heaven and its seven suns! dorset square, _october_, . last words o let it be just such an eve as this when i must die! to see the green bough soaking, still against a sky washed clean after the rain. to watch the rapturous rainbow flame and fly into the gloom where drops fall goldenly, and in my heart to feel the end of pain. the end of pain: the late, the long expected!-- to see the skies clear in a sudden minute, the grey disparting on the blue within it, and on the low far sea the clouds collected. in that deep quiet die to all has been, to be renewed, to bud, to flower again: my second spring!--whose hope was nigh rejected before i go hence and am no more seen. to hear the blackbird ring out, gay and bold, the low renewal of the ringdove's moan from among high, sheltered boughs, and ceaseless fall pitter, pitter, patter, a dribble of gold from leaves nodding each on the other one, the hush, calm piping and the slow, sweet mood! to drink the ripe warm scent of soaking matter, wet grass, wet leaves, wet wood, wet mould, the saddest and the grandest scent of all. so when my dying eyes have loved the trees till with huge tears turned blind, when the vague ears for the last time have hearkened to the cool stir of the long evening breeze, the blackbird's tireless call, having drunk deep of earth-scent strong and kind, come then, o death, and let my day be darkened. i shall have had my all. lawford, _april_, . images generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) over the brazier by robert graves london -- the poetry bookshop, devonshire st., theobalds rd. w.c. _poetry by the same author_ fairies and fusiliers (william heinemann ) country sentiment (martin secker: ) first printed second impression reprinted foreword to new edition when these poems, written between the ages of fourteen and twenty, first appeared, i was serving in france and had no leisure for getting the final proofs altogether as i wanted them. the same year, but too late, i decided on several alterations in the text, including the suppression of two small poems inexcusable even as early work. these amendations appear in this new edition, but i have left the bulk of the book as it stood. +robert graves.+ harlech, north wales. the poet in the nursery the youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling in a dim library, just behind the chair from which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling a song about some lovers at a fair, pulling his long white beard and gently grumbling that rhymes were beastly things and never there. and as i groped, the whole time i was thinking about the tragic poem i'd been writing-- an old man's life of beer and whisky drinking, his years of kidnapping and wicked fighting; and how at last, into a fever sinking, remorsefully he died, his bedclothes biting. but suddenly i saw the bright green cover of a thin pretty book right down below; i snatched it up and turned the pages over, to find it full of poetry, and so put it down my neck with quick hands like a lover and turned to watch if the old man saw it go. the book was full of funny muddling mazes each rounded off into a lovely song, and most extraordinary and monstrous phrases knotted with rhymes like a slave-driver's thong, and metre twisting like a chain of daisies with great big splendid words a sentence long. i took the book to bed with me and gloated, learning the lines that seemed to sound most grand, so soon the pretty emerald green was coated with jam and greasy marks from my hot hand, while round the nursery for long months there floated wonderful words no one could understand. part i.--poems mostly written at charterhouse-- - star-talk "are you awake, gemelli, this frosty night?" "we'll be awake till reveillé, which is sunrise," say the gemelli, "it's no good trying to go to sleep: if there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep, but sleep is gone to to-night, but sleep is gone for to-night." "are you cold too, poor pleiads, this frosty night?" "yes, and so are the hyads: see us cuddle and hug," say the pleiads, "all six in a ring: it keeps us warm: we huddle together like birds in a storm: it's bitter weather to-night, it's bitter weather to-night." "what do you hunt, orion, this starry night?" "the ram, the bull and the lion, and the great bear," says orion, "with my starry quiver and beautiful belt i am trying to find a good thick pelt to warm my shoulders to-night, to warm my shoulders to-night." "did you hear that, great she-bear, this frosty night?" "yes, he's talking of stripping _me_ bare of my own big fur," says the she-bear, "i'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow: the thought of it chills my bones to the marrow, and the frost so cruel to-night! and the frost so cruel to-night!" "how is your trade, aquarius, this frosty night?" "complaints is many and various and my feet are cold," says aquarius, "there's venus objects to dolphin-scales, and mars to crab-spawn found in my pails, and the pump has frozen to-night, and the pump has frozen to-night." the dying knight and the fauns through the dreams of yesternight my blood brother great in fight i saw lying, slowly dying where the weary woods were sighing with the rustle of the birches, with the quiver of the larches.... woodland fauns with hairy haunches grin in wonder through the branches woodland fauns that know no fear. wondering, they wander near munching mushrooms red as coral, bunches, too, of rue and sorrel; wonder at his radiant fairness, at his dinted, shattered harness, with uncouth and bestial sounds, knowing nought of war or wounds: but the crimson life-blood oozes and make roses of the daisies, persian carpets of the mosses-- softly now his spirit passes as the bee forsakes the lily, as the berry leaves the holly; but the fauns still think him living, and with bay leaves they are weaving crowns to deck him. well they may! he was worthy of the bay. willaree on the rough mountain wind that blows so free rides a little storm-sprite whose name is willaree. the fleecy cloudlets are not his, no shepherd is he, for he drives the shaggy thunderclouds over land and sea. his home is on the mountain-top where i love to be, amid grey rocks and brambles and the red rowan-tree. he whistles down the chimney, he whistles to me, and i send greeting back to him whistling cheerily. the great elms are battling, waves are on the sea, loud roars the mountain-wind-- god rest you, willaree! the face of the heavens little winds in a hurry, great winds over the sky, clouds sleek or furry, storms that rage and die, the whole cycle of weather from calm to hurricane of four gales wroth together, thunder, lightning, rain, the burning sun, snowing, hailstones pattering down, blue skies and red skies showing, skies with a black frown, by these signs and wonders you may tell god's mood: he shines, rains, thunders, but all his works are good. jolly yellow moon oh, now has faded from the west a sunset red as wine, and beast and bird are hushed to rest when the jolly yellow moon doth shine. come comrades, roam we round the mead where couch the sleeping kine; the breath of night blows soft indeed, and the jolly yellow moon doth shine. and step we slowly, friend with friend, let arm with arm entwine. and voice with voice together blend, for the jolly yellow moon doth shine. whether we loudly sing or soft, the tune goes wondrous fine; our chorus sure will float aloft where the jolly yellow moon doth shine. youth and folly ("_life is a very awful thing! you young fellows are too busy being jolly to realize the folly of your lives._" --_a charterhouse sermon_) in chapel often when i bawl the hymns, to show i'm musical, with bright eye and cheery voice bidding christian folk rejoice, shame be it said, i've not a thought of the one being whom i ought to worship: with unwitting roar other godheads i adore. i celebrate the gods of mirth and love and youth and springing earth, bacchus, beautiful, divine, gulping down his heady wine, dear pan piping in his hollow, fiery-headed king apollo and rugged atlas all aloof holding up the purple roof. i have often felt and sung, "it's a good thing to be young: though the preacher says it's folly, is it foolish to be jolly?" i have often prayed in fear, "let me never grow austere; let me never think, i pray, too much about judgment day; never, never feel in spring, 'life's a very awful thing!'" then i realize and start and curse my arrogant young heart, bind it over to confess its horrible ungodliness, set myself penances, and sigh that i was born in sin, and try to find the whole world vanity. ghost music gloomy and bare the organ-loft, bent-backed and blind the organist. from rafters looming shadowy, from the pipes' tuneful company, drifted together drowsily, innumerable, formless, dim, the ghosts of long-dead melodies, of anthems, stately, thunderous, of kyries shrill and tremulous: in melancholy drowsy-sweet they huddled there in harmony, like bats at noontide rafter-hung. free verse i now delight, in spite of the might and the right of classic tradition, in writing and reciting straight ahead, without let or omission, just any little rhyme in any little time that runs in my head: because, i've said, my rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed like prussian soldiers on parade that march, stiff as starch, foot to foot, boot to boot, blade to blade, button to button, cheeks and chops and chins like mutton. no! no! my rhymes must go turn 'ee, twist 'ee, twinkling, frosty, will-o'-the-wisp-like, misty, rhymes i will make like keats and blake and christina rossetti, with run and ripple and shake. how petty to take a merry little rhyme in a jolly little time and poke it, and choke it, change it, arrange it, straight-lace it, deface it, pleat it with pleats, sheet it with sheets of empty conceits, and chop and chew, and hack and hew, and weld it into a uniform stanza, and evolve a neat, complacent, complete, academic extravaganza! in the wilderness christ of his gentleness thirsting and hungering walked in the wilderness; soft words of grace he spoke unto lost desert-folk that listened wondering. he heard the bitterns call from ruined palace-wall, answered them brotherly. he held communion with the she-pelican of lonely piety. basilisk, cockatrice, flocked to his homilies, with mail of dread device, with monstrous barbéd stings, with eager dragon-eyes; great rats on leather wings and poor blind broken things, foul in their miseries. and ever with him went, of all his wanderings comrade, with ragged coat, gaunt ribs--poor innocent-- bleeding foot, burning throat, the guileless old scape-goat; for forty nights and days followed in jesus' ways, sure guard behind him kept, tears like a lover wept. oh, and oh! oh, and oh! the world's a muddle, the clouds are untidy, moon lopsidey, shining in a puddle. down dirty streets in stench and smoke the pale townsfolk crawl and kiss and cuddle, in doorways hug and huddle; loutish he and sluttish she in loathsome love together press and unbelievable ugliness. these spiders spin a loathly woof! i walk aloof, head burning and heart snarling, tread feverish quick; my love is sick; far away lives my darling. cherry-time cherries of the night are riper than the cherries pluckt at noon: gather to your fairy piper when he pipes his magic tune: merry, merry, take a cherry, mine are sounder, mine are rounder, mine are sweeter for the eater under the moon. and you'll be fairies soon. in the cherry pluckt at night, with the dew of summer swelling, there's a juice of pure delight, cool, dark, sweet, divinely smelling. merry, merry, take a cherry, mine are sounder, mine are rounder, mine are sweeter for the eater in the moonlight. and you'll be fairies quite. when i sound the fairy call, gather here in silent meeting, chin to knee on the orchard wall, cooled with dew and cherries eating. merry, merry, take a cherry, mine are sounder, mine are rounder, mine are sweeter for the eater when the dews fall. and you'll be fairies all. part ii.--poems written before la bassée-- the shadow of death here's an end to my art! i must die and i know it, with battle murder at my heart-- sad death for a poet! oh my songs never sung, and my plays to darkness blown! i am still so young, so young, and life was my own. some bad fairy stole the baby i nursed: was this my pretty little soul, this changeling accursed? to fight and kill is wrong-- to stay at home wronger: oh soul, little play and song, i may father no longer! here's an end to my art! i must die and i know it, with battle murder at my heart-- sad death for a poet! the morning before the battle to-day, the fight: my end is very soon, and sealed the warrant limiting my hours: i knew it walking yesterday at noon down a deserted garden full of flowers. ... carelessly sang, pinned roses on my breast, reached for a cherry-bunch--and then, then, death blew through the garden from the north and east and blighted every beauty with chill breath. i looked, and ah, my wraith before me stood, his head all battered in by violent blows: the fruit between my lips to clotted blood was transubstantiate, and the pale rose smelt sickly, till it seemed through a swift tear-flood that dead men blossomed in the garden-close. limbo after a week spent under raining skies, in horror, mud and sleeplessness, a week of bursting shells, of blood and hideous cries and the ever-watchful sniper: where the reek of death offends the living ... but poor dead can't sleep, must lie awake with the horrid sound that roars and whirs and rattles overhead all day, all night, and jars and tears the ground; when rats run, big as kittens: to and fro they dart, and scuffle with their horrid fare, and then one night relief comes, and we go miles back into the sunny cornland where babies like tickling, and where tall white horses draw the plough leisurely in quiet courses. the trenches (_heard in the ranks_) scratches in the dirt? no, that sounds much too nice. oh, far too nice. seams, rather, of a greyback shirt, and we're the little lice wriggling about in them a week or two, till one day, suddenly, from the blue something bloody and big will come like--watch this fingernail and thumb!-- squash! and he needs no twice. (+nursery memories+) i.--the first funeral (_the first corpse i saw was on the german wires, and couldn't be buried_) the whole field was so smelly; we smelt the poor dog first: his horrid swollen belly looked just like going burst. his fur was most untidy; he hadn't any eyes. it happened on good friday and there was lots of flies. and then i felt the coldest i'd ever felt, and sick, but rose, 'cause she's the oldest, dared poke him with her stick. he felt quite soft and horrid: the flies buzzed round his head and settled on his forehead: rose whispered: "that dog's dead. "you bury all dead people, when they're quite really dead, round churches with a steeple: let's bury this," rose said. "and let's put mint all round it to hide the nasty smell." i went to look and found it-- lots, growing near the well. we poked him through the clover into a hole, and then we threw brown earth right over and said: "poor dog, amen!" (+nursery memories+) ii.--the adventure (_suggested by the claim of a machine-gun team to have annihilated an enemy wire party: no bodies were found however_) to-day i killed a tiger near my shack among the trees: at least, it must have been, because his hide was yellow, striped with black, and his eyes were green. i crept up close and slung a pointed stone with all my might: i must have hit his head, for there he died without a twitch or groan, and he lay there dead. i expect that he'd escaped from a wild beast show by pulling down his cage with an angry tear; he'd killed and wounded all the people--so he was hiding there. i brought my brother up as quick's i could but there was nothing left when he did come: the tiger's mate was watching in the wood and she'd dragged him home. but, anyhow, i killed him by the shack, 'cause--listen!--when we hunted in the wood my brother found my pointed stone all black with the clotted blood. (+nursery memories+) iii.--i hate the moon (_after a moonlight patrol near the brickstacks_) i hate the moon, though it makes most people glad, and they giggle and talk of silvery beams--you know! but _she_ says the look of the moon drives people mad, and that's the thing that always frightens me so. i hate it worst when it's cruel and round and bright, and you can't make out the marks on its stupid face, except when you shut your eyelashes, and all night the sky looks green, and the world's a horrible place. i like the stars, and especially the big bear and the w star, and one like a diamond ring, but i _hate_ the moon and its horrible stony stare, and i know one day it'll do me some dreadful thing. big words "i've whined of coming death, but now, no more! it's weak and most ungracious. for, say i, though still a boy if years are counted, why! i've lived those years from roof to cellar-floor, and feel, like grey-beards touching their fourscore, ready, so soon as the need comes, to die: and i'm satisfied. for winning confidence in those quiet days of peace, poised sickly on the precipice side of lliwedd crag by snowdon, and in war finding it firmlier with me than before; winning a faith in the wisdom of god's ways that once i lost, finding it justified even in this chaos; winning love that stays and warms the heart like wine at easter-tide; having earlier tried false loves in plenty; oh! my cup of praise brims over, and i know i'll feel small sorrow, confess no sins and make no weak delays if death ends all and i must die to-morrow." but on the firestep, waiting to attack, he cursed, prayed, sweated, wished the proud words back. the dead fox hunter we found the little captain at the head; his men lay well aligned. we touched his hand--stone-cold--and he was dead, and they, all dead behind, had never reached their goal, but they died well; they charged in line, and in the same line fell. the well-known rosy colours of his face were almost lost in grey. we saw that, dying and in hopeless case, for others' sake that day he'd smothered all rebellious groans: in death his fingers were tight clenched between his teeth. for those who live uprightly and die true heaven has no bars or locks, and serves all taste.... or what's for him to do up there, but hunt the fox? angelic choirs? no, justice must provide for one who rode straight and at hunting died. so if heaven had no hunt before he came, why, it must find one now: if any shirk and doubt they know the game, there's one to teach them how: and the whole host of seraphim complete must jog in scarlet to his opening meet. it's a queer time it's hard to know if you're alive or dead when steel and fire go roaring through your head. one moment you'll be crouching at your gun traversing, mowing heaps down half in fun: the next, you choke and clutch at your right breast no time to think--leave all--and off you go ... to treasure island where the spice winds blow, to lovely groves of mango, quince and lime-- breathe no goodbye, but ho, for the red west! it's a queer time. you're charging madly at them yelling "fag!" when somehow something gives and your feet drag. you fall and strike your head; yet feel no pain and find ... you're digging tunnels through the hay in the big barn, 'cause it's a rainy day. oh springy hay, and lovely beams to climb! you're back in the old sailor suit again. it's a queer time. or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out-- a great roar--the trench shakes and falls about-- you're struggling, gasping, struggling, then ... hullo! elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench, hanky to nose--that lyddite makes a stench-- getting her pinafore all over grime. funny! because she died ten years ago! it's a queer time. the trouble is, things happen much too quick; up jump the bosches, rifles thump and click, you stagger, and the whole scene fades away: even good christians don't like passing straight from tipperary or their hymn of hate to alleluiah-chanting, and the chime of golden harps ... and ... i'm not well to-day ... it's a queer time. i've watched the seasons passing slow, so slow in the fields between la bassée and bethune; primroses and the first warm day of spring, red poppy floods of june, august, and yellowing autumn, so to winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow, and you've been everything, dear, you've been everything that i most lack in these soul-deadening trenches--pictures, books, music, the quiet of an english wood, beautiful comrade-looks, the narrow, bouldered mountain-track, the broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black, and peace, and all that's good. over the brazier what life to lead and where to go after the war, after the war? we'd often talked this way before but i still see the brazier glow that april night, still feel the smoke and stifling pungency of burning coke. i'd thought: "a cottage in the hills, north wales, a cottage full of books, pictures and brass and cosy nooks and comfortable broad window-sills, flowers in the garden, walls all white, i'd live there peacefully, and dream and write." but willy said "no, home's no good old england's quite a hopeless place i've lost all feeling for my race: but france has given me heart and blood enough to last me all my life i'm off to canada with my wee wife. "come with us, mac, old thing," but mac drawled: "no, a coral isle for me, a warm green jewel in the south sea. there's merit in a lumber shack and labour is a grand thing ... but give me my hot beach and my cocoanut." so then we built and stocked for willy a log-hut, and for mac a calm rockabye cradle on a palm-- idyllic dwellings--but this silly mad war has now wrecked both, and what better hopes has my little cottage got? july, . * * * * * transcriber's notes minor punctuation and printer errors repaired. italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and small capitals by =plus signs=. in an extended version, also linking to free sources for education worldwide ... mooc's, educational materials,...) images generously made available by the internet archive. the complete poems of francis ledwidge with introduction by lord dunsany herbert jenkins limited york street st. james's london s.w. mcmxix to my mother the first singer i knew introduction to songs of the fields dunsany castle, _june,_ . if one who looked from a tower for a new star, watching for years the same part of the sky, suddenly saw it (quite by chance while thinking of other things), and knew it for the star for which he had hoped, how many millions of men would never care? and the star might blaze over deserts and forests and seas, cheering lost wanderers in desolate lands, or guiding dangerous quests; millions would never know it. and a poet is no more than a star. if one has arisen where i have so long looked for one, amongst the irish peasants, it can be little more than a secret that i shall share with those who read this book because they care for poetry. i have looked for a poet amongst the irish peasants because it seemed to me that almost only amongst them there was in daily use a diction worthy of poetry, as well a an imagination capable of dealing with the great and simple things that are a poet's wares. their thoughts are in the spring-time, and all their metaphors fresh: in london no one makes metaphors any more, but daily speech is strewn thickly with dead ones that their users should write upon paper and give to their gardeners to burn. in this same london, two years ago, where i was wasting june, i received a letter one day from mr. ledwidge and a very old copy-book. the letter asked whether there was any good in the verses that filled the copy-book, the produce apparently of four or five years. it began with a play in verse that no manager would dream of, there were mistakes in grammar, in spelling of course, and worse--there were such phrases as "'thwart the rolling foam," "waiting for my true love on the lea," etc., which are vulgarly considered to be the appurtenances of poetry; but out of these and many similar errors there arose continually, like a mountain sheer out of marshes, that easy fluency of shapely lines which is now so noticeable in all that he writes; that and sudden glimpses of the fields that he seems at times to bring so near to one that one exclaims, "why, that is how meath looks," or "it is just like that along the boyne in april," quite taken by surprise by familiar things: for none of us knows, till the poets point them out, how many beautiful things are close about us. of pure poetry there are two kinds, that which mirrors the beauty of the world in which our bodies are, and that which builds the more mysterious kingdoms where geography ends and fairyland begins, with gods and heroes at war, and the sirens singing still, and alph going down to the darkness from xanadu. mr. ledwidge gives us the first kind. when they have read through the profounder poets, and seen the problem plays, and studied all the perplexities that puzzle man in the cities, the small circle of readers that i predict for him will turn to ledwidge as to a mirror reflecting beautiful fields, as to a very still lake rather on a very cloudless evening. there is scarcely a smile of spring or a sigh of autumn that is not reflected here, scarcely a phase of the large benedictions of summer; even of winter he gives us clear glimpses sometimes, albeit mournfully, remembering spring. "in the red west the twisted moon is low, and on the bubbles there are half-lit stars, music and twilight: and the deep blue flow of water: and the watching fire of mars. the deep fish slipping through the moonlit bars make death a thing of sweet dreams,--" what a summer's evening is here. and this is a summer's night in a much longer poem that i have not included in this selection, a summer's night seen by two lovers: "the large moon rose up queenly as a flower charmed by some indian pipes. a hare went by, a snipe above them circled in the sky." and elsewhere he writes, giving us the mood and picture of autumn in a single line: "and somewhere all the wandering birds have flown." with such simple scenes as this the book is full, giving nothing at all to those that look for a "message," but bringing a feeling of quiet from gleaming irish evenings, a book to read between the strand and piccadilly circus amidst the thunder and hootings. to every poet is given the revelation of some living thing so intimate that he speaks, when he speaks of it, as an ambassador speaking for his sovereign; with homer it was the heroes, with ledwidge it is the small birds that sing, but in particular especially the blackbird, whose cause he champions against all other birds almost with a vehemence such as that with which men discuss whether mr. ----, m. p., or his friend the right honourable ---- is really the greater ruffian. this is how he speaks of the blackbird in one of his earliest poems; he was sixteen when he wrote it, in a grocer's shop in dublin, dreaming of slane, where he was born; and his dreams turned out to be too strong for the grocery business, for he walked home one night, a distance of thirty miles: "above me smokes the little town with its whitewashed walls and roofs of brown and its octagon spire toned smoothly down as the holy minds within. and wondrous, impudently sweet, half of him passion, half conceit, the blackbird calls adown the street, like the piper of hamelin." let us not call him the burns of ireland, you who may like this book, nor even the irish john clare, though he is more like him, for poets are all incomparable (it is only the versifiers that resemble the great ones), but let us know him by his own individual song: he is the poet of the blackbird. i hope that not too many will be attracted to this book on account of the author being a peasant, lest he come to be praised by the how-interesting! school; for know that neither in any class, nor in any country, nor in any age, shall you predict the footfall of pegasus, who touches the earth where he pleaseth and is bridled by whom he will. dunsany. _june, ._ basingstoke camp. i wrote this preface in such a different june, that if i sent it out with no addition it would make the book appear to have dropped a long while since out of another world, a world that none of us remembers now, in which there used to be leisure. ledwidge came last october into the th battalion of the royal inniskilling fusiliers, which is in one of the divisions of kitchener's first army, and soon earned a lance-corporal's stripe. all his future books lie on the knees of the gods. may they not be the only readers. any well-informed spy can probably tell you our movements, so of such things i say nothing. dunsany, _captain,_ _ th r. inniskilling fusiliers._ _june, ._ introduction to songs of peace ebrington barracks, _september,_ . in this selection that corporal ledwidge has asked me to make from his poems i have included "a dream of artemis," though it was incomplete and has been hurriedly finished were it not included on that account many lines of extraordinary beauty would remain unseen. he asked me if i did not think that it ended too abruptly, but so many pleasant things ended abruptly in the summer of , when this poem was being written, that the blame for that may rest on a meaner, though more, exalted, head than that of the poet. in this poem, as in the other one that has a classical theme, "the departure of proserpine," those who remember their classics may find faults, but i read the "dream of artemis" merely as an expression of things that the poet has seen and dreamed in meath, including a most beautiful description of a fox-hunt in the north of the county, in which he has probably taken part on foot; and in "the departure of proserpine," whether conscious or not, a crystallization in verse of an autumnal mood induced by falling leaves and exile and the possible nearness of death. the second poem in the book was written about a little boy who used to drive cows for some farmer past the poet's door very early every morning, whistling as he went, and who died just before the war. i think that its beautiful and spontaneous simplicity would cost some of our writers gallons of midnight oil. of the next, "to a distant one," who will not hope that when "fame and other little things are won" its clear and confident prophecy will be happily fulfilled? quite perfect, if my judgment is of any value, is the little poem on page , "in the mediterranean--going to the war." another beautiful thing is "homecoming" on page . "the sheep are coming home in greece, hark the bells on every hill, flock by flock and fleece by fleece." one feels that the greeks are of some use, after all, to have inspired--with the help of their sheep--so lovely a poem. "the shadow people" on page seems to me another perfect poem. written in serbia and egypt, it shows the poet still looking steadfastly at those fields, though so far distant then, of which he was surely born to be the singer. and this devotion to the fields of meath that, in nearly all his songs, from such far places brings his spirit home, like the instinct that has been given to the swallows, seems to be the key-note of the book. for this reason i have named it _songs of peace,_ in spite of the circumstances under which they were written. there follow poems at which some may wonder: "to thomas mcdonagh," "the blackbirds," "the wedding morning"; but rather than attribute curious sympathies to this brave young irish soldier i would ask his readers to consider the irresistible attraction that a lost cause has for almost any irish-man. once the swallow instinct appears again--in the poem called "the lure"--and a longing for the south, and again in the poem called "song": and then the irish fields content him again, and we find him on the last page but one in the book making a poem for a little place called faughan, because he finds that its hills and woods and streams are unsung. surely for this if there be, as many believed, gods lesser than those whose business is with destiny, thunder and war, small gods that haunt the groves, seen only at times by few, and then indistinctly at evening, surely from gratitude they will give him peace. dunsany introduction to last songs the hindenberg line, _october th,_ . writing amidst rather too much noise and squalor to do justice at all to the delicate rustic muse of francis ledwidge, i do not like to delay his book any longer, nor to fail in a promise long ago made to him to write this introduction. he has gone down in that vast maelstrom into which poets do well to adventure and from which their country might perhaps be wise to withhold them, but that is our country's affair. he has left behind him verses of great beauty, simple rural lyrics that may be something of an anodyne for this stricken age. if ever an age needed beautiful little songs our age needs them; and i know few songs more peaceful and happy, or better suited to soothe the scars on the mind of those who have looked on certain places, of which the prophecy in the gospels seems no more than an ominous hint when it speaks of the abomination of desolation. he told me once that it was on one particular occasion, when walking at evening through the village of slane in summer, that he heard a blackbird sing. the notes, he said, were very beautiful, and it is this blackbird that he tells of in three wonderful lines in his early poem called "behind the closed eye," and it is this song perhaps more than anything else that has been the inspiration of his brief life. dynasties shook and the earth shook; and the war, not yet described by any man, revelled and wallowed in destruction around him; and francis ledwidge stayed true to his inspiration, as his homeward songs will show. i had hoped he would have seen the fame he has well deserved; but it is hard for a poet to live to see fame even in times of peace. in these days it is harder than ever. dunsany. contents songs of the fields to my best friend behind the closed eye bound to the mast to a linnet in a cage a twilight in middle march spring desire in spring a rainy day in april a song of april the broken tryst thoughts at the trysting stile evening in may an attempt at a city sunset waiting the singer's muse inamorata the wife of llew the hills june in manchester music on water to m. mcg. in the dusk the death of ailill august the visitation of peace before the tears god's remembrance an old pain the lost ones all-hallows eve a memory a song a fear the coming poet the vision on the brink to lord dunsany on an oaten straw evening in february the sister before the war of cooley low-moon land the sorrow of findebar on dream water the death of sualtem the maid in low-moon land the death of leag, cuchulain's charioteer the passing of caoilte growing old after my last song songs of peace at home a dream of artemis a little boy in the morning in barracks to a distant one the place may to ellish of the fair hair in camp crewbawn evening in england at sea crocknaharna in the mediterranean--going to the war the gardener in serbia autumn evening in serbia nocturne spring and autumn in greece the departure of proserpine the home-coming of the sheep when love and beauty wander away in hospital in egypt my mother song to one dead the resurrection the shadow people in barracks an old desire thomas mcdonagh the wedding morning the blackbirds the lure thro' bogac ban fate evening clouds song the herons in the shadows the ships of arcady after to one weeping a dream dance by faughan in september last songs to an old quill of lord dunsany's to a sparrow old clo' youth the little children autumn ireland lady fair at a poet's grave after court martial a mother's song at currabwee song-time is over una bawn spring love soliloquy dawn ceol sidhe the rushes the dead kings in france had i a golden pound fairies in a cafÉ spring pan with flowers the find a fairy hunt to one who comes now and then the sylph home the lanawn shee songs of the fields to my best friend i love the wet-lipped wind that stirs the hedge and kisses the bent flowers that drooped for rain, that stirs the poppy on the sun-burned ledge and like a swan dies singing, without pain. the golden bees go buzzing down to stain the lilies' frills, and the blue harebell rings, and the sweet blackbird in the rainbow sings. deep in the meadows i would sing a song, the shallow brook my tuning-fork, the birds my masters; and the boughs they hop along shall mark my time: but there shall be no words for lurking echo's mock; an angel herds words that i may not know, within, for you, words for the faithful meet, the good and true. behind the closed eye i walk the old frequented ways that wind around the tangled braes, i live again the sunny days ere i the city knew. and scenes of old again are born, the woodbine lassoing the thorn, and drooping ruth-like in the corn the poppies weep the dew. above me in their hundred schools the magpies bend their young to rules, and like an apron full of jewels the dewy cobweb swings. and frisking in the stream below the troutlets make the circles flow, and the hungry crane doth watch them grow as a smoker does his rings. above me smokes the little town, with its whitewashed walls and roofs of brown and its octagon spire toned smoothly down as the holy minds within. and wondrous impudently sweet, half of him passion, half conceit, the blackbird calls adown the street like the piper of hamelin. i hear him, and i feel the lure drawing me back to the homely moor, i'll go and close the mountains' door on the city's strife and din. bound to the mast when mildly falls the deluge of the grass, and meads begin to rise like noah's flood, and o'er the hedgerows flow, and onward pass, dribbling thro' many a wood; when hawthorn trees their flags of truce unfurl, and dykes are spitting violets to the breeze; when meadow larks their jocund flight will curl from earth's to heaven's leas; ah! then the poet's dreams are most sublime, a-sail on seas that know a heavenly calm, and in his song you hear the river's rhyme, and the first bleat of the lamb. then when the summer evenings fall serene, unto the country dance his songs repair, and you may meet some maids with angel mien, bright eyes and twilight hair. when autumn's crayon tones the green leaves sere, and breezes honed on icebergs hurry past; when meadow-tides have ebbed and woods grow drear, and bow before the blast; when briars make semicircles on the way; when blackbirds hide their flutes and cower and die; when swollen rivers lose themselves and stray beneath a murky sky; then doth the poet's voice like cuckoo's break, and round his verse the hungry lapwing grieves, and melancholy in his dreary wake the funeral of the leaves. then when the autumn dies upon the plain, wound in the snow alike his right and wrong, the poet sings,--albeit a sad strain,-- bound to the mast of song. to a linnet in a cage when spring is in the fields that stained your wing, and the blue distance is alive with song, and finny quiets of the gabbling spring rock lilies red and long, at dewy daybreak, i will set you free in ferny turnings of the woodbine lane, where faint-voiced echoes leave and cross in glee the hilly swollen plain. in draughty houses you forget your tune, the modulator of the changing hours. you want the wide air of the moody noon. and the slanting evening showers. so i will loose you, and your song shall fall when morn is white upon the dewy pane, across my eyelids, and my soul recall from worlds of sleeping pain. a twilight in middle march within the oak a throb of pigeon wings fell silent, and grey twilight hushed the fold, and spiders' hammocks swung on half-oped things that shook like foreigners upon our cold. a gipsy lit a fire and made a sound of moving tins, and from an oblong moon the river seemed to gush across the ground to the cracked metre of a marching tune. and then three syllables of melody dropped from a blackbird's flute, and died apart far in the dewy dark. no more but three, yet sweeter music never touched a heart neath the blue domes of london. flute and reed, suggesting feelings of the solitude when will was all the delphi i would heed, lost like a wind within a summer wood from little knowledge where great sorrows brood. spring the dews drip roses on the meadows where the meek daisies dot the sward. and Æolus whispers through the shadows, "behold the handmaid of the lord!" the golden news the skylark waketh and 'thwart the heavens his flight is curled; attend ye as the first note breaketh and chrism droppeth on the world. the velvet dusk still haunts the stream where pan makes music light and gay. the mountain mist hath caught a beam and slowly weeps itself away. the young leaf bursts its chrysalis and gem-like hangs upon the bough, where the mad throstle sings in bliss o'er earth's rejuvenated brow. envoi slowly fall, o golden sands, slowly fall and let me sing, wrapt in the ecstasy of youth, the wild delights of spring. desire in spring i love the cradle songs the mothers sing in lonely places when the twilight drops, the slow endearing melodies that bring sleep to the weeping lids; and, when she stops, i love the roadside birds upon the tops of dusty hedges in a world of spring. and when the sunny rain drips from the edge of midday wind, and meadows lean one way, and a long whisper passes thro' the sedge, beside the broken water let me stay, while these old airs upon my memory play. and silent changes colour up the hedge. a rainy day in april when the clouds shake their hyssops, and the rain like holy water falls upon the plain, 'tis sweet to gaze upon the springing grain and see your harvest born. and sweet the little breeze of melody, the blackbird puffs upon the budding tree, while the wild poppy lights upon the lea and blazes 'mid the corn. the skylark soars the freshening shower to hail, and the meek daisy holds aloft her pail, and spring all radiant by the wayside pale, sets up her rock and reel. see how she weaves her mantle fold on fold, hemming the woods and carpeting the wold. her warp is of the green, her woof the gold, the spinning world her wheel. by'n by above the hills a pilgrim moon will rise to light upon the midnight noon, but still she plieth to the lonesome tune of the brown meadow rail. no heavy dreams upon her eyelids weigh, nor do her busy fingers ever stay; she knows a fairy prince is on the way to wake a sleeping beauty. to deck the pathway that his feet must tread, to fringe the 'broidery of the roses' bed, to show the summer she but sleeps,--not dead, this is her fixed duty. envoi to-day while leaving my dear home behind, my eyes with salty homesick teardrops blind, the rain fell on me sorrowful and kind like angels' tears of pity. 'twas then i heard the small birds' melodies, and saw the poppies' bonfire on the leas, as spring came whispering thro' the leafing trees giving to me my ditty. a song of april the censer of the eglantine was moved by little lane winds, and the watching faces of garden flowerets, which of old she loved, peep shyly outward from their silent places. but when the sun arose the flowers grew bolder, and site will be in white, i thought, and she will have a cuckoo on her either shoulder, and woodbine twines and fragrant wings of pea. and i will meet her on the hills of south, and i will lead her to a northern water, my wild one, the sweet beautiful uncouth, the eldest maiden of the winter's daughter. and down the rainbows of her noon shall slide lark music, and the little sunbeam people, and nomad wings shall fill the river side, and ground winds rocking in the lily's steeple. the broken tryst the dropping words of larks, the sweetest tongue that sings between the dusks, tell all of you; the bursting white of peace is all along wing-ways, and pearly droppings of the dew emberyl the cobwebs' greyness, and the blue of hiding violets, watching for your face, listen for you in every dusky place. you will not answer when i call your name, but in the fog of blossom do you hide to change my doubts into a red-faced shame by'n by when you are laughing by my side? or will you never come, or have you died, and i in anguish have forgotten all? and shall the world now end and the heavens fall? thoughts at the trysting stile come, may, and hang a white flag on each thorn, make truce with earth and heaven; the april child now hides her sulky face deep in the morn of your new flowers by the water wild and in the ripples of the rising grass, and rushes bent to let the south wind pass on with her tumult of swift nomad wings, and broken domes of downy dandelion. only in spasms now the blackbird sings. the hour is all a-dream. nets of woodbine throw woven shadows over dreaming flowers, and dreaming, a bee-luring lily bends its tender bell where blue dyke-water cowers thro' briars, and folded ferns, and gripping ends of wild convolvulus. the lark's sky-way is desolate. i watch an apple-spray beckon across a wall as if it knew i wait the calling of the orchard maid. inly i feel that she will come in blue, with yellow on her hair, and two curls strayed out of her comb's loose stocks, and i shall steal behind and lay my hands upon her eyes, "look not, but be my psyche!" and her peal of laughter will ring far, and as she tries for freedom i will call her names of flowers that climb up walls; then thro' the twilight hours we'll talk about the loves of ancient queens, and kisses like wasp-honey, false and sweet, and how we are entangled in love's snares like wind-looped flowers. evening in may there is nought tragic here, tho' night uplifts a narrow curtain where the footlights burned, but one long act where love each bold heart sifts and blushes in the dark, but has not spurned the strong resolve of noon. the maiden's head is brown upon the shoulder of her youth, hearts are exchanged, long pent up words are said, blushes burn out at the long tale of truth. the blackbird blows his yellow flute so strong, and rolls away the notes in careless glee, it breaks the rhythm of the thrushes' song, and puts red shame upon his rivalry. the yellowhammers on the roof tiles beat sweet little dulcimers to broken time, and here the robin with a heart replete has all in one short plagiarised rhyme. an attempt at a city sunset (to j. k. q.) there was a quiet glory in the sky when thro' the gables sank the large red sun, and toppling mounts of rugged cloud went by heavy with whiteness, and the moon had won her way above the woods, with her small star behind her like the cuckoo's little mother.... it was the hour when visions from some far strange eastern dreams like twilight bats take wing out of the ruin of memories. o brother of high song, wand'ring where the muses fling rich gifts as prodigal as winter rain, like stepping-stones within a swollen river the hidden words are sounding in my brain, too wild for taming; and i must for ever think of the hills upon the wilderness, and leave the city sunset to your song. for there i am a stranger like the trees that sigh upon the traffic all day long. waiting a strange old woman on the wayside sate, looked far away and shook her head and sighed. and when anon, close by, a rusty gate loud on the warm winds cried, she lifted up her eyes and said, "you're late." then shook her head and sighed. and evening found her thus, and night in state walked thro' the starlight, and a heavy tide followed the yellow moon around her wait, and morning walked in wide. she lifted up her eyes and said, "you're late." then shook her head and sighed. the singer's muse i brought in these to make her kitchen sweet, haw blossoms and the roses of the lane. her heart seemed in her eyes so wild they beat with welcome for the boughs of spring again. she never heard of babylon or troy, she read no book, but once saw dublin town; yet she made a poet of her servant boy and from parnassus earned the laurel crown. if fame, the gorgon, turns me into stone upon some city square, let someone place thorn blossoms and lane roses newly blown beside my feet, and underneath them trace: "his heart was like a bookful of girls' song, with little loves and mighty care's alloy. these did he bring his muse, and suffered long, her bashful singer and her servant boy." inamorata the bees were holding levees in the flowers, do you remember how each puff of wind made every wing a hum? my hand in yours was listening to your heart, but now the glory is all faded, and i find no more the olden mystery of the hours when you were lovely and our hearts would bow each to the will of each, but one bright day is stretching like an isthmus in a bay from the glad years that i have left behind. i look across the edge of things that were and you are lovely in the april ways, holy and mute, the sigh of my despair.... i hear once more the linnets' april tune beyond the rainbow's warp, as in the days you brought me facefuls of your smiles to share some of your new-found wonders.... oh when soon i'm wandering the wide seas for other lands, sometimes remember me with folded hands, and keep me happy in your pious prayer. the wife of llew and gwydion said to math, when it was spring: "come now and let us make a wife for llew." and so they broke broad boughs yet moist with dew, and in a shadow made a magic ring: they took the violet and the meadow-sweet to form her pretty face, and for her feet they built a mound of daisies on a wing, and for her voice they made a linnet sing in the wide poppy blowing for her mouth. and over all they chanted twenty hours. and llew came singing from the azure south and bore away his wife of birds and flowers. the hills the hills are crying from the fields to me, and calling me with music from a choir of waters in their woods where i can see the bloom unfolded on the whins like fire. and, as the evening moon climbs ever higher and blots away the shadows from the slope, they cry to me like things devoid of hope. pigeons are home. day droops. the fields are cold. now a slow wind comes labouring up the sky with a small cloud long steeped in sunset gold, like jason with the precious fleece anigh the harbour of iolcos. day's bright eye is filmed with the twilight, and the rill shines like a scimitar upon the hill. and moonbeams drooping thro' the coloured wood are full of little people winged white. i'll wander thro' the moon-pale solitude that calls across the intervening night with river voices at their utmost height, sweet as rain-water in the blackbird's flute that strikes the world in admiration mute. june broom out the floor now, lay the fender by, and plant this bee-sucked bough of woodbine there, and let the window down. the butterfly floats in upon the sunbeam, and the fair tanned face of june, the nomad gipsy, laughs above her widespread wares, the while she tells the farmers' fortunes in the fields, and quaffs the water from the spider-peopled wells. the hedges are all drowned in green grass seas, and bobbing poppies flare like elmor's light, while siren-like the pollen-stainéd bees drone in the clover depths. and up the height the cuckoo's voice is hoarse and broke with joy. and on the lowland crops the crows make raid, nor fear the clappers of the farmer's boy, who sleeps, like drunken noah, in the shade. and loop this red rose in that hazel ring that snares your little ear, for june is short and we must joy in it and dance and sing, and from her bounty draw her rosy worth. ay! soon the swallows will be flying south, the wind wheel north to gather in the snow, even the roses spilt on youth's red mouth will soon blow down the road all roses go. in manchester there is a noise of feet that move in sin under the side-faced moon here where i stray, want by me like a nemesis. the din of noon is in my ears, but far away my thoughts are, where peace shuts the black-birds' wings and it is cherry time by all the springs. and this same moon floats like a trail of fire down the long boyne, and darts white arrows thro' the mill wood; her white skirt is on the weir, she walks thro' crystal mazes of the dew, and rests awhile upon the dewy slope where i will hope again the old, old hope. with wandering we are worn my muse and i, and, if i sing, my song knows nought of mirth. i often think my soul is an old lie in sackcloth, it repents so much of birth. but i will build it yet a cloister home near the peace of lakes when i have ceased to roam. music on water where does remembrance weep when we forget? from whither brings she back an old delight? why do we weep that once we laughed? and yet why are we sad that once our hearts were light? i sometimes think the days that we made bright are damned within us, and we hear them yell, deep in the solitude of that wide hell, because we welcome in some new regret. i will remember with sad heart next year this music and this water, but to-day let me be part of all this joy. my ear caught far-off music which i bid away, the light of one fair face that fain would stay upon the heart's broad canvas, as the face on mary's towel, lighting up the place. too sad for joy, too happy for a tear. methinks i see the music like a light low on the bobbing water, and the fields yellow and brown alternate on the height, hanging in silence there like battered shields, lean forward heavy with their coloured yields as if they paid it homage; and the strains, prisoners of echo, up the sunburnt plains fade on the cross-cut to a future night. in the red west the twisted moon is low, and on the bubbles there are half-lit stars: music and twilight and the deep blue flow of water: and the watching fire of mars: the deep fish slipping thro' the moonlit bars make death a thing of sweet dreams, life a mock. and the soul patient by the heart's loud clock watches the time, and thinks it wondrous slow. to m. mcg. (who came one day when we were all gloomy and cheered us with sad music) we were all sad and could not weep, because our sorrow had not tears: you came a silent thing like sleep, and stole away our fears. old memories knocking at each heart troubled us with the world's great lie: you sat a little way apart and made a fiddle cry, and april with her sunny showers came laughing up the fields again: white wings went flashing thro' the hours so lately full of pain. and rivers full of little lights came down the fields of waving green: our immemorial delights stole in on us unseen. for this may good luck let you loose upon her treasures many years, and peace unfurl her flag of truce to any threat'ning fears. in the dusk day hangs its light between two dusks, my heart, always beyond the dark there is the blue. sometime we'll leave the dark, myself and you, and revel in the light for evermore. but the deep pain of you is aching smart, and a long calling weighs upon you sore. day hangs its light between two dusks, and song is there at the beginning and the end. you, in the singing dusk, how could you wend the songless way contentment fleetly wings? but in the dark your beauty shall be strong, tho' only one should listen how it sings. the death of ailill when there was heard no more the war's loud sound, and only the rough corn-crake filled the hours, and hill winds in the furze and drowsy flowers, maeve in her chamber with her white head bowed on ailill's heart was sobbing: "i have found the way to love you now," she said, and he winked an old tear away and said: "the proud unyielding heart loves never." and then she: "i love you now, tho' once when we were young we walked apart like two who were estranged because i loved you not, now all is changed." and he who loved her always called her name and said: "you do not love me, 'tis your tongue talks in the dusk; you love the blazing gold won in the battles, and the soldier's fame. you love the stories that are often told by poets in the hall." then maeve arose and sought her daughter findebar: "o, child, go tell your father that my love went wild with all my wars in youth, and say that now i love him stronger than i hate my foes...." and findebar unto her father sped and touched him gently on the rugged brow, and knew by the cold touch that he was dead. august she'll come at dusky first of day, white over yellow harvest's song. upon her dewy rainbow way she shall be beautiful and strong. the lidless eye of noon shall spray tan on her ankles in the hay, shall kiss her brown the whole day long. i'll know her in the windrows, tall above the crickets of the hay. i'll know her when her odd eyes fall, one may-blue, one november-grey. i'll watch her from the red barn wall take down her rusty scythe, and call, and i will follow her away. the visitation of peace i closed the book of verse where sorrow wept above love's broken fane where hope once prayed, and thought of old trysts broken and trysts kept only to chide my fondness. then i strayed down a green coil of lanes where murmuring wings moved up and down like lights upon the sea, searching for calm amid untroubled things of wood and water. the industrious bee sang in his barn within the hollow beech, and in a distant haggard a loud mill hummed like a war of hives. a whispered speech of corn and wind was on the yellow hill, and tattered scarecrows nodded their assent and waved their arms like orators. the brown nude beauty of the autumn sweetly bent over the woods, across the little town. i sat in a retreating shade beside the river, where it fell across a weir like a white mane, and in a flourish wide roars by an island field and thro' a tier of leaning sallies, like an avenue when the moon's flambeau hunts the shadows out and strikes the borders white across the dew. where little ringlets ended, the fleet trout fed on the water moths. a marsh hen crossed on flying wings and swimming feet to where her mate was in the rushes forest, tossed on the heaving dusk like swallows in the air. beyond the river a walled rood of graves hung dead with all its hemlock wan and sere, save where the wall was broken and long waves of yellow grass flowed outward like a weir, as if the dead were striving for more room and their old places in the scheme of things; for sometimes the thought comes that the brown tomb is not the end of all our labourings, but we are born once more of wind and rain, to sow the world with harvest young and strong, that men may live by men 'til the stars wane, and still sweet music fill the blackbird's song. but o for truths about the soul denied. shall i meet keats in some wild isle of balm, dreaming beside a tarn where green and wide boughs of sweet cinnamon protect the calm of the dark water? and together walk thro' hills with dimples full of water where white angels rest, and all the dead years talk about the changes of the earth? despair sometimes takes hold of me but yet i hope to hope the old hope in the better times when i am free to cast aside the rope that binds me to all sadness 'till my rhymes cry like lost birds. but o, if i should die ere this millennium, and my hands be crossed under the flowers i loved, the passers-by shall scowl at me as one whose soul is lost. but a soft peace came to me when the west shut its red door and a thin streak of moon was twisted on the twilight's dusky breast. it wrapped me up as sometimes a sweet tune heard for the first time wraps the scenes around, that we may have their memories when some hand strikes it in other times and hopes unbound rising see clear the everlasting land. before the tears you looked as sad as an eclipséd moon above the sheaves of harvest, and there lay a light lisp on your tongue, and very soon the petals of your deep blush fell away; white smiles that come with an uneasy grace from inner sorrow crossed your forehead fair, when the wind passing took your scattered hair and flung it like a brown shower in my face. tear-fringéd winds that fill the heart's low sighs and never break upon the bosom's pain, but blow unto the windows of the eyes their misty promises of silver rain, around your loud heart ever rose and fell. i thought 'twere better that the tears should come and strike your every feeling wholly numb, so thrust my hand in yours and shook fare-well. god's remembrance there came a whisper from the night to me like music of the sea, a mighty breath from out the valley's dewy mouth, and death shook his lean bones, and every coloured tree wept in the fog of morning. from the town of nests among the branches one old crow with gaps upon his wings flew far away. and, thinking of the golden summer glow, i heard a blackbird whistle half his lay among the spinning leaves that slanted down. and i who am a thought of god's now long forgotten in his mind, and desolate with other dreams long over, as a gate singing upon the wind the anvil song, sang of the spring when first he dreamt of me in that old town all hills and signs that creak:-- and he remembered me as something far in old imaginations, something weak with distance, like a little sparking star drowned in the lavender of evening sea. an old pain what old, old pain is this that bleeds anew? what old and wandering dream forgotten long hobbles back to my mind? with faces two, like janus of old rome, i look about, and yet discover not what ancient wrong lies unrequited still. no speck of doubt upon to-morrow's promise. yet a pain of some dumb thing is on me, and i feel how men go mad, how faculties do reel when these old querns turn round within the brain. 'tis something to have known one day of joy, now to remember when the heart is low, an antidote of thought that will destroy the asp bite of regret. deep will i drink by'n by the purple cups that overflow, and fill the shattered heart's urn to the brink. but some are dead who laughed! some scattered are around the sultry breadth of foreign zones. you, with the warm clay wrapt about your bones, are nearer to me than the live afar. my heart has grown as dry as an old crust, deep in book lumber and moth-eaten wood, so long it has forgot the old love lust, so long forgot the thing that made youth dear, two blue love lamps, a heart exceeding good, and how, when first i heard that voice ring clear among the sering hedges of the plain, i knew not which from which beyond the corn, the laughter by the callow twisted thorn, the jay-thrush whistling in the haws for rain. i hold the mind is the imprisoned soul, and all our aspirations are its own struggles and strivings for a golden goal, that wear us out like snow men at the thaw. and we shall make our heaven where we have sown our purple longings. oh! can the loved dead draw anear us when we moan, or watching wait our coming in the woods where first we met, the dead leaves falling on their wild hair wet, their hands upon the fastenings of the gate? this is the old, old pain come home once more, bent down with answers wild and very lame for all my delving in old dog-eared lore that drove the sages mad. and boots the world aught for their wisdom? i have asked them, tame, and watched the earth by its own self be hurled atom by atom into nothingness, loll out of the deep canyons, drops of fixe, and kindle on the hills its funeral pyre, and all we learn but shows we know the less. the lost ones somewhere is music from the linnets, bills, and thro' the sunny flowers the bee-wings drone, and white bells of convolvulus on hills of quiet may make silent ringing, blown hither and thither by the wind of showers, and somewhere all the wandering birds have flown; and the brown breath of autumn chills the flowers. but where are all the loves of long ago? oh, little twilight ship blown up the tide, where are the faces laughing in the glow of morning years, the lost ones scattered wide? give me your hand, oh brother, let us go crying about the dark for those who died. all-hallows eve the dreadful hour is sighing for a moon to light old lovers to the place of tryst, and old footsteps from blessed acres soon on old known pathways will be lightly prest; and winds that went to eavesdrop since the noon, kinking[ ] at some old tale told sweetly brief, will give a cowslick[ ] to the yarrow leaf,[ ] and sling the round nut from the hazel down. and there will be old yarn balls,[ ] and old spells in broken lime-kilns, and old eyes will peer for constant lovers in old spidery wells,[ ] and old embraces will grow newly dear. and some may meet old lovers in old dells, and some in doors ajar in towns light-lorn;-- but two will meet beneath a gnarly thorn deep in the bosom of the windy fells. then when the night slopes home and white-faced day yawns in the east there will be sad farewells; and many feet will tap a lonely way back to the comfort of their chilly cells, and eyes will backward turn and long to stay where love first found them in the clover bloom-- but one will never seek the lonely tomb, and two will linger at the tryst alway. [footnote : provincially a kind of laughter.] [footnote : a curl of hair thrown back from the forehead: used metaphorically here, and itself a metaphor taken from the curl of a cow's tongue.] [footnote : maidens on hallows eve pull leaves of yarrow, and, saying over them certain words, put them under their pillows and so dream of their true-loves.] [footnote : they also throw balls of yarn (which must be black) over their left shoulders into old lime-kilns, holding one end and then winding it in till they feel it somehow caught, and expect to see in the darkness the face of their lover.] [footnote : also they look for his face in old wells.] a memory low sounds of night that drip upon the ear, the plumed lapwing's cry, the curlew's call, clear in the far dark heard, a sound as drear as raindrops pelted from a nodding rush to give a white wink once and broken fall into a deep dark pool: they pain the hush, as if the fiery meteor's slanting lance had found their empty craws: they fill with sound the silence, with the merry round, the sounding mazes of a last year's dancer i thought to watch the stars come spark by spark out on the muffled night, and watch the moon go round the full, and turn upon the dark, and sharpen towards the new, and waiting watch the grand kaleidoscope of midnight noon change colours on the dew, where high hills notch the low and moony sky. but who dare cast one brief hour's horoscope, whose tunéd ear makes every sound the music of last year? whose hopes are built up in the door of past? no, not more silent does the spider stitch a cobweb on the fern, nor fogdrops fall on sheaves of harvest when the night is rich with moonbeams, than the spirits of delight walk the dark passages of memory's hall. we feel them not, but in the wastes of night we hear their low-voiced mediums, and we rise to wrestle old regrets, to see old faces, to meet and part in old tryst-trodden places with breaking heart, and emptying of eyes. i feel the warm hand on my shoulder light, i hear the music of a voice that words the slow time of the feet, i see the white arms slanting, and the dimples fold and fill.... i hear wing-flutters of the early birds, i see the tide of morning landward spill, the cloaking maidens, hear the voice that tells "you'd never know" and "soon perhaps again," with white teeth biting down the inly pain, then sounds of going away and sad farewells a year ago! it seems but yesterday. yesterday! and a hundred years! all one. 'tis laid a something finished, dark, away, to gather mould upon the shelves of time. what matters hours or æons when 'tis gone? and yet the heart will dust it of its grime, and hover round it in a silver spell, be lost in it and cry aloud in fear; and like a lost soul in a pious ear, hammer in mine a never easy bell. a song my heart has flown on wings to you, away in the lonely places where your footsteps lie full up of stars when the short showers of day have passed like ancient sorrows. i would fly to your green solitude of woods to hear you singing in the sounds of leaves and birds; but i am sad below the depth of words that nevermore we two shall draw anear. had i but wealth of land and bleating flocks and barnfuls of the yellow harvest yield, and a large house with climbing hollyhocks and servant maidens singing in the field, you'd love me; but i own no roaming herds, my only wealth is songs of love for you, and now that you are lost i may pursue a sad life deep below the depth of words. a fear i roamed the woods to-day and seemed to hear, as dante heard, the voice of suffering trees. the twisted roots seemed bare contorted knees, the bark was full of faces strange with fear. i hurried home still wrapt in that dark spell, and all the night upon the world's great lie i pondered, and a voice seemed whisp'ring nigh, "you died long since, and all this thing is hell!" the coming poet "is it far to the town?" said the poet, as he stood 'neath the groaning vane, and the warm lights shimmered silver on the skirts of the windy rain. "there are those who call me," he pleaded, "and i'm wet and travel sore." but nobody spoke from the shelter. and he turned from the bolted door. and they wait in the town for the poet with stones at the gates, and jeers, but away on the wolds of distance in the blue of a thousand years he sleeps with the age that knows him, in the clay of the unborn, dead, rest at his weary insteps, fame at his crumbled head. the vision on the brink to-night when you sit in the deep hours alone, and from the sleeps you snatch wake quick and feel you hear my step upon the threshold-stone, my hand upon the doorway latchward steal, be sure 'tis but the white winds of the snow, for i shall come no more and when the candle in the pane is wore, and moonbeams down the hill long shadows throw, when night's white eyes are in the chinky door, think of a long road in a valley low, think of a wanderer in the distance far, lost like a voice among the scattered hills. and when the moon has gone and ocean spills its waters backward from the trysting bar, and in dark furrows of the night there tills a jewelled plough, and many a falling star moves you to prayer, then will you think of me on the long road that will not ever end. jonah is hoarse in nineveh--i'd lend my voice to save the town--and hurriedly goes abraham with murdering knife, and ruth is weary in the corn.... yet will i stay, for one flower blooms upon the rocks of truth, god is in all our hurry and delay. to lord dunsany (on his return from east africa) for you i knit these lines, and on their ends hang little tossing bells to ring you home. the music is all cracked, and poesy tends to richer blooms than mine; but you who roam thro' coloured gardens of the highest muse, and leave the door ajar sometimes that we may steal small breathing things of reds and blues and things of white sucked empty by the bee, will listen to this bunch of bells from me. my cowslips ring you welcome to the land your muse brings honour to in many a tongue, not only that i long to clasp your hand, but that you're missed by poets who have sung and viewed with doubt the music of their verse all the long winter, for you love to bring the true note in and say the wise thing terse, and show what birds go lame upon a wing, and where the weeds among the flowers do spring. on an oaten straw my harp is out of tune, and so i take an oaten straw some shepherd dropped of old. it is the hour when beauty doth awake with trembling limbs upon the dewy cold. and shapes of green show where the woolly fold slept in the winding shelter of the brake. this i will pipe for you, how all the year the one i love like beauty takes her way. wrapped in the wind of winter she doth cheer the loud woods like a sunbeam of the may. this i will pipe for you the whole blue day seated with pan upon the mossy weir. evening in february the windy evening drops a grey old eyelid down across the sun, the last crow leaves the ploughman's way and happy lambs make no more fun. wild parsley buds beside my feet, a doubtful thrush makes hurried tune, the steeple in the village street doth seem to pierce the twilight moon. i hear and see those changing charms, for all--my thoughts are fixed upon the hurry and the loud alarms before the fall of babylon. the sister i saw the little quiet town, and the whitewashed gables on the hill, and laughing children coming down the laneway to the mill. wind-blushes up their faces glowed, and they were happy as could be, the wobbling water never flowed so merry and so free. one little maid withdrew aside to pick a pebble from the sands. her golden hair was long and wide, and there were dimples on her hands. and when i saw her large blue eyes, what was the pain that went thro' me? why did i think on southern skies and ships upon the sea? before the war of cooley at daybreak maeve rose up from where she prayed and took her prophetess across her door to gaze upon her hosts. tall spear and blade burnished for early battle dimly shook the morning's colours, and then maeve said: "look and tell me how you see them now." and then the woman that was lean with knowledge said: "there's crimson on them, and there's dripping red." and a tall soldier galloped up the glen with foam upon his boot, and halted there beside old maeve. she said, "not yet," and turned into her blazing dun, and knelt in prayer one solemn hour, and once again she came and sought her prophetess. with voice that mourned, "how do you see them now?" she asked. "all lame and broken in the noon." and once again the soldier stood before her. "no, not yet." maeve answered his inquiring look and turned once more unto her prayer, and yet once more "how do you see them now?" she asked. "all wet with storm rains, and all broken, and all tore with midnight wolves." and when the soldier came maeve said, "it is the hour." there was a flash of trumpets in the dim, a silver flame of rising shields, loud words passed down the ranks, and twenty feet they saw the lances leap. they passed the dun with one short noisy dash. and turning proud maeve gave the wise one thanks, and sought her chamber in the dun to weep. low-moon land i often look when the moon is low thro' that other window on the wall, at a land all beautiful under snow, blotted with shadows that come and go when the winds rise up and fall. and the form of a beautiful maid in the white silence stands, and beckons me with her hands. and when the cares of the day are laid, like sacred things, in the mart away, i dream of the low-moon land and the maid who will not weary of waiting, or jade of calling to me for aye. and i would go if i knew the sea that lips the shore where the moon is low, for a longing is on me that will not go. the sorrow of findebar "why do you sorrow, child? there is loud cheer in the wide halls, and poets red with wine tell of your eyebrows and your tresses long, and pause to let your royal mother hear the brown bull low amid her silken kine. and you who are the harpstring and the song weep like a memory born of some old pain." and findebar made answer, "i have slain more than cuculain's sword, for i have been the promised meed of every warrior brave in tain bo cualigne wars, and i am sad as is the red banshee that goes to keen above the wet dark of the deep brown grave, for the warm loves that made my memory glad." and her old nurse bent down and took a wild curl from her eye and hung it on her ear, and said, "the woman at the heavy quern, who weeps that she will never bring a child, and sees her sadness in the coming year, will roll up all her beauty like a fern; not you, whose years stretch purple to the end." and findebar, "beside the broad blue bend of the slow river where the dark banks slope wide to the woods sleeps ferdia apart. i loved him, and then drove him for pride's sake to early death, and now i have no hope, for mine is maeve's proud heart, ailill's kind heart, and that is why it pines and will not break." on dream water and so, o'er many a league of sea we sang of those we left behind. our ship split thro' the phosphor free, her white sails pregnant with the wind, and i was wondering in my mind how many would remember me. then red-edged dawn expanded wide, a stony foreland stretched away, and bowed capes gathering round the tide kept many a little homely bay. o joy of living there for aye, o soul so often tried! the death of sualtem after the brown bull passed from cooley's fields and all muirevne was a wail of pain, sualtem came at evening thro' the slain and heard a noise like water rushing loud, a thunder like the noise of mighty shields. and in his dread he shouted: "earth is bowed, the heavens are split and stars make war with stars and the sea runs in fear!" for all his scars he hastened to dun dealgan, and there found it was his son, cuculain, making moan. his hair was red with blood, and he was wound in wicker full of grass, and a cold stone was on his head. "cuculain, is it so?" sualtem said, and then, "my hair is snow, my strength leaks thro' my wounds, but i will die avenging you." and then cuculain said: "not so, old father, but take horse and ride to emain macha, and tell connor this." sualtem from his red lips took a kiss, and turned the stone upon cuculain's head. the lia-macha with a heavy sigh ran up and halted by his wounded side. in emain macha to low lights and song connor was dreaming of the beauteous maeve. he saw her as at first, by shannon's wave, her insteps in the water, mounds of white. it was in spring, and music loud and strong rocked all the coloured woods, and the blue height of heaven was round the lark, and in his heart there was a pain of love. then with a start he wakened as a loud voice from below shouted, "the land is robbed, the women shamed, the children stolen, and cuculain low!" then connor rose, his war-worn soul inflamed, and shouted down for cathbad; then to greet the messenger he hurried to the street. and there he saw sualtem shouting still the message of muirevne 'mid the sound of hurried ducklings and uneasy horse. at sight of him the lia-macha wheeled, so that sualtem fell upon his shield, and his grey head came shouting to the ground. they buried him by moonlight on the hill, and all about him waves the heavy gorse. the maid in low-moon land i know not where she be, and yet i see her waiting white and tall. her eyes are blue, her lips are wet, and move as tho' they'd love to call. i see her shadow on the wall before the changing moon has set. she stands there lovely and alone and up her porch blue creepers swing. the world she moves in is her own, to sun and shade and hasty wing. and i would wed her in the spring, but only i sit here and moan. the death of leag. cuchulain's charioteer conall "i only heard the loud ebb on the sand, the high ducks talking in the chilly sky. the voices that you fancied floated by were wind notes, or the whisper on the trees. but you are still so full of war's red din, you hear impatient hoof-beats up the land when the sea's changing, or a lisping breeze is playing on the waters of the linn." leag "i hear cuchulain's voice, and emer's voice, the lia macha's neigh, the chariot's wheels, farther away a bell bough's drowsy peals; and sleep lays heavy thumbs upon my eyes. i hear cuchulain sing above the chime of one who comes to make the world rejoice, and comes again to blot away the skies, to wipe away the world and roll up time." conall "in the dark ground forever mouth to mouth they kiss thro' all the changes of the world, the grey sea fogs above them are unfurled at evening when the sea walks with the moon, and peace is with them in the long cairn shut. you loved him as the swallow loves the south, and love speaks with you since the evening put mist and white dews upon short shadowed noon." leag "sleep lays his heavy thumbs upon my eyes, shuts out all sounds and shakes me at the wrists. by nanny water where the salty mists weep o'er riangabra let me stand deep beside my father. sleep lays heavy thumbs upon my eyebrows, and i hear the sighs of far loud waters, and a troop that comes with boughs of bells----" conall "they come to you with sleep." the passing of caoilte 'twas just before the truce sang thro' the din caoilte, the thin man, at the war's red end leaned from the crooked ranks and saw his friend fall in the farther fury; so when truce halted advancing spears the thin man came and bending by pale oscar called his name; and then he knew of all who followed finn, he only felt the cool of gavra's dews. and caoilte, the thin man, went down the field to where slow water moved among the whins, and sat above a pool of twinkling fins to court old memories of the fenian men, of how finn's laugh at conan's tale of glee brought down the rowan's boughs on knoc-naree, and how he made swift comets with his shield at moonlight in the fomar's rivered glen. and caoilte, the thin man, was weary now, and nodding in short sleeps of half a dream: there came a golden barge down middle stream, and a tall maiden coloured like a bird pulled noiseless oars, but not a word she said. and caoilte, the thin man, raised up his head and took her kiss upon his throbbing brow, and where they went away what man has heard? growing old we'll fill a provence bowl and pledge us deep the memory of the far ones, and between the soothing pipes, in heavy-lidded sleep, perhaps we'll dream the things that once have been. 'tis only noon and still too soon to die, yet we are growing old, my heart and i. a hundred books are ready in my head to open out where beauty bent a leaf. what do we want with beauty? we are wed like ancient proserpine to dismal grief. and we are changing with the hours that fly, and growing odd and old, my heart and i. across a bed of bells the river flows, and roses dawn, but not for us; we want the new thing ever as the old thing grows spectral and weary on the hills we haunt. and that is why we feast, and that is why we're growing odd and old, my heart and i. after my last song where i shall rest when my last song is over the air is smelling like a feast of wine; and purple breakers of the windy clover shall roll to cool this burning brow of mine; and there shall come to me, when day is told the peace of sleep when i am grey and old. i'm wild for wandering to the far-off places since one forsook me whom i held most dear. i want to see new wonders and new faces beyond east seas; but i will win back here when my last song is sung, and veins are cold as thawing snow, and i am grey and old. oh paining eyes, but not with salty weeping, my heart is like a sod in winter rain; ere you will see those baying waters leaping like hungry hounds once more, how many a pain shall heal; but when my last short song is trolled you'll sleep here on wan cheeks grown thin and old. songs of peace at home a dream of artemis there was soft beauty on the linnet's tongue to see the rainbow's coloured bands arch wide. the thunder darted his red fangs among south mountains, but the east was like a bride drest for the altar at her mother's door weeping between two loves. the fields were pied with may's munificence of flowers, that wore the fashion of the days when eve was young, god's kirtles, ere the first sweet summer died. the blackbird in a thorn of waving white sang bouquets of small tunes that bid me turn from twilight wanderings thro' some old delight i heard in my far memory making mourn. such music fills me with a joy half pain, and beats a track across my life i spurn in sober moments. ah, this wandering brain could play its hurdy-gurdy all the night to vagrant joys of days beyond the bourn. i heard the river warble sweetly nigh to meet the warm salt tide below the weir, and saw a coloured line of cows pass by,-- and then a voice said quickly, "iris here!" "what message now hath hera?" then i woke, an exile in arcadia, and a spear flashed by me, and ten nymphs fleet-footed broke out of the coppice with a silver cry, into the bow of lights to disappear. for one blue minute then there was no sound save water-noise, slow round a rushy bend, and bird-delight, and ripples on the ground of windy flowers that swelling would ascend the coloured hill and break all beautiful and, falling backwards, to the woods would send the full tide of their love. what soft moons pull their moving fragrance? did i ask, and found sad io in far egypt met a friend.-- it was my body thought so, far away in the grey future, not the wild bird tied that is the wandering soul. behind the day we may behold thee, soft one, hunted wide by the loud gadfly; but the truant soul knows thee before thou lay by night's dark side, wed to the dimness; long before its dole was meted it, to be thus pound in clay-- that daubs its whiteness and offends its pride. there were loud questions in the rainbow's end, and hurried answers, and a sound of spears. and through the yellow blaze i saw one bend down on a trembling white knee, and her tears fell down in globes of light, and her small mouth was filled up with a name unspoken. years of waiting love, and all their long, long drought of kisses parched her lips, and did she spend her eyes blue candles searching thro' her fears. "she hath loved ganymede, the stolen boy." said one, and then another, "let us sing to zeus that he may give her living joy above olympus, where the cool hill-spring of lethe bubbles up to bathe the heart sorrow's lean fingers bruised. there eagles wing to eyries in the stars, and when they part their broad dark wings a wind is born to buoy the bee home heavy in the far evening." hymn to zeus "god, whose kindly hand doth sow the rainbow showers on hill and lawn, to make the young sweet grasses grow and fill the udder of the fawn. whose light is life of leaf and flower, and all the colours of the birds. whose song goes on from hour to hour upon the river's liquid words. reach out a golden beam of thine and touch her pain. your finger-tips do make the violets' blue eclipse like milk upon a daisy shine. god, who lights the little stars, and over night the white dew spills. whose hand doth move the season's cars and clouds that mock our pointed hills. whose bounty fills the cow-trod wold, and fills with bread the warm brown sod. who brings us sleep, where we grow old 'til sleep and age together nod. reach out a beam and touch the pain a heart has oozed thro' all the years. your pity dries the morning's tears and fills the world with joy again!" the rainbow's lights were shut, and all the maids stood round the sad nymph in a snow-white ring, she rising spoke, "a blue and soft light bathes me to the fingers. lo, i upward swing!" and round her fell a mantle of blue light. "watch for me on the forehead of evening." and lifting beautiful went out of sight. and all the flowers flowed backward from the glades, an ebb of colours redolent of spring. beauty and love are sisters of the heart, love has no voice, and beauty whispered song. now in my own, drawn silently apart love looked, and beauty sang. i felt a strong pulse on my wrist, a feeling like a pain in my quick heart, for love with gazes long was worshipping at artemis, now lain among the heaving flowers ... i longed to dart and fold her to my breast, nor saw the wrong. she lay there, a tall beauty by her spear, her kirtle falling to her soft round knee. her hair was like the day when evening's near, and her moist mouth might tempt the golden bee. smile's creases ran from dimples pink and deep, and when she raised her arms i loved to see the white mounds of her muscles. gentle sleep threatened her far blue looks. the noisy weir fell into a low murmuring lullaby. and then the flowers came back behind the heel of hunted io: she, poor maid, had fear wide in her eyes looking half back to steal a glimpse of the loud gadfly fiercely near. in her right hand she held planting light, and in her left her train. artemis here raised herself on her palms, and took a white horn from her side and blew a silver peal til three hounds from the coppice did appear. the white nine left the spaces of flowers, and now went calling thro' the wood the hunter's call. young echoes sleeping in the hollow bough took up the shouts and handed them to all their sisters of the crags, 'til all the day was filled with voices loud and musical. i followed them across a tangled way 'til the red deer broke out and took the brow of a wide hill in bounces like a ball. beside swift artemis i joined the chase; we roused up kine and scattered fleecy flocks; crossed at a mill a swift and bubbly race; scaled in a wood of pine the knotty rocks; past a grey vision of a valley town; past swains at labour in their coloured frocks; once saw a boar upon a windy down; once heard a cradle in a lonely place, and saw the red flash of a frightened fox. we passed a garden where three maids in blue were talking of a queen a long time dead. we caught a green glimpse of the sea: then thro' a town all hills; now round a wood we sped and killed our quarry in his native lair. then artemis spun round to me and said, "whence come you?" and i took her long damp hair and made a ball of it, and said, "where you are midnight's dreams of love." she dropped her head, no word she spoke, but, panting in her side, i heard her heart. the trees were all at peace, and lifting slowly on the grey evetide a large and lovely star. then to release her hair, my hand dropped to her girded waist and lay there shyly. "o my love, the lease of your existence is for ever: taste no less with me the love of earth," i cried. "though for so short a while on lands and seas our mortal hearts know beauty, and overblow, and we are dust upon some passing wind, dust and a memory. but for you the snow that so long cloaks the mountains to the knees is no more than a morning. it doth go and summer comes, and leaf upon the trees: still you are fair and young, and nothing find in all man's story that seems long ago. i have not loved on earth the strife for gold, nor the great name that makes immortal man, but all that struggle upward to behold what still is left of beauty undisgraced, the snowdrop at the heel of winter cold and shivering, and the wayward cuckoo chased by lingering march, and, in the thunder's van the poor lambs merry on the meagre wold, by-ways and cast-off things that lie therein, old boots that trod the highways of the world, the schoolboy's broken hoop, the battered bin that heard the ragman's story, blackened places where gipsies camped and circuses made din, fast water and the melancholy traces of sea tides, and poor people madly whirled up, down, and through the black retreats of sin. these things a god might love, and stooping bless with benedictions of eternal song.-- but i have not loved artemis the less for loving these, but deem it noble love to sing of live or dead things in distress and wake memorial memories above. such is the soul that comes to plead with you oh, artemis, to tend you in your needs. at mornings i will bring you bells of dew from honey places, and wild fish from, streams flowing in secret places. i will brew sweet wine of alder for your evening dreams, and pipe you music in the dusky reeds when the four distances give up their blue. and when the white procession of the stars crosses the night, and on their tattered wings, above the forest, cry the loud night-jars, we'll hunt the stag upon the mountain-side, slipping like light between the shadow bars 'til burst of dawn makes every distance wide. oh, artemis--what grief the silence brings! i hear the rolling chariot of mars!" a little boy in the morning he will not come, and still i wait. he whistles at another gate where angels listen. ah, i know he will not come, yet if i go how shall i know he did not pass barefooted in the flowery grass? the moon leans on one silver horn above the silhouettes of morn, and from their nest sills finches whistle or stooping pluck the downy thistle. how is the morn so gay and fair without his whistling in its air? the world is calling, i must go. how shall i know he did not pass barefooted in the shining grass? in barracks to a distant one through wild by-ways i come to you, my love, nor ask of those i meet the surest way, what way i turn i cannot go astray and miss you in my life. though fate may prove a tardy guide she will not make delay leading me through strange seas and distant lands, i'm coming still, though slowly, to your hands. we'll meet one day. there is so much to do, so little done, in my life's space that i perforce did leave love at the moonlit trysting-place to grieve till fame and other little things were won. i have missed much that i shall not retrieve, far will i wander yet with much to do. much will i spurn before i yet meet you, so fair i can't deceive. your name is in the whisper of the woods like beauty calling for a poet's song to one whose harp had suffered many a wrong in the lean hands of pain. and when the broods of flower eyes waken all the streams along in tender whiles, i feel most near to you:-- oh, when we meet there shall be sun and blue strong as the spring is strong. the place blossoms as old as may i scatter here, and a blue wave i lifted from the stream. it shall not know when winter days are drear or march is hoarse with blowing. but a-dream the laurel boughs shall hold a canopy peacefully over it the winter long, till all the birds are back from oversea, and april rainbows win a blackbird's song. and when the war is over i shall take my lute a-down to it and sing again songs of the whispering things amongst the brake, and those i love shall know them by their strain. their airs shall be the blackbird's twilight song, their words shall be all flowers with fresh dews hoar.-- but it is lonely now in winter long, and, god! to hear the blackbird sing once more. may she leans across an orchard gate somewhere, bending from out the shadows to the light, a dappled spray of blossom in her hair studded with dew-drops lovely from the night she smiles to think how many hearts she'll smite with beauty ere her robes fade from the lawn. she hears the robin's cymbals with delight, the skylark in the rosebush of the dawn. for her the cowslip rings its yellow bell, for her the violets watch with wide blue eyes. the wandering cuckoo doth its clear name tell thro' the white mist of blossoms where she lies painting a sunset for the western skies. you'd know her by her smile and by her tear and by the way the swift and martin flies, where she is south of these wild days and drear. to eilish of the fair hair i'd make my heart a harp to play for you love songs within the evening dim of day, were it not dumb with ache and with mildew of sorrow withered like a flower away. it hears so many calls from homeland places, so many sighs from all it will remember, from the pale roads and woodlands where your face is like laughing sunlight running thro' december. but this it singeth loud above its pain, to bring the greater ache: whate'er befall the love that oft-times woke the sweeter strain shall turn to you always. and should you call to pity it some day in those old places angels will covet the loud joy that fills it. but thinking of the by-ways where your face is sunlight on other hearts--ah! how it kills it. in camp crewbawn white clouds that change and pass, and stars that shine awhile, dew water on the grass, a fox upon a stile. a river broad and deep, a slow boat on the waves, my sad thoughts on the sleep that hollows out the graves. evening in england from its blue vase the rose of evening drops. upon the streams its petals float away. the hills all blue with distance hide their tops in the dim silence falling on the grey. a little wind said "hush!" and shook a spray heavy with may's white crop of opening bloom, a silent bat went dipping up the gloom. night tells her rosary of stars full soon, they drop from out her dark hand to her knees. upon a silhouette of woods the moon leans on one horn as if beseeching ease from all her changes which have stirred the seas. across the ears of toil rest throws her veil, i and a marsh bird only make a wail. at sea crocknaharna on the heights of crocknaharna, (oh, the lure of crocknaharna) on a morning fair and early of a dear remembered may, there i heard a colleen singing in the brown rocks and the grey. she, the pearl of crocknaharna, crocknaharna, crocknaharna, wild with girls is crocknaharna twenty hundred miles away. on the heights of crocknaharna, (oh, thy sorrow crocknaharna) on an evening dim and misty of a cold november day, there i heard a woman weeping in the brown rocks and the grey. oh, the pearl of crocknaharna (crocknaharna, crocknaharna), black with grief is crocknaharna twenty hundred miles away. in the mediterranean--going to the war lovely wings of gold and green flit about the sounds i hear, on my window when i lean to the shadows cool and clear. * * * * * roaming, i am listening still, bending, listening overlong, in my soul a steadier will, in my heart a newer song. the gardener among the flowers, like flowers, her slow hands move easing a muffled bell or stooping low to help sweet roses climb the stakes above, where pansies stare and seem to whisper "lo!" like gaudy butterflies her sweet peas blow filling the garden with dim rustlings. clear on the sweet book she reads how long ago there was a garden to a woman dear. she makes her life one grand beatitude of love and peace, and with contented eyes she sees not in the whole world mean or rude, and her small lot she trebly multiplies. and when the darkness muffles up the skies still to be happy is her sole desire, she sings sweet songs about a great emprise, and sees a garden blowing in the fire. in serbia autumn evening in serbia all the thin shadows have closed on the grass, with the drone on their dark wings the night beetles pass. folded her eyelids, a maiden asleep, day sees in her chamber the pallid moon peep. from the bend of the briar the roses are torn, and the folds of the wood tops are faded and worn. a strange bird is singing sweet notes of the sun, tho' song time is over and autumn begun. nocturne the rim of the moon is over the corn. the beetle's drone is above the thorn. grey days come soon and i am alone; can you hear my moan where you rest, aroon? when the wild tree bore the deep blue cherry, in night's deep hall our love kissed merry. but you come no more where its woodlands call, and the grey days fall on my grief, astore! spring and autumn green ripples singing down the corn, with blossoms dumb the path i tread, and in the music of the morn one with wild roses on her head. now the green ripples turn to gold and all the paths are loud with rain, i with desire am growing old and full of winter pain. in greece the departure of proserpine old mother earth for me already grieves, her morns wake weeping and her noons are dim, silence has left her woods, and all the leaves dance in the windy shadows on the rim of the dull lake thro' which i soon shall pass to my dark bridal bed down in the hollow chambers of the dead. will not the thunder hide me if i call, wrapt in the corner of some distant star the gods have never known? alas! alas! my voice has left with the last wing, my fall shall crush the flowery fields with gloom, as far as swallows fly. would i might die and in a solitude of roses lie as the last bud's outblown. then nevermore demeter would be heard wail in the blowing rain, but every shower would come bound up with rainbows to the birds wrapt in a dusty wing, and the dry flower hanging a shrivelled lip. this weary change from light to darkness fills my heart with twilight, and my brightest day dawns over thunder and in thunder spills its urn of gladness with a sadness through which the slow dews drip and the bat goes over on a thorny wing. is it a dream that once i used to sing from Ægean shores across her rocky isles, making the bells of babylon to ring over the wiles that lifted me from darkness to the spring and the king seeing his wine in blossom on the tree danced with the queen a merry roundelay, and all the blue circumference of the day was loud with flying song.---- --but let me pass along: what brooks it the unfree to thus delay? no secret turning leads from the gods' way. the homecoming of the sheep the sheep are coming home in greece, hark the bells on every hill! flock by flock, and fleece by fleece, wandering wide a little piece thro' the evening red and still, stopping where the pathways cease, cropping with a hurried will. thro' the cotton-bushes low merry boys with shouldered crooks close them in a single row, shout among them as they go with one bell-ring o'er the brooks. such delight you never know reading it from gilded books. before the early stars are bright cormorants and sea-gulls call, and the moon comes large and white filling with a lovely light the ferny curtained waterfall. then sleep wraps every bell up tight and the climbing moon grows small. when love and beauty wander away when love and beauty wander away, and there's no more hearts to be sought and won, when the old earth limps thro' the dreary day, and the work of the seasons cry undone: ah! what shall we do for a song to sing, who have known beauty, and love, and spring? when love and beauty wander away, and a pale fear lies on the cheeks of youth, when there's no more goal to strive for and pray, and we live at the end of the world's untruth: ah! what shall we do for a heart to prove, who have known beauty, and spring, and love? in hospital in egypt my mother god made my mother on an april day, from sorrow and the mist along the sea, lost birds' and wanderers' songs and ocean spray and the moon loved her wandering jealously. beside the ocean's din she combed her hair, singing the nocturne of the passing ships, before her earthly lover found her there and kissed away the music from her lips. she came unto the hills and saw the change that brings the swallow and the geese in turns. but there was not a grief she deeméd strange, for there is that in her which always mourns. kind heart she has for all on hill or wave whose hopes grew wings like ants to fly away. i bless the god who such a mother gave this poor bird-hearted singer of a day. song nothing but sweet music wakes my beloved, my beloved. sleeping by the blue lakes, my own beloved! song of lark and song of thrush, my beloved! my beloved! sing in morning's rosy bush, my own beloved! when your eyes dawn blue and clear, my beloved! my beloved! you will find me waiting here, my own beloved! to one dead a blackbird singing on a moss upholstered stone, bluebells swinging, shadows wildly blown, a song in the wood, a ship on the sea. the song was for you and the ship was for me. a blackbird singing i hear in my troubled mind, bluebells swinging i see in a distant wind. but sorrow and silence are the wood's threnody, the silence for you and the sorrow for me. the resurrection my true love still is all that's fair, she is flower and blossom blowing free, for all her silence lying there she sings a spirit song to me. new lovers seek her in her bower, the rain, the dew, the flying wind, and tempt her out to be a flower, which throws a shadow on my mind. the shadow people old lame bridget doesn't hear fairy music in the grass when the gloaming's on the mere and the shadow people pass: never hears their slow grey feet coming from the village street just beyond the parson's wall, where the clover globes are sweet and the mushroom's parasol opens in the moonlit rain. every night i hear them call from their long and merry train. old lame bridget says to me, "it is just your fancy, child," she cannot believe i see laughing faces in the wild, hands that twinkle in the sedge bowing at the water's edge where the finny minnows quiver, shaping on a blue wave's ledge bubble foam to sail the river. and the sunny hands to me beckon ever, beckon ever. oh! i would be wild and free and with the shadow people be. in barracks an old desire i searched thro' memory's lumber-room and there i found an old desire, i took it gently from the gloom to cherish by my scanty tire. and all the night a sweet-voiced one, sang of the place my loves abide, til earth leaned over from the dawn and hid the last star in her side. and often since, when most alone, i ponder on my old desire, but never hear the sweet-voiced one, and there are ruins in my fire. thomas mcdonagh he shall not hear the bittern cry in the wild sky, where he is lain, nor voices of the sweeter birds above the wailing of the rain. nor shall he know when loud march blows thro' slanting snows her fanfare shrill, blowing to flame the golden cup of many an upset daffodil. but when the dark cow leaves the moor, and pastures poor with greedy weeds, perhaps he'll hear her low at morn lifting her horn in pleasant meads. the wedding morning spread the feast, and let there be such music heard as best beseems a king's son coming from the sea to wed a maiden of the streams. poets, pale for long ago, bring sweet sounds from rock and flood, you by echo's accent know where the water is and wood. harpers whom the moths of time bent and wrinkled dusty brown, her chains are falling with a chime, sweet as bells in heaven town. but, harpers, leave your harps aside, and, poets, leave awhile your dreams. the storm has come upon the tide and cathleen weeps among her streams. the blackbirds i heard the poor old woman say: "at break of day the fowler came, and took my blackbirds from their songs who loved me well thro shame and blame. no more from lovely distances their songs shall bless me mile by mile, nor to white ashbourne call me down to wear my crown another while. with bended flowers the angels mark for the skylark the place they lie, from there its little family shall dip their wings first in the sky. and when the first surprise of flight sweet songs excite, from the far dawn shall there come blackbirds loud with love, sweet echoes of the singers gone. but in the lonely hush of eve weeping i grieve the silent bills." i heard the poor old woman say in derry of the little hills. the lure i saw night leave her halos down on mitylene's dark mountain isle, the silhouette of one fair town like broken shadows in a pile. and in the farther dawn i heard the music of a foreign bird. in fields of shady angles now i stand and dream in the half dark: the thrush is on the blossomed bough, above the echoes sings the lark, and little rivers drop between hills fairer than dark mitylene. yet something calls me with no voice and wakes sweet echoes in my mind; in the fair country of my choice nor peace nor love again i find, nor anything of rest i know when south-east winds are blowing low. thro' bogac ban i met the silent wandering man, thro' bogac ban he made his way, humming a slow old irish tune, on joseph plunkett's wedding day. and all the little whispering things that love the springs of bogac ban, spread some new rumour round the dark and turned their faces from the dawn. * * * * * my hand upon my harp i lay, i cannot say what things i know; to meet the silent wandering man of bogac ban once more i go. fate lugh made a stir in the air with his sword of cries, and fairies thro' hidden ways came from the skies, and their spells withered up the fair and vanquished the wise. and old lame balor came down with his gorgon eye hidden behind its lid, old, withered and dry. he looked on the wattle town, and the town passed by. these things i know in my dreams, the crying sword of lugh, and balor's ancient eye searching me through, withering up my songs and my pipe yet new. evening clouds a little flock of clouds go down to rest in some blue corner off the moon's highway, with shepherd winds that shook them in the west to borrowed shapes of earth, in bright array, perhaps to weave a rainbow's gay festoons around the lonesome isle which brooke has made a little england full of lovely noons, or dot it with his country's mountain shade. ah, little wanderers, when you reach that isle tell him, with dripping dew, they have not failed, what he loved most; for late i roamed awhile thro' english fields and down her rivers sailed; and they remember him with beauty caught from old desires of oriental spring heard in his heart with singing overwrought; and still on purley common gooseboys sing. song the winds are scented with woods after rain, and a raindrop shines in the daisy's eye. shall we follow the swallow again, again, ah! little yearning thing, you and i? you and i to the south again, and heart! oh, heart, how you shall sigh, for the kind soft wind that follows the rain, and the raindrop shed from the daisy's eye. the herons as i was climbing ardan mor from the shore of sheelan lake, i met the herons coming down before the water's wake. and they were talking in their flight of dreamy ways the herons go when all the hills are withered up nor any waters flow. in the shadows the silent music of the flowers wind-mingled shall not fail to cheer the lonely hours when i no more am here. then in some shady willow place take up the book my heart has made, and hide your face against my name which was a shade. the ships of arcady thro' the faintest filigree over the dim waters go little ships of arcady when the morning moon is low. i can hear the sailors' song from the blue edge of the sea, passing like the lights along thro' the dusky filigree. then where moon and waters meet sail by sail they pass away, with little friendly winds replete blowing from the breaking day. and when the little ships have flown, dreaming still of arcady i look across the waves, alone in the misty filigree. after and in the after silences of flower-lit distances i'll be, and who would find me travels far in lands unsung of minstrelsy. strong winds shall cross my secret way, and planet mountains hide my goal, i shall go on from pass to pass, by monstrous rocks, a lonely soul. to one weeping maiden, these are sacred tears, let me not disturb your grief! had i but your bosom's fears i should weep, nor seek relief. my woe is a silent woe 'til i give it measured rhyme, when the blackbird's flute is low in my heart at singing time. a dream dance maeve held a ball on the dún, cuculain and eimer were there, in the light of an old broken moon i was dancing with deirdre the fair. how loud was the laughter of finn as he blundered about thro' a reel, tripping up caoilte the thin, or jostling the dreamy aleel. and when the dance ceased for a song, how sweet was the singing of fand, we could hear her far, wandering along, my hand in that beautiful hand. by faughan for hills and woods and streams unsung i pipe above a rippled cove. and here the weaver autumn hung between the hills a wind she wove from sounds the hills remember yet of purple days and violet. the hills stand up to trip the sky, sea-misted, and along the tops wing after wing goes summer by, and many a little roadway stops and starts, and struggles to the sea, cutting them up in filigree. twixt wind and silence faughan flows, in music broken over rocks, like mingled bells the poet knows ring in the fields of eastern flocks. and here this song for you i find between the silence and the wind. in september still are the meadowlands, and still ripens the upland corn, and over the brown gradual hill the moon has dipped a horn. the voices of the dear unknown with silent hearts now call, my rose of youth is overblown and trembles to the fall. my song forsakes me like the birds that leave the rain and grey, i hear the music of the words my lute can never say. last songs to an old quill of lord dunsany's before you leave my hands' abuses to lie where many odd things meet you, neglected darkling of the muses, i, the last of singers, greet you. snug in some white wing they found you, on the common bleak and muddy, noisy goslings gobbling round you in the pools of sunset, ruddy. have you sighed in wings untravelled for the heights where others view the bluer widths of heaven, and marvelled at the utmost top of beauty? no! it cannot be; the soul you sigh with craves nor begs of us. from such heights a poet stole you from a wing of pegasus. you have been where gods were sleeping in the dawn of new creations, ere they woke to woman's weeping at the broken thrones of nations. you have seen this old world shattered by old gods it disappointed, lying up in darkness, battered by wild comets, unanointed. but for beauty unmolested have you still the sighing olden? i know mountains heather-crested, waters white, and waters golden. there i'd keep you, in the lowly beauty-haunts of bird and poet, sailing in a wing, the holy silences of lakes below it. but i leave you by where no man finds you, when i too be gone from the puddles on this common over the dark rubicon. _londonderry,_ _september th, ._ to a sparrow because you have no fear to mingle wings with those of greater part, so like me, with song i single your sweet impudence of heart. and when prouder feathers go where summer holds her leafy show, you still come to us from nowhere like grey leaves across the snow. in back ways where odd and end go to your meals you drop down sure, knowing every broken window of the hospitable poor. there is no bird half so harmless, none so sweetly rude as you, none so common and so charmless, none of virtues nude as you. but for all your faults i love you, for you linger with us still, though the wintry winds reprove you and the snow is on the hill. _londonderry,_ _september th, ._ old clo' i was just coming in from the garden, or about to go fishing for eels, and, smiling, i asked you to pardon my boots very low at the heels. and i thought that you never would go, as you stood in the doorway ajar, for my heart would keep saying, "old clo', you're found out at last as you are." i was almost ashamed to acknowledge that i was the quarry you sought, for was i not bred in a college and reared in a mansion, you thought. and now in the latest style cut with fortune more kinder i go to welcome you half-ways. ah! but i was nearer the gods when "old clo'." youth she paved the way with perfume sweet of flowers that moved like winds alight, and never weary grew my feet wandering through the spring's delight. she dropped her sweet fife to her lips and lured me with her melodies, to where the great big wandering ships put out into the peaceful seas. but when the year grew chill and brown, and all the wings of summer flown, within the tumult of a town she left me to grow old alone. the little children hunger points a bony finger to the workhouse on the hill, but the little children linger while there's flowers to gather still for my sunny window sill. in my hands i take their faces, smiling to my smiles they run. would that i could take their places where the murky bye-ways shun the benedictions of the sun. how they laugh and sing returning lightly on their secret way. while i listen in my yearning their laughter fills the windy day with gladness, youth and may. autumn now leafy winds are blowing cold, and south by west the sun goes down, a quiet huddles up the fold in sheltered corners of the brown. like scattered fire the wild fruit strews the ground beneath the blowing tree, and there the busy squirrel hews his deep and secret granary. and when the night comes starry clear, the lonely quail complains beside the glistening waters on the mere where widowed beauties yet abide. and i, too, make my own complaint upon a reed i plucked in june, and love to hear it echoed faint upon another heart in tune. _londonderry,_ _september th, ._ ireland i called you by sweet names by wood and linn, you answered not because my voice was new, and you were listening for the hounds of finn and the long hosts of lugh. and so, i came unto a windy height and cried my sorrow, but you heard no wind, for you were listening to small ships in flight, and the wail on hills behind. and then i left you, wandering the war armed with will, from distant goal to goal, to find you at the last free as of yore, or die to save your soul. and then you called to us from far and near to bring your crown from out the deeps of time, it is my grief your voice i couldn't hear in such a distant clime. lady fair lady fair, have we not met in our lives elsewhere? darkling in my mind to-night faint fair faces dare memory's old unfaithfulness to what was true and fair. long of memory is regret, but what regret has taken flight through my memory's silences? lo! i turn it to the light. 'twas but a pleasure in distress, too faint and far off for redress. but some light glancing in your hair and in the liquid of your eyes seem to murmur old good-byes in our lives elsewhere. have we not met, lady fair? _londonderry,_ _october th, ._ at a poet's grave when i leave down this pipe my friend and sleep with flowers i loved, apart, my songs shall rise in wilding things whose roots are in my heart. and here where that sweet poet sleeps i hear the songs he left unsung, when winds are fluttering the flowers and summer-bells are rung. _november, ._ after court martial my mind is not my mind, therefore i take no heed of what men say, i lived ten thousand years before god cursed the town of nineveh. the present is a dream i see of horror and loud sufferings, at dawn a bird will waken me unto my place among the kings. and though men called me a vile name, and all my dream companions gone, 'tis i the soldier bears the shame. not i the king of babylon. a mother's song little ships of whitest pearl with sailors who were ancient kings, come over the sea when my little girl sings. and if my little girl should weep, little ships with torn sails go headlong down among the deep whales. _november, ._ at currabwee every night at currabwee little men with leather hats mend the boots of faery from the tough wings of the bats. so my mother told to me, and she is wise you will agree. louder than a cricket's wing all night long their hammer's glee times the merry songs they sing of ireland glorious and free. so i heard joseph plunkett say, you know he heard them but last may. and when the night is very cold they warm their hands against the light of stars that make the waters gold where they are labouring all the night. so pearse said, and he knew the truth, among the stars he spent his youth. and i, myself, have often heard their singing as the stars went by, for am i not of those who reared the banner of old ireland high, from dublin town to turkey's shores, and where the vardar loudly roars? _december, ._ song-time is over i will come no more awhile, o song-time is over. a fire is burning in my heart, i was ever a rover. you will hear me no more awhile, the birds are dumb, and a voice in the distance calls "come," and "come," _december th, ._ una bawn una bawn, the days are long, and the seas i cross are wide, i must go when ireland needs, and you must bide. and should i not return to you when the sails are on the tide, 'tis you will find the days so long, una bawn, and i must bide. _december th, ._ spring love i saw her coming through the flowery grass, round her swift ankles butterfly and bee blent loud and silent wings; i saw her pass where foam-bows shivered on the sunny sea. then came the swallow crowding up the dawn, and cuckoo-echoes filled the dewy south. i left my love upon the hill, alone, my last kiss burning on her lovely mouth. b.e.f.--_december th, ._ soliloquy when i was young i had a care lest i should cheat me of my share of that which makes it sweet to strive for life, and dying still survive, a name in sunshine written higher than lark or poet dare aspire. but i grew weary doing well, besides, 'twas sweeter in that hell, down with the loud banditti people who robbed the orchards, climbed the steeple for jackdaws' eggs and made the cock crow ere 'twas daylight on the clock. i was so very bad the neighbours spoke of me at their daily labours. and now i'm drinking wine in france, the helpless child of circumstance. to-morrow will be loud with war, how will i be accounted for? it is too late now to retrieve a fallen dream, too late to grieve a name unmade, but not too late to thank the gods for what is great; a keen-edged sword, a soldier's heart, is greater than a poet's art. and greater than a poet's fame a little grave that has no name. dawn quiet miles of golden sky, and in my heart a sudden flower. i want to clap my hands and cry for beauty in her secret bower. quiet golden miles of dawn--smiling all the east along; and in my heart nigh fully blown a little rose-bud of a song. ceol sidhe[ ] when may is here, and every morn is dappled with pied bells, and dewdrops glance along the thorn and wings flash in the dells, i take my pipe and play a tune of dreams, a whispered melody, for feet that dance beneath the moon in fairy jollity. and when the pastoral hills are grey and the dim stars are spread, a scamper fills the grass like play of feet where fairies tread. and many a little whispering thing is calling to the shee. the dewy bells of evening ring, and all is melody. _france,_ _december th, ._ [footnote : fairy music.] the rushes the rushes nod by the river as the winds on the loud waves go, and the things they nod of are many, for it's many the secret they know. and i think they are wise as the fairies who lived ere the hills were high, they nod so grave by the river to everyone passing by. if they would tell me their secrets i would go by a hidden way, to the rath when the moon retiring dips dim horns into the gray. and a fairy-girl out of leinster in a long dance i should meet, my heart to her heart beating, my feet in rhyme with her feet. _france,_ _january th, ._ the dead kings all the dead kings came to me at rosnaree, where i was dreaming. a few stars glimmered through the morn, and down the thorn the dews were streaming. and every dead king had a story of ancient glory, sweetly told. it was too early for the lark, but the starry dark had tints of gold. i listened to the sorrows three of that eirë passed into song. a cock crowed near a hazel croft, and up aloft dim larks winged strong. and i, too, told the kings a story of later glory, her fourth sorrow: there was a sound like moving shields in high green fields and the lowland furrow. and one said: "we who yet are kings have heard these things lamenting inly." sweet music flowed from many a bill and on the hill the morn stood queenly. and one said: "over is the singing, and bell bough ringing, whence we come; with heavy hearts we'll tread the shadows, in honey meadows birds are dumb." and one said: "since the poets perished and all they cherished in the way, their thoughts unsung, like petal showers inflame the hours of blue and gray." and one said: "a loud tramp of men we'll hear again at rosnaree." a bomb burst near me where i lay. i woke, 'twas day in picardy. _france,_ _january th, ._ in france the silence of maternal hills is round me in my evening dreams; and round me music-making bills and mingling waves of pastoral streams. whatever way i turn i find the path is old unto me still. the hills of home are in my mind, and there i wander as i will. _february rd, ._ had i a golden pound (after the irish) had i a golden pound to spend, my love should mend and sew no more. and i would buy her a little quern, easy to turn on the kitchen floor. and for her windows curtains white, with birds in flight and flowers in bloom, to face with pride the road to town, and mellow down her sunlit room. and with the silver change we'd prove the truth of love to life's own end, with hearts the years could but embolden, had i a golden pound to spend. _february th, ._ fairies maiden-poet, come with me to the heaped up cairn of maeve, and there we'll dance a fairy dance upon a fairy's grave. in and out among the trees, filling all the night with sound, the morning, strung upon her star, shall chase us round and round. what are we but fairies too, living but in dreams alone, or, at the most, but children still, innocent and overgrown? _february th,_ . in a cafÉ kiss the maid and pass her round, lips like hers were made for many. our loves are far from us to-night, but these red lips are sweet as any. let no empty glass be seen aloof from our good table's sparkle, at the acme of our cheer here are francs to keep the circle. they are far who miss us most--sip and kiss--how well we love them, battling through the world to keep their hearts at peace, their god above them. _february th, ._ spring once more the lark with song and speed cleaves through the dawn, his hurried bars fall, like the flute of ganymede twirling and whistling from the stars. the primrose and the daffodil surprise the valleys, and wild thyme is sweet on every little hill, when lambs come down at folding time. in every wild place now is heard the magpie's noisy house, and through the mingled tunes of many a bird the ruffled wood-dove's gentle coo. sweet by the river's noisy brink the water-lily bursts her crown, the kingfisher comes down to drink like rainbow jewels falling down. and when the blue and grey entwine the daisy shuts her golden eye, and peaces-wraps all those hills of mine safe in my dearest memory. _france,_ _march th, ._ pan he knows the safe ways and unsafe and he will lead the lambs to fold, gathering them with his merry pipe, the gentle and the overbold. he counts them over one by one, and leads them back by cliff and steep, to grassy hills where dawn is wide, and they may run and skip and leap. and just because he loves the lambs he settles them for rest at noon, and plays them on his oaten pipe the very wonder of a tune. _france,_ _march th, ._ with flowers these have more language than my song, take them and let them speak for me. i whispered them a secret thing down the green lanes of allary. you shall remember quiet ways watching them fade, and quiet eyes, and two hearts given up to love, a foolish and an overwise. _france,_ _april, ._ the find i took a reed and blew a tune, and sweet it was and very clear to be about a little thing that only few hold dear. three times the cuckoo named himself, but nothing heard him on the hill, where i was piping like an elf the air was very still. 'tw'as all about a little thing i made a mystery of sound, i found it in a fairy ring upon a fairy mound. _june nd, ._ a fairy hunt who would hear the fairy horn calling all the hounds of finn must be in a lark's nest born when the moon is very thin. i who have the gift can hear hounds and horn and tally ho, and the tongue of bran as clear as christmas bells across the snow. and beside my secret place hurries by the fairy fox, with the moonrise on his face, up and down the mossy rocks. then the music of a horn and the flash of scarlet men, thick as poppies in the corn all across the dusky glen. oh! the mad delight of chase! oh! the shouting and the cheer! many an owl doth leave his place in the dusty tree to hear. to one who comes now and then when you come in, it seems a brighter fire crackles upon the hearth invitingly, the household routine which was wont to tire grows full of novelty. you sit upon our home-upholstered chair and talk of matters wonderful and strange, of books, and travel, customs old which dare the gods of time and change. till we with inner word our care refute laughing that this our bosoms yet assails, while there are maidens dancing to a flute in andalusian vales. and sometimes from my shelf of poems you take and secret meanings to our hearts disclose, as when the winds of june the mid bush shake we see the hidden rose. and when the shadows muster, and each tree a moment flutters, full of shutting wings, you take the fiddle and mysteriously wake wonders on the strings. and in my garden, grey with misty flowers, low echoes fainter than a beetle's horn fill all the corners with it, like sweet showers of bells, in the owl's morn. come often, friend, with welcome and surprise we'll greet you from the sea or from the town; come when you like and from whatever skies above you smile or frown. _belgium,_ _july nd, _. the sylph i saw you and i named a flower that lights with blue a woodland space, i named a bird of the red hour and a hidden fairy place. and then i saw you not, and knew dead leaves were whirling down the mist, and something lost was crying through an evening of amethyst. home a burst of sudden wings at dawn, faint voices in a dreamy noon, evenings of mist and murmurings, and nights with rainbows of the moon. and through these things a wood-way dim, and waters dim, and slow sheep seen on uphill paths that wind away through summer sounds and harvest green. this is a song a robin sang this morning on a broken tree, it was about the little fields that call across the world to me. _belgium,_ _july, ._ the lanawn shee powdered and perfumed the full bee winged heavily across the clover, and where the hills were dim with dew, purple and blue the west leaned over. a willow spray dipped in the stream, moving a gleam of silver ringing, and by a finny creek a maid filled all the shade with softest singing. listening, my heart and soul at strife, on the edge of life i seemed to hover, for i knew my love had come at last, that my joy was past and my gladness over. i tiptoed gently tip and stooped above her looped and shining tresses, and asked her of her kin and name, and why she came from fairy places. she told me of a sunny coast beyond the most adventurous sailor, where she had spent a thousand years out of the fears that now assail her. and there, she told me, honey drops out of the tops of ash and willow, and in the mellow shadow sleep doth sweetly keep her poppy pillow. nor autumn with her brown line marks the time of larks, the length of roses, but song-time there is over never nor flower-time ever, ever closes. and wildly through uncurling ferns fast water turns down valleys singing, filling with scented winds the dales, setting the bells of sleep a-ringing. and when the thin moon lowly sinks, through cloudy chinks a silver glory lingers upon the left of night till dawn delights the meadows hoary. and by the lakes the skies are white, (oh, the delight!) when swans are coming, among the flowers sweet joy-bells peal, and quick bees wheel in drowsy humming. the squirrel leaves her dusty house and in the boughs makes fearless gambol, and, falling down in fire-drops, red, the fruit is shed from every bramble. then, gathered all about the trees glad galaxies of youth are dancing, treading the perfume of the flowers, filling the hours with mazy glancing. and when the dance is done, the trees are left to peace and the brown woodpecker, and on the western slopes of sky the day's blue eye begins to flicker. but at the sighing of the leaves, when all earth grieves for lights departed an ancient and a sad desire steals in to tire the human-hearted. no fairy aid can save them now nor turn their prow upon the ocean, the hundred years that missed each heart above them start their wheels in motion. and so our loves are lost, she sighed, and far and wide we seek new treasure, for who on time or timeless hills can live the ills of loveless leisure? ("fairer than usna's youngest son, o, my poor one, what flower-bed holds you? or, wrecked upon the shores of home, what wave of foam with white enfolds you? "you rode with kings on hills of green, and lovely queens have served you banquet, sweet wine from berries bruised they brought and shyly sought the lips which drank it. "but in your dim grave of the sea there shall not be a friend to love you. and ever heedless of your loss the earth ships cross the storms above you. "and still the chase goes on, and still the wine shall spill, and vacant places be given over to the new as love untrue keeps changing faces. "and i must wander with my song far from the young till love returning, brings me the beautiful reward of some heart stirred by my long yearning.") friend, have you heard a bird lament when sleet is sent for april weather? as beautiful she told her grief, as down through leaf and flower i led her. and friend, could i remain unstirred without a word for such a sorrow? say, can the lark forget the cloud when poppies shroud the seeded furrow? like a poor widow whose late grief seeks for relief in lonely byeways, the moon, companionless and dim, took her dull rim through starless highways. i was too weak with dreams to feel enchantment steal with guilt upon me, she slipped, a flower upon the wind, and laughed to find how she had won me. from hill to hill, from land to land, her lovely hand is beckoning for me, i follow on through dangerous zones, cross dead men's bones and oceans stormy. some day i know she'll wait at last and lock me fast in white embraces, and down mysterious ways of love we two shall move to fairy places. _belgium,_ _july, ._ picture-show by siegfried sassoon author of "the old huntsman," "counter-attack," etc. new york e. p. dutton & company fifth avenue copyright, , by e. p. dutton & company _all rights reserved_ printed in the united states of america to john masefield contents picture-show reconciliation concert party night on the convoy the dug-out battalion-relief in an underground dressing station i stood with the dead memorial tablet atrocities to leonide massine memory to a very wise man early chronology elegy miracles the goldsmith devotion to duty ancient history sporting acquaintances what the captain said at the point-to-point cinema hero fancy dress middle-ages the portrait butterflies wraiths phantom the dark house idyll parted lovers slumber-song the imperfect lover vision to a childless woman aftermath falling asleep prelude to an unwritten masterpiece limitations everyone sang picture-show picture-show and still they come and go: and this is all i know-- that from the gloom i watch an endless picture-show, where wild or listless faces flicker on their way, with glad or grievous hearts i'll never understand because time spins so fast, and they've no time to stay beyond the moment's gesture of a lifted hand. and still, between the shadow and the blinding flame, the brave despair of men flings onward, ever the same as in those doom-lit years that wait them, and have been... and life is just the picture dancing on a screen. reconciliation when you are standing at your hero's grave, or near some homeless village where he died, remember, through your heart's rekindling pride, the german soldiers who were loyal and brave. men fought like brutes; and hideous things were done; and you have nourished hatred, harsh and blind. but in that golgotha perhaps you'll find the mothers of the men who killed your son. _november, ._ concert party (egyptian base camp) they are gathering round... out of the twilight; over the grey-blue sand, shoals of low-jargoning men drift inward to the sound-- the jangle and throb of a piano ... tum-ti-tum... drawn by a lamp, they come out of the glimmering lines of their tents, over the shuffling sand. o sing us the songs, the songs of our own land, you warbling ladies in white. dimness conceals the hunger in our faces, this wall of faces risen out of the night, these eyes that keep their memories of the places so long beyond their sight. jaded and gay, the ladies sing; and the chap in brown tilts his grey hat; jaunty and lean and pale, he rattles the keys.... some actor-bloke from town... god send you home; and then _a long, long trail_; _i hear you calling me_; and _dixieland_.... sing slowly ... now the chorus ... one by one we hear them, drink them; till the concert's done. silent, i watch the shadowy mass of soldiers stand. silent, they drift away, over the glimmering sand. kantara. _april, _. night on the convoy (alexandria-marseilles) out in the blustering darkness, on the deck a gleam of stars looks down. long blurs of black, the lean destroyers, level with our track, plunging and stealing, watch the perilous way through backward racing seas and caverns of chill spray. one sentry by the davits, in the gloom stands mute: the boat heaves onward through the night. shrouded is every chink of cabined light: and sluiced by floundering waves that hiss and boom and crash like guns, the troop-ship shudders ... doom. now something at my feet stirs with a sigh; and slowly growing used to groping dark, i know that the hurricane-deck, down all its length, is heaped and spread with lads in sprawling strength-- blanketed soldiers sleeping. in the stark danger of life at war, they lie so still, all prostrate and defenceless, head by head... and i remember arras, and that hill where dumb with pain i stumbled among the dead. we are going home. the troopship, in a thrill of fiery-chamber'd anguish, throbs and rolls. we are going home ... victims ... three thousand souls. _may, _. the dug-out why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled, and one arm bent across your sullen, cold, exhausted face? it hurts my heart to watch you, deep-shadow'd from the candle's guttering gold; and you wonder why i shake you by the shoulder; drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head.... _you are too young to fall asleep for ever; and when you sleep you remind me of the dead_. st. venant. _july, _. battalion-relief '_fall in! now get a move on._' (curse the rain.) we splash away along the straggling village, out to the flat rich country, green with june.... and sunset flares across wet crops and tillage, blazing with splendour-patches. (harvest soon, up in the line.) '_perhaps the war'll be done 'by christmas-day. keep smiling then, old son._' here's the canal: it's dusk; we cross the bridge. 'lead on there, by platoons.' (the line's a-glare with shellfire through the poplars; distant rattle of rifles and machine-guns.) '_fritz is there! 'christ, ain't it lively, sergeant? is't a battle?_' more rain: the lightning blinks, and thunder rumbles. '_there's over-head artillery!_' some chap grumbles. what's all this mob at the cross-roads? where are the guides?... 'lead on with number one.' and off they go. 'three minute intervals.' (poor blundering files, sweating and blindly burdened; who's to know if death will catch them in those two dark miles?) more rain. 'lead on, head-quarters.' (that's the lot.) '_who's that? ... oh, sergeant-major, don't get shot! 'and tell me, have we won this war or not!_' in an underground dressing-station quietly they set their burden down: he tried to grin; moaned; moved his head from side to side. * * * * * * * he gripped the stretcher; stiffened; glared; and screamed, 'o put my leg down, doctor, do!' (he'd got a bullet in his ankle; and he'd been shot horribly through the guts.) the surgeon seemed so kind and gentle, saying, above that crying, 'you must keep still, my lad.' but he was dying. i stood with the dead i stood with the dead, so forsaken and still: when dawn was grey i stood with the dead. and my slow heart said, 'you must kill, you must kill: 'soldier, soldier, morning is red.' on the shapes of the slain in their crumpled disgrace, i stared for a while through the thin cold rain.... 'o lad that i loved, there is rain on your face, 'and your eyes are blurred and sick like the plain.' i stood with the dead.... they were dead; they were dead; my heart and my head beat a march of dismay: and gusts of the wind came dulled by the guns. 'fall in!' i shouted; 'fall in for your pay!' memorial tablet (great war) squire nagged and bullied till i went to fight, (under lord derby's scheme). i died in hell-- (they called it passchendaele). my wound was slight, and i was hobbling back; and then a shell burst slick upon the duck-boards: so i fell into the bottomless mud, and lost the light. at sermon-time, while squire is in his pew, he gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare; for, though low down upon the list, i'm there; '_in proud and glorious memory_' ... that's my due. two bleeding years i fought in france, for squire: i suffered anguish that he's never guessed. once i came home on leave: and then went west... what greater glory could a man desire? atrocities you told me, in your drunken-boasting mood, how once you butchered prisoners. that was good! i'm sure you felt no pity while they stood patient and cowed and scared, as prisoners should. how did you do them in? come, don't be shy: you know i love to hear how germans die, downstairs in dug-outs. 'kamerad!' they cry; then squeal like stoats when bombs begin to fly. * * * * * * * and you? i know your record. you went sick when orders looked unwholesome: then, with trick and lie, you wangled home. and here you are, still talking big and boozing in a bar. to leonide massine in 'cleopatra' o beauty doomed and perfect for an hour, leaping along the verge of death and night, you show me dauntless youth that went to fight four long years past, discovering pride and power. you die but in our dreams, who watch you fall knowing that to-morrow you will dance again. but not to ebbing music were they slain who sleep in ruined graves, beyond recall; who, following phantom-glory, friend and foe, into the darkness that was war must go; blind; banished from desire. o mortal heart be still; you have drained the cup; you have played your part. memory when i was young my heart and head were light, and i was gay and feckless as a colt out in the fields, with morning in the may, wind on the grass, wings in the orchard bloom. o thrilling sweet, my joy, when life was free, and all the paths led on from hawthorn-time across the carolling meadows into june. but now my heart is heavy-laden. i sit burning my dreams away beside the fire: for death has made me wise and bitter and strong; and i am rich in all that i have lost. o starshine on the fields of long-ago, bring me the darkness and the nightingale; dim wealds of vanished summer, peace of home, and silence; and the faces of my friends. to a very wise man i fires in the dark you build; tall quivering flames in the huge midnight forest of the unknown. your soul is full of cities with dead names, and blind-faced, earth-bound gods of bronze and stone whose priests and kings and lust-begotten lords watch the procession of their thundering hosts, or guard relentless fanes with flickering swords and wizardry of ghosts. ii in a strange house i woke; heard overhead hastily-thudding feet and a muffled scream... (is death like that?) ... i quaked uncomforted, striving to frame to-morrow in a dream of woods and sliding pools and cloudless day. (you know how bees come into a twilight room from dazzling afternoon, then sail away out of the curtained gloom.) iii you understand my thoughts; though, when you think, you're out beyond the boundaries of my brain. i'm but a bird at dawn that cries, 'chink, chink'-- a garden-bird that warbles in the rain. and you're the flying-man, the speck that steers a careful course; far down the verge of day, half-way across the world. above the years you soar ... is death so bad? ... i wish you'd say. early chronology slowly the daylight left our listening faces. professor brown, with level baritone, discoursed into the dusk. five thousand years he guided us through scientific spaces of excavated history, till the lone roads of research grew blurred, and in our ears time was the rumoured tongues of vanished races, and thought a chartless age of ice and stone. the story ended. then the darkened air flowered as he lit his pipe; an aureole glowed enwreathed with smoke; the moment's match-light showed his rosy face, broad brow, and smooth grey hair, backed by the crowded book-shelves. in his wake an archæologist began to make assumptions about aqueducts; (he quoted professor sandstorm's book;) and soon they floated through desiccated forests; mangled myths; and argued easily round megaliths. * * * * * * * beyond the college garden something glinted: a copper moon climbed clear above the trees. some lydian coin? ... professor brown agrees that copper coins _were_ in that culture minted. but, as her whitening way aloft she took, i thought she had a pre-dynastic look. elegy (to robert ross) your dextrous wit will haunt us long wounding our grief with yesterday. your laughter is a broken song; and death has found you, kind and gay. we may forget those transient things that made your charm and our delight: but loyal love has deathless wings that rise and triumph out of night. so, in the days to come, your name shall be as music that ascends when honour turns a heart from shame... o heart of hearts! ... o friend of friends! miracles i dreamt i saw a huge grey boat in silence steaming down a canal; it drew the dizzy landscape after; the solemn world was sucked along with it--a streaming land-slide of loveliness. o, but i rocked with laughter, staring, and clinging to my tree-top. for a lake of gleaming peace swept on behind. (i mustn't wake.) and then great clouds gathered and burst in spumes of green that plunged into the water; and the sun came out on glittering islands thronged with orchards scarlet-bloomed; and rosy-plumed flamingoes flashed across the scene... o, but the beauty of their freedom made me shout... and when i woke i wondered where on earth i'd been. the goldsmith '_this job's the best i've done._' he bent his head over the golden vessel that he'd wrought. a bird was singing. but the craftsman's thought is a forgotten language, lost and dead. he sigh'd and stretch'd brown arms. his friend came in and stood beside him in the morning sun. the goldwork glitter'd.... '_that's the best i've done._ '_and now i've got a necklace to begin._' this was at gnossos, in the isle of crete... a girl was selling flowers along the street. devotion to duty i was near the king that day. i saw him snatch and briskly scan the g.h.q. dispatch. thick-voiced, he read it out. (his face was grave.) 'this officer advanced with the first wave, 'and when our first objective had been gained, '(though wounded twice), reorganized the line: 'the spirit of the troops was by his fine 'example most effectively sustained.' he gripped his beard; then closed his eyes and said, 'bathsheba must be warned that he is dead. 'send for her. i will be the first to tell 'this wife how her heroic husband fell.' ancient history adam, a brown old vulture in the rain, shivered below his wind-whipped olive-trees; huddling sharp chin on scarred and scraggy knees, he moaned and mumbled to his darkening brain; '_he was the grandest of them all--was cain!_ 'a lion laired in the hills, that none could tire; 'swift as a stag; a stallion of the plain, 'hungry and fierce with deeds of huge desire.' grimly he thought of abel, soft and fair-- a lover with disaster in his face, and scarlet blossom twisted in bright hair. 'afraid to fight; was murder more disgrace? ... '_god always hated cain._' ... he bowed his head-- the gaunt wild man whose lovely sons were dead. sporting acquaintances i watched old squatting chimpanzee: he traced his painful patterns in the dirt: i saw red-haired ourang-utang, whimsical-faced, chewing a sportsman's meditative straw. i'd met them years ago, and half-forgotten they'd come to grief. (but how, i'd never heard, poor beggars!) still, it seemed so rude and rotten to stand and gape at them with never a word. i ventured 'ages since we met,' and tried my candid smile of friendship. no success. one scratched his hairy thigh, while t'other sighed and glanced away. i saw they liked me less than when, on epsom downs, in cloudless weather, we backed the tetrarch and got drunk together. what the captain said at the point-to-point i've had a good bump round; my little horse refused the brook first time, then jumped it prime; and ran out at the double, but of course there's always trouble at a double: and then--i don't know how it was--he turned it up at that big, hairy fence before the plough; and some young silly pup, (i don't know which), near as a toucher knocked me into the ditch; but we finished full of running, and quite sound: and anyhow i've had a good bump round. cinema hero o, this is more than fiction! it's the truth that somehow never happened. pay your bob, and walk straight in, abandoning to-day. (to-day's a place outside the picture-house; forget it, and the film will do the rest.) there's nothing fine in being as large as life: the splendour starts when things begin to move and gestures grow enormous. that's the way to dramatise your dreams and play the part as you'd have done if luck had starred your face. i'm 'rupert from the mountains'! (pass the stout)... yes, i'm the broncho boy we watched to-night, that robbed a ranch and galloped down the creek. (moonlight and shattering hoofs.... o moonlight of the west! wind in the gum-trees, and my swerving mare beating her flickering shadow on the post.) ah, i was wild in those fierce days! you saw me fix that saloon? they stared into my face and slowly put their hands up, while i stood with dancing eyes,--romantic to the world! things happened afterwards ... you know the story... the sheriff's daughter, bandaging my head; love at first sight; the escape; and making good (to music by mascagni). and at last---- peace; and the gradual beauty of my smile. but that's all finished now. one has to take life as it comes. i've nothing to regret. for men like me, the only thing that counts is the adventure. lord, what times i've had! god and king charles! and then my mistress's arms.... (to-morrow evening i'm a cavalier.) well, what's the news to-night about the strike? fancy dress some brave, awake in you to-night, knocked at your heart: an eagle's flight stirred in the feather on your head. your wide-set indian eyes, alight above high cheek-bones smeared with red, unveiled cragg'd centuries, and led you, the snared wraith of bygone things-- wild ancestries of trackless kings-- out of the past.... so men have felt strange anger move them as they knelt praying to gods serenely starred in heavens where tomahawks are barred. middle-ages i heard a clash, and a cry, and a horseman fleeing the wood. the moon hid in a cloud. deep in shadow i stood. '_ugly work!_' thought i, holding my breath. '_men must be cruel and proud,_ '_jousting for death._' with gusty glimmering shone the moon; and the wind blew colder. a man went over the hill, bent to his horse's shoulder. '_time for me to be gone_'... darkly i fled. owls in the wood were shrill, and the moon sank red. the portrait i watch you, gazing at me from the wall, and wonder how you'd match your dreams with mine, if, mastering time's illusion, i could call you back to share this quiet candle-shine. for you were young, three-hundred years ago; and by your looks i guess that you were wise... come, whisper soft, and death will never know you've slipped away from those calm, painted eyes. strange is your voice ... poor ninny, dead so long, and all your pride forgotten like your name. '_one april morn i heard a blackbird's song,_ '_and joy was in my heart like leaves aflame._' and so you died before your songs took wing; while andrew marvell followed in your wake. '_love thrilled me into music. i could sing but for a moment,--but for beauty's sake._' who passes? there's a star-lit breeze that stirs the glimmer of white lilies in the gloom. who speaks? death has his silent messengers: and there was more than silence in this room while you were gazing at me from the wall and wondering how you'd match your dreams with mine, if, mastering time's illusion, you could call me back to share your vanished candle-shine. butterflies frail travellers, deftly flickering over the flowers; o living flowers against the heedless blue of summer days, what sends them dancing through this fiery-blossom'd revel of the hours? theirs are the musing silences between the enraptured crying of shrill birds that make heaven in the wood while summer dawns awake; and theirs the faintest winds that hush the green. and they are as my soul that wings its way out of the starlit dimness into morn: and they are as my tremulous being--born to know but this, the phantom glare of day. wraiths they know not the green leaves; in whose earth-haunting dream dimly the forest heaves, and voiceless goes the stream. strangely they seek a place in love's night-memoried hall; peering from face to face, until some heart shall call and keep them, for a breath, half-mortal ... (_hark to the rain!_) ... they are dead ... (_o hear how death gropes on the shutter'd pane!_) phantom the clock has stopped; and the wind's dropped: a candle burns with moon-gold flame. blank silence whispers at my ears, '_though i've been dead these coffin'd years, 'you'll never choke my shame._' '_dip your quill in clotted ink:_ '_write; i'll quicken you to think_ '_in my old fiery alphabet._' the candle-flame upon its wick staggers; the time-piece starts to tick; and down the dark the wind blows wet. * * * * * * * good angels, help me to forget. the dark house dusk in the rain-soaked garden, and dark the house within. a door creaked: someone was early to watch the dawn begin. but he stole away like a thief in the chilly, star-bright air: though the house was shuttered for slumber, he had left one wakeful there. nothing moved in the garden. never a bird would sing, nor shake and scatter the dew from the boughs with shy and startled wing. but when that lover had passed the gate a quavering thrush began... 'come back; come back!' he shrilled to the heart of the passion-plighted man. idyll in the grey summer garden i shall find you with day-break and the morning hills behind you. there will be rain-wet roses; stir of wings; and down the wood a thrush that wakes and sings. not from the past you'll come, but from that deep where beauty murmurs to the soul asleep: and i shall know the sense of life re-born from dreams into the mystery of morn where gloom and brightness meet. and standing there till that calm song is done, at last we'll share the league-spread, quiring symphonies that are joy in the world, and peace, and dawn's one star. parted sleepless i listen to the surge and drone and drifting roar of the town's undertone; till through quiet falling rain i hear the bells tolling and chiming their brief tune that tells day's midnight end. and from the day that's over no flashes of delight i can recover; but only dreary winter streets, and faces of people moving in loud clanging places: and i in my loneliness, longing for you... for all i did to-day, and all i'll do to-morrow, in this city of intense arteried activities that throb and strive, is but a beating down of that suspense which holds me from your arms. i am alive only that i may find you at the end of these slow-striking hours i toil to spend, putting each one behind me, knowing but this-- that all my days are turning toward your kiss; that all expectancy awaits the deep consoling passion of your eyes, that keep their radiance for my coming, and their peace for when i find in you my love's release. lovers you were glad to-night: and now you've gone away. flushed in the dark, you put your dreams to bed; but as you fall asleep i hear you say those tired sweet drowsy words we left unsaid. i am alone: but in the windless night i listen to the gurgling rain that veils the gloom with peace; and whispering of your white limbs, and your mouth that stormed my throat with bliss, the rain becomes your voice, and tells me tales that crowd my heart with memories of your kiss. sleep well: for i can follow you, to bless and lull your distant beauty where you roam; and with wild songs of hoarded loveliness recall you to these arms that were your home. slumber-song sleep; and my song shall build about your bed a paradise of dimness. you shall feel the folding of tired wings; and peace will dwell throned in your silence: and one hour shall hold summer, and midnight, and immensity lulled to forgetfulness. for, where you dream, the stately gloom of foliage shall embower your slumbering thought with tapestries of blue. and there shall be no memory of the sky, nor sunlight with its cruelty of swords. but, to your soul that sinks from deep to deep through drowned and glimmering colour, time shall be only slow rhythmic swaying; and your breath; and roses in the darkness; and my love. the imperfect lover i never asked you to be perfect--did i?-- though often i've called you sweet, in the invasion of mastering love. i never prayed that you might stand, unsoiled, angelic and inhuman, pointing the way toward sainthood like a sign-post. oh yes, i know the way to heaven was easy. we found the little kingdom of our passion that all can share who walk the road of lovers. in wild and secret happiness we stumbled; and gods and demons clamoured in our senses. but i've grown thoughtful now. and you have lost your early-morning freshness of surprise at being so utterly mine: you've learned to fear the gloomy, stricken places in my soul, and the occasional ghosts that haunt my gaze. you made me glad; and i can still return to you, the haven of my lonely pride: but i am sworn to murder those illusions that blossom from desire with desperate beauty: and there shall be no falsehood in our failure; since, if we loved like beasts, the thing is done, and i'll not hide it, though our heaven be hell. you dream long liturgies of our devotion. yet, in my heart, i dread our love's destruction. but, should you grow to hate me, i would ask no mercy of your mood: i'd have you stand and look me in the eyes, and laugh, and smite me. then i should know, at least, that truth endured, though love had died of wounds. and you could leave me unvanquished in my atmosphere of devils. vision i love all things that pass: their briefness is music that fades on transient silences. winds, birds, and glittering leaves that flare and fall-- they fling delight across the world; they call to rhythmic-flashing limbs that rove and race... a moment in the dawn for youth's lit face; a moment's passion, closing on the cry-- 'o beauty, born of lovely things that die!' to a childless woman you think i cannot understand. ah, but i do ... i have been wrung with anger and compassion for you. i wonder if you'd loathe my pity, if you knew. but you _shall_ know. i've carried in my heart too long this secret burden. has not silence wrought _your_ wrong-- brought you to dumb and wintry middle-age, with grey unfruitful withering?--ah, the pitiless things i say... what do you ask your god for, at the end of day, kneeling beside your bed with bowed and hopeless head? what mercy can he give you?--dreams of the unborn children that haunt your soul like loving words unsaid-- dreams, as a song half-heard through sleep in early morn? i see you in the chapel, where you bend before the enhaloed calm of everlasting motherhood that wounds your life; i see you humbled to adore the painted miracle you've never understood. tender, and bitter-sweet, and shy, i've watched you holding another's child. o childless woman, was it then that, with an instant's cry, your heart, made young again, was crucified for ever--those poor arms enfolding the life, the consummation that had been denied you? i too have longed for children. ah, but you must not weep. something i have to whisper as i kneel beside you... and you must pray for me before you fall asleep. aftermath _have you forgotten yet?_ ... for the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days, like traffic checked awhile at the crossing of city-ways: and the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow like clouds in the lit heavens of life; and you're a man reprieved to go, taking your peaceful share of time, with joy to spare. _but the past is just the same--and war's a bloody game... have you forgotten yet? ... look down, and swear by the slain of the war that you'll never forget._ do you remember the dark months you held the sector at mametz-- the nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets? do you remember the rats; and the stench of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench-- and dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain? do you ever stop and ask, 'is it all going to happen again?' do you remember that hour of din before the attack-- and the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then as you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men? do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back with dying eyes and lolling heads--those ashen-grey masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay? _have you forgotten yet? ... look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you'll never forget._ _march, _. falling asleep voices moving about in the quiet house: thud of feet and a muffled shutting of doors: everyone yawning ... only the clocks are alert. out in the night there's autumn-smelling gloom crowded with whispering trees,--looming of oaks that roared in wild wet gales: across the park the hollow cry of hounds like lonely bells: and i know that the clouds are moving across the moon, the low, red, rising moon. the herons call and wrangle by their pool; and hooting owls sail from the wood across pale stocks of wheat. waiting for sleep, i drift from thoughts like these; and where to-day was dream-like, build my dreams. music ... there was a bright white room below, and someone singing a song about a soldier,-- one hour, two hours ago; and soon the song will be 'last night': but now the beauty swings across my brain, ghost of remember'd chords which still can make such radiance in my dream that i can watch the marching of my soldiers, and count their faces; faces; sunlit faces. falling asleep ... the herons, and the hounds... september in the darkness; and the world i've known; all fading past me into peace. prelude to an unwritten masterpiece you like my bird-sung gardens: wings and flowers; calm landscapes for emotion; star-lit lawns; and youth against the sun-rise ... '_not profound;_ '_but such a haunting music in the sound:_ '_do it once more; it helps us to forget._' last night i dreamt an old recurring scene-- some complex out of childhood; (sex, of course!) i can't remember how the trouble starts; and then i'm running blindly in the sun down the old orchard, and there's something cruel chasing me; someone roused to a grim pursuit of clumsy anger ... crash! i'm through the fence and thrusting wildly down the wood that's dense with woven green of safety; paths that wind moss-grown from glade to glade; and far behind, one thwarted yell; then silence. i've escaped. that's where it used to stop. last night i went onward until the trees were dark and huge, and i was lost, cut off from all return by swamps and birdless jungles. i'd no chance of getting home for tea. i woke with shivers, and thought of crocodiles in crawling rivers. some day i'll build (more ruggedly than doughty) a dark tremendous song you'll never hear. my beard will be a snow-storm, drifting whiter on bowed, prophetic shoulders, year by year. and some will say, 'his work has grown so dreary.' others, 'he used to be a charming writer.' and you, my friend, will query-- 'why can't you cut it short, you pompous blighter?' limitations if you could crowd them into forty lines! yes; you can do it, once you get a start: all that you want is waiting in your head, for long-ago you've learnt it off by heart. * * * * * * * begin: your mind's the room where you must sleep, (don't pause for rhymes), till twilight wakes you early. the window stands wide-open, as it stood when tree-tops loomed enchanted for a child hearing the dawn's first thrushes through the wood warbling (you know the words) serene and wild. you've said it all before: you dreamed of death, a dim apollo in the bird-voiced breeze that drifts across the morning veiled with showers, while golden weather shines among dark trees. you've got your limitations; let them sing, and all your life will waken with a cry: why should you halt when rapture's on the wing and you've no limit but the cloud-flocked sky?... but some chap shouts, 'here, stop it; that's been done!'-- as god might holloa to the rising sun, and then relent, because the glorying rays reminded him of glinting eden days, and adam's trustful eyes as he looks up from carving eagles on his beechwood cup. young adam knew his job; he could condense life to an eagle from the unknown immense ... go on, whoever you are; your lines can be a whisper in the music from the weirs of song that plunge and tumble toward the sea that is the uncharted mercy of our tears. * * * * * * * i told you it was easy: words are fools who follow blindly, once they get a lead. but thoughts are kingfishers that haunt the pools of quiet; seldom-seen; and all you need is just that flash of joy above your dream. so, when those forty platitudes are done, you'll hear a bird-note calling from the stream that wandered through your childhood; and the sun will strike the old flaming wonder from the waters ... and there'll be forty lines not yet begun. everyone sang everyone suddenly burst out singing; and i was filled with such delight as prisoned birds must find in freedom, winging wildly across the white orchards and dark-green fields; on--on--and out of sight. everyone's voice was suddenly lifted; and beauty came like the setting sun: my heart was shaken with tears; and horror drifted away ... o, but everyone was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done. poems by wilfred owen with an introduction by siegfried sassoon [note on text: italicized words or phrases are capitalized. lines longer than characters are broken and the continuation is indented two spaces.] introduction in writing an introduction such as this it is good to be brief. the poems printed in this book need no preliminary commendations from me or anyone else. the author has left us his own fragmentary but impressive foreword; this, and his poems, can speak for him, backed by the authority of his experience as an infantry soldier, and sustained by nobility and originality of style. all that was strongest in wilfred owen survives in his poems; any superficial impressions of his personality, any records of his conversation, behaviour, or appearance, would be irrelevant and unseemly. the curiosity which demands such morsels would be incapable of appreciating the richness of his work. the discussion of his experiments in assonance and dissonance (of which 'strange meeting' is the finest example) may be left to the professional critics of verse, the majority of whom will be more preoccupied with such technical details than with the profound humanity of the self- revelation manifested in such magnificent lines as those at the end of his 'apologia pro poemate meo', and in that other poem which he named 'greater love'. the importance of his contribution to the literature of the war cannot be decided by those who, like myself, both admired him as a poet and valued him as a friend. his conclusions about war are so entirely in accordance with my own that i cannot attempt to judge his work with any critical detachment. i can only affirm that he was a man of absolute integrity of mind. he never wrote his poems (as so many war-poets did) to make the effect of a personal gesture. he pitied others; he did not pity himself. in the last year of his life he attained a clear vision of what he needed to say, and these poems survive him as his true and splendid testament. wilfred owen was born at oswestry on th march . he was educated at the birkenhead institute, and matriculated at london university in . in he obtained a private tutorship near bordeaux, where he remained until . during this period he became acquainted with the eminent french poet, laurent tailhade, to whom he showed his early verses, and from whom he received considerable encouragement. in , in spite of delicate health, he joined the artists' rifles o.t.c., was gazetted to the manchester regiment, and served with their nd battalion in france from december to june , when he was invalided home. fourteen months later he returned to the western front and served with the same battalion, ultimately commanding a company. he was awarded the military cross for gallantry while taking part in some heavy fighting on st october. he was killed on th november , while endeavouring to get his men across the sambre canal. a month before his death he wrote to his mother: "my nerves are in perfect order. i came out again in order to help these boys; directly, by leading them as well as an officer can; indirectly, by watching their sufferings that i may speak of them as well as a pleader can." let his own words be his epitaph:-- "courage was mine, and i had mystery; wisdom was mine, and i had mastery." siegfried sassoon. poems preface this book is not about heroes. english poetry is not yet fit to speak of them. nor is it about deeds or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, dominion or power, except war. above all, this book is not concerned with poetry. the subject of it is war, and the pity of war. the poetry is in the pity. yet these elegies are not to this generation, this is in no sense consolatory. they may be to the next. all the poet can do to-day is to warn. that is why the true poets must be truthful. if i thought the letter of this book would last, i might have used proper names; but if the spirit of it survives prussia,--my ambition and those names will be content; for they will have achieved themselves fresher fields than flanders. note.--this preface was found, in an unfinished condition, among wilfred owen's papers. contents: preface strange meeting greater love apologia pro poemate meo the show mental cases parable of the old men and the young arms and the boy anthem for doomed youth the send-off insensibility dulce et decorum est the sentry the dead-beat exposure spring offensive the chances s. i. w. futility smile, smile, smile conscious a terre wild with all regrets disabled the end strange meeting it seemed that out of the battle i escaped down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped through granites which titanic wars had groined. yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned, too fast in thought or death to be bestirred. then, as i probed them, one sprang up, and stared with piteous recognition in fixed eyes, lifting distressful hands as if to bless. and by his smile, i knew that sullen hall; with a thousand fears that vision's face was grained; yet no blood reached there from the upper ground, and no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan. "strange, friend," i said, "here is no cause to mourn." "none," said the other, "save the undone years, the hopelessness. whatever hope is yours, was my life also; i went hunting wild after the wildest beauty in the world, which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair, but mocks the steady running of the hour, and if it grieves, grieves richlier than here. for by my glee might many men have laughed, and of my weeping something has been left, which must die now. i mean the truth untold, the pity of war, the pity war distilled. now men will go content with what we spoiled. or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled. they will be swift with swiftness of the tigress, none will break ranks, though nations trek from progress. courage was mine, and i had mystery; wisdom was mine, and i had mastery; to miss the march of this retreating world into vain citadels that are not walled. then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels i would go up and wash them from sweet wells, even with truths that lie too deep for taint. i would have poured my spirit without stint but not through wounds; not on the cess of war. foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were. i am the enemy you killed, my friend. i knew you in this dark; for so you frowned yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed. i parried; but my hands were loath and cold. let us sleep now . . ." (this poem was found among the author's papers. it ends on this strange note.) *another version* earth's wheels run oiled with blood. forget we that. let us lie down and dig ourselves in thought. beauty is yours and you have mastery, wisdom is mine, and i have mystery. we two will stay behind and keep our troth. let us forego men's minds that are brute's natures, let us not sup the blood which some say nurtures, be we not swift with swiftness of the tigress. let us break ranks from those who trek from progress. miss we the march of this retreating world into old citadels that are not walled. let us lie out and hold the open truth. then when their blood hath clogged the chariot wheels we will go up and wash them from deep wells. what though we sink from men as pitchers falling many shall raise us up to be their filling even from wells we sunk too deep for war and filled by brows that bled where no wounds were. *alternative line--* even as one who bled where no wounds were. greater love red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the english dead. kindness of wooed and wooer seems shame to their love pure. o love, your eyes lose lure when i behold eyes blinded in my stead! your slender attitude trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed, rolling and rolling there where god seems not to care; till the fierce love they bear cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude. your voice sings not so soft,-- though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,-- your dear voice is not dear, gentle, and evening clear, as theirs whom none now hear now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed. heart, you were never hot, nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot; and though your hand be pale, paler are all which trail your cross through flame and hail: weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not. apologia pro poemate meo i, too, saw god through mud-- the mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled. war brought more glory to their eyes than blood, and gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child. merry it was to laugh there-- where death becomes absurd and life absurder. for power was on us as we slashed bones bare not to feel sickness or remorse of murder. i, too, have dropped off fear-- behind the barrage, dead as my platoon, and sailed my spirit surging, light and clear past the entanglement where hopes lay strewn; and witnessed exultation-- faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl, shine and lift up with passion of oblation, seraphic for an hour; though they were foul. i have made fellowships-- untold of happy lovers in old song. for love is not the binding of fair lips with the soft silk of eyes that look and long, by joy, whose ribbon slips,-- but wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong; bound with the bandage of the arm that drips; knit in the welding of the rifle-thong. i have perceived much beauty in the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight; heard music in the silentness of duty; found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate. nevertheless, except you share with them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell, whose world is but the trembling of a flare, and heaven but as the highway for a shell, you shall not hear their mirth: you shall not come to think them well content by any jest of mine. these men are worth your tears: you are not worth their merriment. november . the show my soul looked down from a vague height with death, as unremembering how i rose or why, and saw a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth, gray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe, and fitted with great pocks and scabs of plaques. across its beard, that horror of harsh wire, there moved thin caterpillars, slowly uncoiled. it seemed they pushed themselves to be as plugs of ditches, where they writhed and shrivelled, killed. by them had slimy paths been trailed and scraped round myriad warts that might be little hills. from gloom's last dregs these long-strung creatures crept, and vanished out of dawn down hidden holes. (and smell came up from those foul openings as out of mouths, or deep wounds deepening.) on dithering feet upgathered, more and more, brown strings towards strings of gray, with bristling spines, all migrants from green fields, intent on mire. those that were gray, of more abundant spawns, ramped on the rest and ate them and were eaten. i saw their bitten backs curve, loop, and straighten, i watched those agonies curl, lift, and flatten. whereat, in terror what that sight might mean, i reeled and shivered earthward like a feather. and death fell with me, like a deepening moan. and he, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid its bruises in the earth, but crawled no further, showed me its feet, the feet of many men, and the fresh-severed head of it, my head. mental cases who are these? why sit they here in twilight? wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows, drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish, baring teeth that leer like skulls' tongues wicked? stroke on stroke of pain,--but what slow panic, gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets? ever from their hair and through their hand palms misery swelters. surely we have perished sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish? --these are men whose minds the dead have ravished. memory fingers in their hair of murders, multitudinous murders they once witnessed. wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander, treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter. always they must see these things and hear them, batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles, carnage incomparable and human squander rucked too thick for these men's extrication. therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented back into their brains, because on their sense sunlight seems a bloodsmear; night comes blood-black; dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh --thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous, awful falseness of set-smiling corpses. --thus their hands are plucking at each other; picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging; snatching after us who smote them, brother, pawing us who dealt them war and madness. parable of the old men and the young so abram rose, and clave the wood, and went, and took the fire with him, and a knife. and as they sojourned both of them together, isaac the first-born spake and said, my father, behold the preparations, fire and iron, but where the lamb for this burnt-offering? then abram bound the youth with belts and straps, and builded parapets and trenches there, and stretch\ed forth the knife to slay his son. when lo! an angel called him out of heaven, saying, lay not thy hand upon the lad, neither do anything to him. behold, a ram caught in a thicket by its horns; offer the ram of pride instead of him. but the old man would not so, but slew his son. . . . arms and the boy let the boy try along this bayonet-blade how cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood; blue with all malice, like a madman's flash; and thinly drawn with famishing for flesh. lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-heads which long to muzzle in the hearts of lads. or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth, sharp with the sharpness of grief and death. for his teeth seem for laughing round an apple. there lurk no claws behind his fingers supple; and god will grow no talons at his heels, nor antlers through the thickness of his curls. anthem for doomed youth what passing-bells for these who die as cattle? only the monstrous anger of the guns. only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle can patter out their hasty orisons. no mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells, nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-- the shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; and bugles calling for them from sad shires. what candles may be held to speed them all? not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. the pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, and each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. the send-off down the close, darkening lanes they sang their way to the siding-shed, and lined the train with faces grimly gay. their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray as men's are, dead. dull porters watched them, and a casual tramp stood staring hard, sorry to miss them from the upland camp. then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp winked to the guard. so secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went. they were not ours: we never heard to which front these were sent. nor there if they yet mock what women meant who gave them flowers. shall they return to beatings of great bells in wild trainloads? a few, a few, too few for drums and yells, may creep back, silent, to still village wells up half-known roads. insensibility i happy are men who yet before they are killed can let their veins run cold. whom no compassion fleers or makes their feet sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers. the front line withers, but they are troops who fade, not flowers for poets' tearful fooling: men, gaps for filling losses who might have fought longer; but no one bothers. ii and some cease feeling even themselves or for themselves. dullness best solves the tease and doubt of shelling, and chance's strange arithmetic comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling. they keep no check on armies' decimation. iii happy are these who lose imagination: they have enough to carry with ammunition. their spirit drags no pack. their old wounds save with cold can not more ache. having seen all things red, their eyes are rid of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever. and terror's first constriction over, their hearts remain small drawn. their senses in some scorching cautery of battle now long since ironed, can laugh among the dying, unconcerned. iv happy the soldier home, with not a notion how somewhere, every dawn, some men attack, and many sighs are drained. happy the lad whose mind was never trained: his days are worth forgetting more than not. he sings along the march which we march taciturn, because of dusk, the long, forlorn, relentless trend from larger day to huger night. v we wise, who with a thought besmirch blood over all our soul, how should we see our task but through his blunt and lashless eyes? alive, he is not vital overmuch; dying, not mortal overmuch; nor sad, nor proud, nor curious at all. he cannot tell old men's placidity from his. vi but cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns, that they should be as stones. wretched are they, and mean with paucity that never was simplicity. by choice they made themselves immune to pity and whatever mourns in man before the last sea and the hapless stars; whatever mourns when many leave these shores; whatever shares the eternal reciprocity of tears. dulce et decorum est bent double, like old beggars under sacks, knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, and towards our distant rest began to trudge. men marched asleep. many had lost their boots, but limped on, blood-shod. all went lame, all blind; drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots of gas-shells dropping softly behind. gas! gas! quick, boys!--an ecstasy of fumbling fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, but someone still was yelling out and stumbling and flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.-- dim through the misty panes and thick green light, as under a green sea, i saw him drowning. in all my dreams before my helpless sight he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. if in some smothering dreams, you too could pace behind the wagon that we flung him in, and watch the white eyes writhing in his face, his hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin, if you could hear, at every jolt, the blood come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs bitter as the cud of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-- my friend, you would not tell with such high zest to children ardent for some desperate glory, the old lie: dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. the sentry we'd found an old boche dug-out, and he knew, and gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell hammered on top, but never quite burst through. rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime kept slush waist high, that rising hour by hour, choked up the steps too thick with clay to climb. what murk of air remained stank old, and sour with fumes of whizz-bangs, and the smell of men who'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den, if not their corpses. . . . there we herded from the blast of whizz-bangs, but one found our door at last. buffeting eyes and breath, snuffing the candles. and thud! flump! thud! down the steep steps came thumping and splashing in the flood, deluging muck-- the sentry's body; then his rifle, handles of old boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck. we dredged him up, for killed, until he whined "o sir, my eyes--i'm blind--i'm blind, i'm blind!" coaxing, i held a flame against his lids and said if he could see the least blurred light he was not blind; in time he'd get all right. "i can't," he sobbed. eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids watch my dreams still; but i forgot him there in posting next for duty, and sending a scout to beg a stretcher somewhere, and floundering about to other posts under the shrieking air. those other wretches, how they bled and spewed, and one who would have drowned himself for good,-- i try not to remember these things now. let dread hark back for one word only: how half-listening to that sentry's moans and jumps, and the wild chattering of his broken teeth, renewed most horribly whenever crumps pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath-- through the dense din, i say, we heard him shout "i see your lights!" but ours had long died out. the dead-beat he dropped,--more sullenly than wearily, lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat, and none of us could kick him to his feet; just blinked at my revolver, blearily; --didn't appear to know a war was on, or see the blasted trench at which he stared. "i'll do 'em in," he whined, "if this hand's spared, i'll murder them, i will." a low voice said, "it's blighty, p'raps, he sees; his pluck's all gone, dreaming of all the valiant, that aren't dead: bold uncles, smiling ministerially; maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun in some new home, improved materially. it's not these stiffs have crazed him; nor the hun." we sent him down at last, out of the way. unwounded;--stout lad, too, before that strafe. malingering? stretcher-bearers winked, "not half!" next day i heard the doc.'s well-whiskied laugh: "that scum you sent last night soon died. hooray!" exposure i our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us . . . wearied we keep awake because the night is silent . . . low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient . . . worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous, but nothing happens. watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire. like twitching agonies of men among its brambles. northward incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles, far off, like a dull rumour of some other war. what are we doing here? the poignant misery of dawn begins to grow . . . we only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy. dawn massing in the east her melancholy army attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of gray, but nothing happens. sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow, with sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause and renew, we watch them wandering up and down the wind's nonchalance, but nothing happens. ii pale flakes with lingering stealth come feeling for our faces-- we cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed, deep into grassier ditches. so we drowse, sun-dozed, littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses. is it that we are dying? slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires glozed with crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there; for hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs; shutters and doors all closed: on us the doors are closed-- we turn back to our dying. since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn; nor ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit. for god's invincible spring our love is made afraid; therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born, for love of god seems dying. to-night, his frost will fasten on this mud and us, shrivelling many hands and puckering foreheads crisp. the burying-party, picks and shovels in their shaking grasp, pause over half-known faces. all their eyes are ice, but nothing happens. spring offensive halted against the shade of a last hill, they fed, and, lying easy, were at ease and, finding comfortable chests and knees carelessly slept. but many there stood still to face the stark, blank sky beyond the ridge, knowing their feet had come to the end of the world. marvelling they stood, and watched the long grass swirled by the may breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge, for though the summer oozed into their veins like the injected drug for their bones' pains, sharp on their souls hung the imminent line of grass, fearfully flashed the sky's mysterious glass. hour after hour they ponder the warm field-- and the far valley behind, where the buttercups had blessed with gold their slow boots coming up, where even the little brambles would not yield, but clutched and clung to them like sorrowing hands; they breathe like trees unstirred. till like a cold gust thrilled the little word at which each body and its soul begird and tighten them for battle. no alarms of bugles, no high flags, no clamorous haste-- only a lift and flare of eyes that faced the sun, like a friend with whom their love is done. o larger shone that smile against the sun,-- mightier than his whose bounty these have spurned. so, soon they topped the hill, and raced together over an open stretch of herb and heather exposed. and instantly the whole sky burned with fury against them; and soft sudden cups opened in thousands for their blood; and the green slopes chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space. of them who running on that last high place leapt to swift unseen bullets, or went up on the hot blast and fury of hell's upsurge, or plunged and fell away past this world's verge, some say god caught them even before they fell. but what say such as from existence' brink ventured but drave too swift to sink. the few who rushed in the body to enter hell, and there out-fiending all its fiends and flames with superhuman inhumanities, long-famous glories, immemorial shames-- and crawling slowly back, have by degrees regained cool peaceful air in wonder-- why speak they not of comrades that went under? the chances i mind as 'ow the night afore that show us five got talking,--we was in the know, "over the top to-morrer; boys, we're for it, first wave we are, first ruddy wave; that's tore it." "ah well," says jimmy,--an' 'e's seen some scrappin'-- "there ain't more nor five things as can 'appen; ye get knocked out; else wounded--bad or cushy; scuppered; or nowt except yer feeling mushy." one of us got the knock-out, blown to chops. t'other was hurt, like, losin' both 'is props. an' one, to use the word of 'ypocrites, 'ad the misfortoon to be took by fritz. now me, i wasn't scratched, praise god almighty (though next time please i'll thank 'im for a blighty), but poor young jim, 'e's livin' an' 'e's not; 'e reckoned 'e'd five chances, an' 'e's 'ad; 'e's wounded, killed, and pris'ner, all the lot-- the ruddy lot all rolled in one. jim's mad. s. i. w. "i will to the king, and offer him consolation in his trouble, for that man there has set his teeth to die, and being one that hates obedience, discipline, and orderliness of life, i cannot mourn him." w. b. yeats. patting goodbye, doubtless they told the lad he'd always show the hun a brave man's face; father would sooner him dead than in disgrace,-- was proud to see him going, aye, and glad. perhaps his mother whimpered how she'd fret until he got a nice, safe wound to nurse. sisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse, . . . brothers--would send his favourite cigarette, each week, month after month, they wrote the same, thinking him sheltered in some y.m. hut, where once an hour a bullet missed its aim and misses teased the hunger of his brain. his eyes grew old with wincing, and his hand reckless with ague. courage leaked, as sand from the best sandbags after years of rain. but never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock, untrapped the wretch. and death seemed still withheld for torture of lying machinally shelled, at the pleasure of this world's powers who'd run amok. he'd seen men shoot their hands, on night patrol, their people never knew. yet they were vile. "death sooner than dishonour, that's the style!" so father said. one dawn, our wire patrol carried him. this time, death had not missed. we could do nothing, but wipe his bleeding cough. could it be accident?--rifles go off . . . not sniped? no. (later they found the english ball.) it was the reasoned crisis of his soul. against the fires that would not burn him whole but kept him for death's perjury and scoff and life's half-promising, and both their riling. with him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed, and truthfully wrote the mother "tim died smiling." futility move him into the sun-- gently its touch awoke him once, at home, whispering of fields unsown. always it woke him, even in france, until this morning and this snow. if anything might rouse him now the kind old sun will know. think how it wakes the seeds-- woke, once, the clays of a cold star. are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides full-nerved,--still warm,--too hard to stir? was it for this the clay grew tall? --o what made fatuous sunbeams toil to break earth's sleep at all? smile, smile, smile head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned yesterday's mail; the casualties (typed small) and (large) vast booty from our latest haul. also, they read of cheap homes, not yet planned; for, said the paper, "when this war is done the men's first instinct will be making homes. meanwhile their foremost need is aerodromes, it being certain war has just begun. peace would do wrong to our undying dead,-- the sons we offered might regret they died if we got nothing lasting in their stead. we must be solidly indemnified. though all be worthy victory which all bought, we rulers sitting in this ancient spot would wrong our very selves if we forgot the greatest glory will be theirs who fought, who kept this nation in integrity." nation?--the half-limbed readers did not chafe but smiled at one another curiously like secret men who know their secret safe. this is the thing they know and never speak, that england one by one had fled to france (not many elsewhere now save under france). pictures of these broad smiles appear each week, and people in whose voice real feeling rings say: how they smile! they're happy now, poor things. rd september . conscious his fingers wake, and flutter up the bed. his eyes come open with a pull of will, helped by the yellow may-flowers by his head. a blind-cord drawls across the window-sill . . . how smooth the floor of the ward is! what a rug! and who's that talking, somewhere out of sight? why are they laughing? what's inside that jug? "nurse! doctor!" "yes; all right, all right." but sudden dusk bewilders all the air-- there seems no time to want a drink of water. nurse looks so far away. and everywhere music and roses burnt through crimson slaughter. cold; cold; he's cold; and yet so hot: and there's no light to see the voices by-- no time to dream, and ask--he knows not what. a terre (being the philosophy of many soldiers.) sit on the bed; i'm blind, and three parts shell, be careful; can't shake hands now; never shall. both arms have mutinied against me--brutes. my fingers fidget like ten idle brats. i tried to peg out soldierly--no use! one dies of war like any old disease. this bandage feels like pennies on my eyes. i have my medals?--discs to make eyes close. my glorious ribbons?--ripped from my own back in scarlet shreds. (that's for your poetry book.) a short life and a merry one, my brick! we used to say we'd hate to live dead old,-- yet now . . . i'd willingly be puffy, bald, and patriotic. buffers catch from boys at least the jokes hurled at them. i suppose little i'd ever teach a son, but hitting, shooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting. well, that's what i learnt,--that, and making money. your fifty years ahead seem none too many? tell me how long i've got? god! for one year to help myself to nothing more than air! one spring! is one too good to spare, too long? spring wind would work its own way to my lung, and grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots. my servant's lamed, but listen how he shouts! when i'm lugged out, he'll still be good for that. here in this mummy-case, you know, i've thought how well i might have swept his floors for ever, i'd ask no night off when the bustle's over, enjoying so the dirt. who's prejudiced against a grimed hand when his own's quite dust, less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn, less warm than dust that mixes with arms' tan? i'd love to be a sweep, now, black as town, yes, or a muckman. must i be his load? o life, life, let me breathe,--a dug-out rat! not worse than ours the existences rats lead-- nosing along at night down some safe vat, they find a shell-proof home before they rot. dead men may envy living mites in cheese, or good germs even. microbes have their joys, and subdivide, and never come to death, certainly flowers have the easiest time on earth. "i shall be one with nature, herb, and stone." shelley would tell me. shelley would be stunned; the dullest tommy hugs that fancy now. "pushing up daisies," is their creed, you know. to grain, then, go my fat, to buds my sap, for all the usefulness there is in soap. d'you think the boche will ever stew man-soup? some day, no doubt, if . . . friend, be very sure i shall be better off with plants that share more peaceably the meadow and the shower. soft rains will touch me,--as they could touch once, and nothing but the sun shall make me ware. your guns may crash around me. i'll not hear; or, if i wince, i shall not know i wince. don't take my soul's poor comfort for your jest. soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds, but here the thing's best left at home with friends. my soul's a little grief, grappling your chest, to climb your throat on sobs; easily chased on other sighs and wiped by fresher winds. carry my crying spirit till it's weaned to do without what blood remained these wounds. wild with all regrets (another version of "a terre".) to siegfried sassoon my arms have mutinied against me--brutes! my fingers fidget like ten idle brats, my back's been stiff for hours, damned hours. death never gives his squad a stand-at-ease. i can't read. there: it's no use. take your book. a short life and a merry one, my buck! we said we'd hate to grow dead old. but now, not to live old seems awful: not to renew my boyhood with my boys, and teach 'em hitting, shooting and hunting,--all the arts of hurting! --well, that's what i learnt. that, and making money. your fifty years in store seem none too many; but i've five minutes. god! for just two years to help myself to this good air of yours! one spring! is one too hard to spare? too long? spring air would find its own way to my lung, and grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots. yes, there's the orderly. he'll change the sheets when i'm lugged out, oh, couldn't i do that? here in this coffin of a bed, i've thought i'd like to kneel and sweep his floors for ever,-- and ask no nights off when the bustle's over, for i'd enjoy the dirt; who's prejudiced against a grimed hand when his own's quite dust,-- less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn? dear dust,--in rooms, on roads, on faces' tan! i'd love to be a sweep's boy, black as town; yes, or a muckman. must i be his load? a flea would do. if one chap wasn't bloody, or went stone-cold, i'd find another body. which i shan't manage now. unless it's yours. i shall stay in you, friend, for some few hours. you'll feel my heavy spirit chill your chest, and climb your throat on sobs, until it's chased on sighs, and wiped from off your lips by wind. i think on your rich breathing, brother, i'll be weaned to do without what blood remained me from my wound. th december . disabled he sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark, and shivered in his ghastly suit of grey, legless, sewn short at elbow. through the park voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn, voices of play and pleasure after day, till gathering sleep had mothered them from him. about this time town used to swing so gay when glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees and girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim, --in the old times, before he threw away his knees. now he will never feel again how slim girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands, all of them touch him like some queer disease. there was an artist silly for his face, for it was younger than his youth, last year. now he is old; his back will never brace; he's lost his colour very far from here, poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry, and half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race, and leap of purple spurted from his thigh. one time he liked a bloodsmear down his leg, after the matches carried shoulder-high. it was after football, when he'd drunk a peg, he thought he'd better join. he wonders why . . . someone had said he'd look a god in kilts. that's why; and maybe, too, to please his meg, aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts, he asked to join. he didn't have to beg; smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years. germans he scarcely thought of; and no fears of fear came yet. he thought of jewelled hilts for daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes; and care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears; esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits. and soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers. some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer goal. only a solemn man who brought him fruits thanked him; and then inquired about his soul. now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes, and do what things the rules consider wise, and take whatever pity they may dole. to-night he noticed how the women's eyes passed from him to the strong men that were whole. how cold and late it is! why don't they come and put him into bed? why don't they come? the end after the blast of lightning from the east, the flourish of loud clouds, the chariot throne, after the drums of time have rolled and ceased and from the bronze west long retreat is blown, shall life renew these bodies? of a truth all death will he annul, all tears assuage? or fill these void veins full again with youth and wash with an immortal water age? when i do ask white age, he saith not so,-- "my head hangs weighed with snow." and when i hearken to the earth she saith my fiery heart sinks aching. it is death. mine ancient scars shall not be glorified nor my titanic tears the seas be dried." [end of original text.] appendix general notes:-- due to the general circumstances surrounding wilfred owen, and his death one week before the war ended, it should be noted that these poems are not all in their final form. owen had only had a few of his poems published during his lifetime, and his papers were in a state of disarray when siegfried sassoon, his friend and fellow poet, put together this volume. the edition was the first edition of owen's poems, the reprint (of which this is a transcript) added one more--and nothing else happened until edmund blunden's edition. even with that edition, there remained gaps, and several more editions added more and more poems and fragments, in various forms, as it was difficult to tell which of owen's drafts were his final ones, until jon stallworthy's "complete poems and fragments" ( ) included all that could be found, and tried to put them in chronological order, with the latest revisions, etc. therefore, it should not be surprising if some or most of these poems differ from later editions. after owen's death, his writings gradually gained pre-eminence, so that, although virtually unknown during the war, he came into high regard. benjamin britten, the british composer who set nine of owen's works as the text of his "war requiem" (shortly after the second world war), called owen "by far our greatest war poet, and one of the most original poets of this century." (owen is especially noted for his use of pararhyme.) five of those nine texts are some form of poems included here, to wit: 'anthem for doomed youth', 'futility', 'parable of the old men and the young', 'the end', and 'strange meeting'. the other four were '[bugles sang]', 'the next war', 'sonnet [be slowly lifted up]' and 'at a calvary near the ancre'--all of which the reader may wish to pursue, being some of owen's finest work. fortunately, the poem which i consider his best, and which is one of his most quoted--'dulce et decorum est', is included in this volume. transcriber's specific notes:-- blighty: england, or a wound that would take a soldier home (to england). s. i. w.: self inflicted wound. parable of the old men and the young: a retold story from the bible, but with a different ending. the phrase "abram bound the youth with belts and straps" refers to the youth who went to war, with all their equipment belted and strapped on. other versions of this poem have an additional line. dulce et decorum est: the phrase "dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" is a latin phrase from horace, and translates literally something like "sweet and proper it is for your country (fatherland) to die." the poem was originally intended to be addressed to an author who had written war poems for children. "dim through the misty panes . . ." should be understood by anyone who has worn a gas mask. alan r. light. monroe, north carolina, july, . "i was there" with the yanks in france sketches by c. leroy baldridge private, a.e.f. [illustration: audsurade belgium - nov. / ] "i was there" with the yanks on the western front - by c. leroy baldridge pvt. a.e.f. together with verses by hilmar r. baukhage pvt. a.e.f. g.p. putnam's sons new york and london the knickerbocker press copyright, by c. leroy baldridge to our mothers ours the great adventure, yours the pain to bear, ours the golden service stripes, yours the marks of care. if all the great adventure the old earth ever knew, was ours and in this little book 'twould still belong to you! preface these sketches were made during a year's service as a camion driver with the french amry in the chemin-des-dames sector and a year's service with the a.e.f. as an infantry private on special duty with "the stars and stripes," the official a.e.f. newspaper. most of them were drawn at odd minutes during the french push of near fort malmaison, at loading parks and along the roadside while on truck convoy, and while on special permission to draw and paint with the french army given me by the grand quartier gènèral during the time i was stationed at soissons. the rest were drawn on american fronts from the argonne to belgium as my duties took me from one offensive to another. it has been a keen regret to me that my artistic skill has been so unequal to these opportunites. the sketches do not sufficiently show war for the stupid horror i know it to be. i hope, however, they may serve as a record of doughboy types, of the people he lived with in france, with whom he suffered and by whose side he fought. many appeared first in "the stars and stripes," "leslie's weekly", and "scribner's magazine", through the courtesy of whose editors i am now enabled to reprint them. c. leroy baldridge private, am.e.f. june i was there [illustration: sunny france] [illustration: warming up the "corned willy" over "corned heat" (solidified alcohol)] [illustration: rain overhead and mud underfoot / baldridge near montfaucon] [illustration: the yank] [illustration: fighting trim] [illustration: seicheprey, america's old home sector. april ' ] seicheprey, america's old home sector--first trenches entirely under their own command. the line form a line! get in line! from the time that i enlisted and since jerry armististed i've been standing, kidding, cussing, i've been waiting, fuming, fussing, in a line. i have stood in line in mud and slime and sleet, with the dirty water oozing from my feet, i have soaked and slid and slipped, while my tacky slicker dripped, and i wondered what they'd hand me out to eat. get in line! for supplies and for inspections, with the dust in four directions, for a chance to scrub the dirt off, in the winter with my shirt off, in a line. i have sweated in an august training camp, that would make a prohibition town look damp, underneath my dinky cap while the sun burned off my map and i waited for some gold-fish (and a cramp!). get in line! for rice, pay-day, pills, and ration, for corned-willy, army fashion, in hoboken, in the trenches, in a station with the frenchies, in a line. i've been standing, freezing, sweating, pushing, shoving, wheezing, fretting, and i won't be soon forgetting though i don't say i'm regretting that i stood there, with my buddies, in a line. [illustration: (soldiers in line in the rain)] the lids we wear-- [illustration: dungaree style] [illustration: this tin derby with winter knitted helmet] [illustration: old "rain-in-the-face"] [illustration: the charming red-and-white effect] [illustration: fuzzy-wuzzy] [illustration: the tank helmet] [illustration: some managed to hang on to the old reliable] [illustration: with the french army] [illustration: with its canvas overcoat on] [illustration: he used to hunt rabbits in kentucky] [illustration: the job that's never ended--cleaning up for inspection] [illustration: first time in two weeks!/montmeuril (men bathing from canvas bucket)] [illustration: the letter from home/reading] [illustration: the ration detail] the ration detail--a job which no one relishes. each day the other fellow's artillery tries to lay down a fire which will keep these boys from getting back. they travel to where their supply company has dumped the food from mule carts--the point nearest front where creaking wheels may go. the man in the center is carrying a string of french loaves, the round black variety common before we got our own bakeries started. [illustration: the headquarters company...taking its bath...] the headquarters company of the reserve mallet taking its bath at chavigny farm. the tub is a tin-lined cigarette box used by the y.m.c.a. water is heated in the old farm fire-place. "prepare for action" i ran into johnny redlegs a-sitting on his bus, and i asked him why the devil he dropped half his shells on us. he just smiles and puffs his corn-cob, as peaceful as a persian, and, "buddy," says he, "you can't blame me, you gotta blame dispersion." i says to johnny redlegs, "if i didn't have nine lives your barrage would have got me with those lousy seventy-fives." he grins and puffs his corn-cob, and then he winks, reflective, and, "buddy," says he, "you can't blame me if you pass your damn objective." i says to johnny redlegs (just kidding him, you know), "the trouble with your popgun is she pops too gol-darned slow." then redlegs drops his corn-cob and spits on both his han's, and, "buddy," says he, "you can kid with me and the whole damned field artilleree, but there'll be a dud where you used to be if you kid my swasont-cans!" [illustration: "i know a girl at home who looks just like you."/ june] [illustration: "johnny redlegs"...] "johnny redlegs"--guardian of the "soixante-quinze." (the famous french " ") [illustration: ...and the doughboy...] ...and the doughboy who tries to keep just the right distance from the covering barrage fire. [illustration: "the bugs"--two men, french style tanks] [illustration: an indian m.p. -- "a chance to get even"] [illustration: a survival of the old regular army] [illustration: among the first sent across... (negro soldier)] among the first sent across/they served with the french in ' [illustration: reading their shirts] [illustration: her boy too] [illustration: american and french field artillery gun crews...] american and french field artillery gun crews camped together in a wood near charsoney. the canvas overhead keeps the fire from being observed by aeroplanes at night. [illustration: the linesman at the front...] the linesman at the front-- same old job with just a couple percent more risk than usual using a shell-shocked tree for a telegraph pole. st. mihiel dumb beasts [illustration: (soldier in gas mask)] [illustration: in the missouri draft (mule)] [illustration: wagon train] bucks: "maud" and "mud" [illustration: (goat feeding from mess kit)] former refugee--now mascot and the only man in the outfit who likes monkey meat [illustration: yanks with french type of anti-aircraft] [illustration: the aeroplane fight] relief z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-e-e-e-e-e-e-------------b boom! there's another! 	 god, this pack is heavy. glad i pinched the extra willy, 	 	guess i'll need it. 	 and the sweater, too, 		 out there. -z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-e-e-e-eeeeee- - b boom! there's another! jesse! that was a close one. wonder if......good christ! where's charlie? got him clean. god curse those jerries! i'll get even,--p'raps-- out there. z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-e-e-e-e-e-e----------b boom! there's another! over! well, if one has my name on it then the guv'ment pays ten thousand. what's the use? i couldn't spend it. leastways not-- out there. z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e----b boom! there's another. where'd i put that plug of climax? oh, i s'pose somebody swiped it. gee, i never thought that charlie... glad i ain't out on the wire. this damn trench is dark--ouch! damn it, wait a minute.... hell, i'm coming, i can't run in this equipment. what the hell's the rush to get-- out there? [illustration: the relief...] the relief-- coming up to the front lines through the communication trenches, which extend a kilometer or so. on these occasions little love is lost on "beautiful moonlight nights" [illustration: the roofs of vaux...] the roofs of vaux after a few minutes of yank barrage lifted-- [illustration: "the germans have gone!" -- st. mihiel] [illustration: the shell hole central] [illustration: on guard] [illustration: the noncombatant] [illustration: the family with whom i lived in soissons] in grandpère was taken as a prisoner to coblenz madam framary who sewed on my buttons and who transformed miserable french army rations into marvelous dishes erasme, the youngest son who starts his three years of compulsory training in the fall the eldest son. after his three years of training he was called to war. he has never come back. soissons-- [illustration: awaiting the signal to attack...] awaiting the signal to attack. the sergeant is ready to blow the whistle for his squad to follow him out through a path in the barbed wire. in another minute they will advance close behind the bursting shells of a heavy barrage which, lifting, will leave them face to face with german machine guns. france [illustration: "american field service" drivers at longpont/ ] [illustration: the "territorial"...] the "territorial"--the name given french poilu between the ages of and vailly-- [illustration: the paris bus...] noyon, the paris bus--many kilometers from the place de l'opèra--used for transporting troops, horses, and fresh meat to the front fatigue you can see 'em in the movies, with the sunlight on their guns, you can read in all the papers of the charge that licked the huns, you can read of "khaki heroes" and of "gleaming bayonet," but there's one thing that the writers and the artist all forget: that's me! on k.p. in my suit of denim blue i am thinking--not of you-- but the places where i'd like the top to be! on the posters in the windows, in the monthly magazine, are the boys in leather leggins such as pershing's never seen; oh, they love to paint 'em pretty, all dressed up and fit to kiss,-- ain't it funny there's a picture that they always seem to miss? bless me soul, loading coal! in my little shimmy-shirt, eyes and mouth full up with dirt-- (in the next war i'll be living at the pole.) [illustration: (two men peeling spuds)] [illustration: built for speed...] built for speed / and with light pack to match r.b.--belleau wood / / a marine [illustration: "steady, buddy!"] "steady, buddy!" baldridge paris [illustration: never too far gone for a smoke] [illustration: but he wears the legion of honor and the "croix de guerre"] [illustration: in an abri...] in an abri waiting for the "gothas" (big german planes) to go home [illustration: the veteran of the spanish-american war...] the veteran of the spanish-american war tells 'em how it ought to be done [illustration: r. lufbery] r. lufbery sketched at the lafayette escadrille field near longpont as the aviator was getting into his "union suit" preparatory to flying in a chemin-des-dames engagement [illustration: base port stevedores] base port stevedores--volunteers from the south who work eight hours a day for seven days a week--bordeaux/ [illustration: a th division wagon train...] a th division wagon train moving toward chasseurs wood-- mule and prairie schooner in a country made desert by war [illustration: the end of his service] [illustration: veterans of the marne] poilu when we left the transport back in st. nazaire, second thing you asked us,-- "quand finit la guerre?" didn't know your lingo you weren't hard to get, peace was what you wanted-- and a cigarette. then up in the trenches it was just the same, "when's it going to finish?" didn't seem quite game. then we saw you strafing, saw we had you wrong, wondered how you stood it four years long. drank your sour pinard, shared what smokes we had, got to know you better, found you weren't so bad, four years in the trenches! (one's enough, i'll say) how the hell'd you do it on five sous a day? [illustration: chemin des dames ' ] [illustration: american being taught...] american being taught by frenchman to drive truck so that the latter may return to his farm. france/ [illustration: moving up] moving up-- over a corduroy road hastily laid down by a gérre (engineer) regiment in war-wasted land. the piece of wall on the right is all that remains of a french village of five hundred inhabitants [illustration: [arabic script] arabian knight] [illustration: [arabic script] between drives he works on the railroad] [illustration: [arabic script] on other days he rides a camel in algeria] [illustration: (head in fez)] [illustration: [arabic script] senegalais types] senegalaise types / voluneers used for the attack and for labor on roads vailly [illustration: the aumônier--poilu priest who marches with the troops.] [illustration: of the youngest class.] [illustration: a father of the class of ' ] moulin laffaux [illustration: un cannonier marin sur le front] he handles a big naval gun mounted on railroad cars near soissons [illustration: french "corvée" laborers.] in the war of he drove a team instead of a camion. too old to serve in the active army and so assigned to the more unromatic, uninteresting but vital work of loading camions, tending horses, or building and repairing roads back of the lines. it has been said that the first battle of verdun was won by the camion service. this is the kind of man who made that victory possible [illustration: a "walking case"] a "walking case" -- france, august - [illustration: toul(?) sector days--waiting for something to happen--] [illustration: un grand blessé] [illustration: a medal for valor] [illustration: a wounded chasseur and "fritz"...] a wounded chasseur and "fritz" who has the next cot. they get the same treatment and neither seems to mind the proximity meaux [illustration: an american ambulance at a poste de secours] an american ambulance at a poste de secours (first aid station) ostel-- [illustration: an old trench in the argonne near montfaucon] [illustration: the edge] that quiet sector four hours off--two hours on-- and not a thing to do but think, and watch the mud and twisted wire and never let your peepers blink. two hours on--four hours off-- the dug-out's slimy as the trench; it stinks of leather, men, and smoke,-- you wake up dopey from the stench. four hours off--two hours on-- back on the same old trick again, the same old noth'n' to do at all from yesterday till god knows when. on post or not it's just the same, the waiting is what gets your goat and makes you want to chuck the game or risk a trench-knife in your throat. two hours on--four hours off-- i s'pose our job is not so hard,-- i s'pose sometime we're going to quit-- * * * * * the ghosts we leave--do they stand guard? [illustration: ] [illustration: the water wagon filled with red-hot coffee...] the water wagon filled with red-hot coffee going to the ration dump via shell fire and not losing any time about it-- outside belleau wood--june ' [illustration: he's been on every front...] he's been on every front from chateau-thierry to the rhine coblenz-- [illustration: after the german retreat] after the german retreat cleaning up old quarry used by fritz as a barracks--chemin-des-dames [illustration: "wagon soldiers" (nickname for artillerymen)] [illustration: made in america--france aug. ] [illustration: "marraines" (godmothers)] "marraines" (godmothers) who kept their poilu godsons at the front in good cheer with letters and packages from home, and who took their yank cousins to their hearts in the same kindly spirit sophie--marie--madeleine in paris and the provinces-- a type to match the ideal of every man who looks [illustration: "papa perrin" / soissons / ] no one knows where the poilu slang word "pinard" came from, but everyone knows what it means. it's half way between water and red wine, with the kick mostly in the taste. it is served as an army ration. the poilu's canteen is always full of it. [illustration: "we ain't no thin red 'eroes,..] "we ain't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too." [illustration: one of the agent-de-ville = m.p. teams of paris] one of the agent-de-ville = m.p. teams of paris patrolling the boulevard. they have authority over both yank and poilu. paris [illustration: belgian types] [illustration: the tommy] the tommy--montdiddier [illustration: in the month of july] [illustration: caught by a star shell...] caught by a star shell at a listening post, and attempting to "freeze" like a rabbit with the hunter upon him, to look as much like a lump of mud as possible until the glare dies down. [illustration: americans quartered in the mediaeval monastary of pont st. maxence] [illustration: french colonial types] french colonial types: white, black, and half-way from algeria a zouave from morocco [illustration: kamarad!] "p.gs" (prisonneurs de la guerre) who are keeping in physical trim by lumber work in a forest where once the kings of france took their morning walks croix st. ouen [illustration: a yank going on leave...] a yank going on leave having a midnight cup of "vin rouge" in a compartment of a permissionnares' train--with a soixante-quinze gunner, a sailor from a submarine, a chasseur, an aviation sergeant, and several infantrymen. for the next ten days of "permission" these men can forget war. en route--nice/ [illustration: the barber shop quartette on the trip home] the barber shop quartette on the trip home-- (no ocean rules about noise this time). [illustration: coming out! dirty, tired and grinning!] coming out! dirty, tired and grinning! chateau thierry june-- [illustration: mail!] mail! brought up to the front by the ration detail [illustration: forty feet underground in an old stone quarry...] forty feet underground in an old stone quarry formerly used by the germans as barracks. near fort malmaux [illustration: this is the cellar of her home...] this is the cellar of her home. the house above no longer exists. for her living she washes clothes for the soldiers. her daughter with two young children is a prisoner in belgium. a third grandchild lives in this cave [illustration: (dogs)] poulet "lui" this one has won three army citations "la soupe" liaison dog to carry messages red cross dog jack - a yank volunteer [illustration: french dogs loaned by private families...] french dogs loaned by private families and trained by the army for use as red cross aids, sentinels, and message carriers. intelligence the only qualification--any breed goes kénaro / s'aïd two dogs who worked together at verdun sultane / picard / marraine / filon "mort pour la patrie" [illustration: the o.d. circuit] "pull the shades down mary ann" a love song from the east-- our own jazz band [illustration: "coming out" after "the washington birthday raid"...] chemin des dames-- -- [illustration: an african mohammedan, an... annamite, and a prisoner...] (arabic script) an african mohommedan, an indo-chinese annamite and a prisoner who all crack rocks nine hours a day for the roads of france [illustration: (soldier with hot coffee at red cross station)] [illustration: first regiment zouave] french colonials from northern africa used in shock troops salvage i'll be stepping wide in these russet shoes! leather putts beside, honest i can't lose! guess the guy that had 'em left 'em in a hurry! what the hell, he's s.o.l. i should worry. "that's my second razor!" "then gimme the blades." "whatcha got there, buddy?" "pair of tailor-mades!" i'll be walking on air! yes ... they was the top's! he won't need 'em out there - if a big one drops. "going to keep that sweater?" "no, look at the dirt." "put that on you, buddy, "you'll have to read your shirt!" if i get that leave i can use 'em to dance. well, i should grieve, --he had his chance. "nothing doing! beat it!" "saw that luger first!" "ten francs says i want it." "done. i'll cure this thirst." brand-new russet shoes, i'll be stepping high! someone's got to lose, glad i ain't the guy. if i'm going to use 'em, guess i'll have to hurry, the next h.e. may be meant for me -- i should worry! [illustration] [illustration: the gardener's cottage] [illustration: in he lost an arm...] in he lost an arm, in he lost a son and everything he owns [illustration: lafayette escadrille men--] lafayette escadrille men-- marcus who helps keep the big planes in order pilot observer loupont france nov--' [illustration: making brooms from brushwood at antibes for use on army roads.] making brooms from brushwood at antibes for use on army roads. [illustration: the signal corps] [illustration: the gold star] france, aug [illustration: both under arms...] both under arms--the "pepère" of the ' class and the marie-louise of the last call soissons france/ [illustration: cafè group of poilus...] cafè group of poilus listening to an american popular song for the first time, sung by yanks of the american field service [illustration: home (pile of rubble)] [illustration: some of the first ones] [illustration: feet] [illustration: vaux] vaux--the town american artillery blew off the map (together with the german inhabitants) [illustration: dugouts built for german officers...] dugouts built for german officers near soissons used by them in . decked out with cement and mosaic floors, tile roofs and stained glass windows. used by our troops in . [illustration: the american trained nurse] the american trained nurse / am. hospital no. [illustration: what one man is fighting for] [illustration: "once upon a time--"] before leaving france , doughboys contributed enough to support , french war orphans for one year, and the "stars and stripes" newspaper left nearly three million francs toward their education [illustration: annamites--] annamites--french colonial troops from indo-china. these paid colonials were used as attacking troops, as laborers on roads and as drivers of light trucks. (blackened teeth are an aid to health and beauty) an orientas pipe and a french briquette to light it with le sergent tam / lizy-sur-ourq [illustration: the "white wing" of the french front] the "white wing" of the french front--but when he puts on his heavy marching order it means there's an attack coming. a king in his own country equipment c the loot is getting wabbly, with his dinky little pack,-- he can hear the sergeant cussing but he doesn't dare look back. but we ain't saying nothing since we got the order "route," too dog-dead for even wond'ring if we'll ever hear "fall out." my damn rifle and my helmet keep on getting in the way, and my brains are numb and dopey try'n' to cuss and try'n' to pray. my throat's as dry as sawdust and my right arm's gone to sleep, and the pack-strap on my shoulder cuts a slit two inches deep. i just lift one foot and shove it and it hits most any place, then i lift and shove the other t'keep from falling on my face. if the guide should change the cadence i'll be damned if i could stop; if you pushed me with a feather-- well, i'd just curl up and drop. and i know damn well there's stragglers that'll ride up on a truck-- guess if you ain't born a quitter, you're just simply outa luck. i suppose we'll keep on going-- huh? the skipper's faced about? halt!... i'm dreaming ... in the daisies ... you don't need ... to say ... "fall out!" [illustration: (tired soldiers)] [illustration: for some of us the war will never end.] [illustration: in an old roman cellar...] in an old roman cellar two floors underground where civilians went during air raids as bombing planes passed over on their way to compiegne, paris, and interior cities. this "cave" was considered absolutely safe, but in october was completed demolished by one " " shell. [illustration: mess and distribution of mail...] mess and distribution of mail at the "non-com" school for the m.t.c. at longpont [illustration: far from broadway] far from broadway--s.r.o.--christmas at a ymca hut [illustration: dressing a gas burn case] [illustration: "mission ambrine"] "mission ambrine" compiègne hospital for the treatment of burns [illustration: americans quartered in the old abbey...] americans quartered in the old abbey st. john de vine of soissons in the spring of ' [illustration: all the same family] henri, who tends sheep with his assistant (leroy) she teaches us french jean, who comes around at mess time for "confiture americaine," and who has learned how to say "chewing gum" and "cigarette." and pierre picked the spuds [illustration: their last war] chateau thierry--france [illustration: the town of cuffies...] the town of cuffies (sur aisne) held by the germans till , when the old inhabitants began moving back in; they were assisted in re-establishing their life there by the american red cross [illustration: the site of the home of madam crépin...] the site of the home of madam crépin where the red cross set up a barrack cottage for her. [illustration: the glory of reims] [illustration: cut off from rations for three days...] cut off from rations for three days in the wood--with one can of tomatoes for both food and drink-- [illustration: a sixteen year old volunteer] [illustration] "madelon" it seemed years since i had seen one,-- years of hiking, sweat and blood, didn't think there was a clean one in these miles of men and mud. well, i stood there, laughing, drinking, kidding her in bon fransay but the things that i was thinking were a thousand miles away. sewed my stripe on like a mother, gee! she was a pretty kid.... but i left her like a brother,-- shake her hand was all i did. then i says: "vous, all right, cherry--" and my throat stuck, and it hurt.... and i showed her what i carry in the pocket of my shirt. [illustration: "maison comtois"] [illustration: a second floor billet] [illustration: outpost at hershback germany] [illustration: madelon of the village...] madelon of the village, who washed our clothes--and who still has some of those we had to leave when we pulled out of the sector in the middle of the night [illustration: neat but not gaudy] neat but not gaudy as we come home--on the transport. [illustration: oran africa ] troops coming home from marseilles go by way of africa and stop to coal at oran. here the doughboy rests the french arab soldier with whom he fought side by side at soissons. [illustration: ready to go home] [illustration: reading the draft covenant for the league of nations--paris] reading the draft covenant for the league of nations--paris (president wilson, center, reads, other figures labelled as) general bliss colonel house secretary lansing m. clemenceau mr. balfour peace conference feb [illustration: blue denims for the trip home] s.s. canada [illustration: outpost at molsberg...] outpost at molsberg, germany, an ancient castle which stands just on the edge of the american occupied area and the neutral zone. november eleventh we stood up and we didn't say a word, it felt just like when you have dropped your pack after a hike, and straightened out your back and seem just twice as light as any bird. we stood up straight and, god! but it was good! when you have crouched like that for months, to stand straight up and look right out toward no-man's-land and feel the way you never thought you could. we saw the trenches on the other side and jerry, too, not making any fuss, but prob'ly stupid-happy, just like us. nobody shot and no one tried to hide. if you had listened then i guess you'd heard a sort of sigh from everybody there, but all we did was stand and stare and stare, just stare and stand and never say a word. in flanders fields by john mccrae [canadian poet, - ] with an essay in character by sir andrew macphail [this text is taken from the new york edition of .] [note on text: italicized stanzas are indented spaces. italicized words or phrases are capitalized. some slight errors have been corrected.] ======== john mccrae, physician, soldier, and poet, died in france a lieutenant-colonel with the canadian forces. the poem which gives this collection of his lovely verse its name has been extensively reprinted, and received with unusual enthusiasm. the volume contains, as well, a striking essay in character by his friend, sir andrew macphail. ======== {although the poem itself is included shortly, this next section is included for completeness, and to show john mccrae's punctuation -- also to show that i'm not the only one who forgets lines. -- a. l.} in flanders fields in flanders fields the poppies grow between the crosses, row on row that mark our place: and in the sky the larks still bravely singing, fly scarce heard amid the guns below. we are the dead. short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved, and were loved, and now we lie in flanders fields. take up our quarrel with the foe: to you from failing hands we throw the torch: be yours to hold it high! if ye break faith with us who die we shall not sleep, though poppies grow in flanders fields. john mccrae {from a} facsimile of an autograph copy of the poem "in flanders fields" this was probably written from memory as "grow" is used in place of "blow" in the first line. contents in flanders fields the anxious dead the warrior isandlwana the unconquered dead the captain the song of the derelict quebec then and now unsolved the hope of my heart penance slumber songs the oldest drama recompense mine host equality anarchy disarmament the dead master the harvest of the sea the dying of pere pierre eventide upon watts' picture "sic transit" a song of comfort the pilgrims the shadow of the cross the night cometh in due season john mccrae an essay in character by sir andrew macphail in flanders fields in flanders fields the poppies blow between the crosses, row on row, that mark our place; and in the sky the larks, still bravely singing, fly scarce heard amid the guns below. we are the dead. short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved, and now we lie, in flanders fields. take up our quarrel with the foe: to you from failing hands we throw the torch; be yours to hold it high. if ye break faith with us who die we shall not sleep, though poppies grow in flanders fields. the anxious dead o guns, fall silent till the dead men hear above their heads the legions pressing on: (these fought their fight in time of bitter fear, and died not knowing how the day had gone.) o flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see the coming dawn that streaks the sky afar; then let your mighty chorus witness be to them, and caesar, that we still make war. tell them, o guns, that we have heard their call, that we have sworn, and will not turn aside, that we will onward till we win or fall, that we will keep the faith for which they died. bid them be patient, and some day, anon, they shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep; shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn, and in content may turn them to their sleep. the warrior he wrought in poverty, the dull grey days, but with the night his little lamp-lit room was bright with battle flame, or through a haze of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the boom of bluecher's guns; he shared almeida's scars, and from the close-packed deck, about to die, looked up and saw the "birkenhead"'s tall spars weave wavering lines across the southern sky: or in the stifling 'tween decks, row on row, at aboukir, saw how the dead men lay; charged with the fiercest in busaco's strife, brave dreams are his -- the flick'ring lamp burns low -- yet couraged for the battles of the day he goes to stand full face to face with life. isandlwana _scarlet coats, and crash o' the band, the grey of a pauper's gown, a soldier's grave in zululand, and a woman in brecon town._ my little lad for a soldier boy, (mothers o' brecon town!) my eyes for tears and his for joy when he went from brecon town, his for the flags and the gallant sights his for the medals and his for the fights, and mine for the dreary, rainy nights at home in brecon town. they say he's laid beneath a tree, (come back to brecon town!) shouldn't i know? -- i was there to see: (it's far to brecon town!) it's me that keeps it trim and drest with a briar there and a rose by his breast -- the english flowers he likes the best that i bring from brecon town. and i sit beside him -- him and me, (we're back to brecon town.) to talk of the things that used to be (grey ghosts of brecon town); i know the look o' the land and sky, and the bird that builds in the tree near by, and times i hear the jackals cry, and me in brecon town. _golden grey on miles of sand the dawn comes creeping down; it's day in far off zululand and night in brecon town._ the unconquered dead ". . . defeated, with great loss." not we the conquered! not to us the blame of them that flee, of them that basely yield; nor ours the shout of victory, the fame of them that vanquish in a stricken field. that day of battle in the dusty heat we lay and heard the bullets swish and sing like scythes amid the over-ripened wheat, and we the harvest of their garnering. some yielded, no, not we! not we, we swear by these our wounds; this trench upon the hill where all the shell-strewn earth is seamed and bare, was ours to keep; and lo! we have it still. we might have yielded, even we, but death came for our helper; like a sudden flood the crashing darkness fell; our painful breath we drew with gasps amid the choking blood. the roar fell faint and farther off, and soon sank to a foolish humming in our ears, like crickets in the long, hot afternoon among the wheat fields of the olden years. before our eyes a boundless wall of red shot through by sudden streaks of jagged pain! then a slow-gathering darkness overhead and rest came on us like a quiet rain. not we the conquered! not to us the shame, who hold our earthen ramparts, nor shall cease to hold them ever; victors we, who came in that fierce moment to our honoured peace. the captain _here all the day she swings from tide to tide, here all night long she tugs a rusted chain, a masterless hulk that was a ship of pride, yet unashamed: her memories remain._ it was nelson in the 'captain', cape st. vincent far alee, with the 'vanguard' leading s'uth'ard in the haze -- little jervis and the spaniards and the fight that was to be, twenty-seven spanish battleships, great bullies of the sea, and the 'captain' there to find her day of days. right into them the 'vanguard' leads, but with a sudden tack the spaniards double swiftly on their trail; now jervis overshoots his mark, like some too eager pack, he will not overtake them, haste he e'er so greatly back, but nelson and the 'captain' will not fail. like a tigress on her quarry leaps the 'captain' from her place, to lie across the fleeing squadron's way: heavy odds and heavy onslaught, gun to gun and face to face, win the ship a name of glory, win the men a death of grace, for a little hold the spanish fleet in play. ended now the "captain"'s battle, stricken sore she falls aside holding still her foemen, beaten to the knee: as the 'vanguard' drifted past her, "well done, 'captain'," jervis cried, rang the cheers of men that conquered, ran the blood of men that died, and the ship had won her immortality. _lo! here her progeny of steel and steam, a funnelled monster at her mooring swings: still, in our hearts, we see her pennant stream, and "well done, 'captain'," like a trumpet rings._ the song of the derelict ye have sung me your songs, ye have chanted your rimes (i scorn your beguiling, o sea!) ye fondle me now, but to strike me betimes. (a treacherous lover, the sea!) once i saw as i lay, half-awash in the night a hull in the gloom -- a quick hail -- and a light and i lurched o'er to leeward and saved her for spite from the doom that ye meted to me. i was sister to 'terrible', seventy-four, (yo ho! for the swing of the sea!) and ye sank her in fathoms a thousand or more (alas! for the might of the sea!) ye taunt me and sing me her fate for a sign! what harm can ye wreak more on me or on mine? ho braggart! i care not for boasting of thine -- a fig for the wrath of the sea! some night to the lee of the land i shall steal, (heigh-ho to be home from the sea!) no pilot but death at the rudderless wheel, (none knoweth the harbor as he!) to lie where the slow tide creeps hither and fro and the shifting sand laps me around, for i know that my gallant old crew are in port long ago -- for ever at peace with the sea! quebec - of old, like helen, guerdon of the strong -- like helen fair, like helen light of word, -- "the spoils unto the conquerors belong. who winneth me must win me by the sword." grown old, like helen, once the jealous prize that strong men battled for in savage hate, can she look forth with unregretful eyes, where sleep montcalm and wolfe beside her gate? then and now beneath her window in the fragrant night i half forget how truant years have flown since i looked up to see her chamber-light, or catch, perchance, her slender shadow thrown upon the casement; but the nodding leaves sweep lazily across the unlit pane, and to and fro beneath the shadowy eaves, like restless birds, the breath of coming rain creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street when all is still, as if the very trees were listening for the coming of her feet that come no more; yet, lest i weep, the breeze sings some forgotten song of those old years until my heart grows far too glad for tears. unsolved amid my books i lived the hurrying years, disdaining kinship with my fellow man; alike to me were human smiles and tears, i cared not whither earth's great life-stream ran, till as i knelt before my mouldered shrine, god made me look into a woman's eyes; and i, who thought all earthly wisdom mine, knew in a moment that the eternal skies were measured but in inches, to the quest that lay before me in that mystic gaze. "surely i have been errant: it is best that i should tread, with men their human ways." god took the teacher, ere the task was learned, and to my lonely books again i turned. the hope of my heart "delicta juventutis et ignorantius ejus, quoesumus ne memineris, domine." i left, to earth, a little maiden fair, with locks of gold, and eyes that shamed the light; i prayed that god might have her in his care and sight. earth's love was false; her voice, a siren's song; (sweet mother-earth was but a lying name) the path she showed was but the path of wrong and shame. "cast her not out!" i cry. god's kind words come -- "her future is with me, as was her past; it shall be my good will to bring her home at last." penance my lover died a century ago, her dear heart stricken by my sland'rous breath, wherefore the gods forbade that i should know the peace of death. men pass my grave, and say, "'twere well to sleep, like such an one, amid the uncaring dead!" how should they know the vigils that i keep, the tears i shed? upon the grave, i count with lifeless breath, each night, each year, the flowers that bloom and die, deeming the leaves, that fall to dreamless death, more blest than i. 'twas just last year -- i heard two lovers pass so near, i caught the tender words he said: to-night the rain-drenched breezes sway the grass above his head. that night full envious of his life was i, that youth and love should stand at his behest; to-night, i envy him, that he should lie at utter rest. slumber songs i sleep, little eyes that brim with childish tears amid thy play, be comforted! no grief of night can weigh against the joys that throng thy coming day. sleep, little heart! there is no place in slumberland for tears: life soon enough will bring its chilling fears and sorrows that will dim the after years. sleep, little heart! ii ah, little eyes dead blossoms of a springtime long ago, that life's storm crushed and left to lie below the benediction of the falling snow! sleep, little heart that ceased so long ago its frantic beat! the years that come and go with silent feet have naught to tell save this -- that rest is sweet. dear little heart. the oldest drama _"it fell on a day, that he went out to his father to the reapers. and he said unto his father, my head, my head. and he said to a lad, carry him to his mother. and . . . he sat on her knees till noon, and then died. and she went up, and laid him on the bed. . . . and shut the door upon him and went out."_ immortal story that no mother's heart ev'n yet can read, nor feel the biting pain that rent her soul! immortal not by art which makes a long past sorrow sting again like grief of yesterday: but since it said in simplest word the truth which all may see, where any mother sobs above her dead and plays anew the silent tragedy. recompense i saw two sowers in life's field at morn, to whom came one in angel guise and said, "is it for labour that a man is born? lo: i am ease. come ye and eat my bread!" then gladly one forsook his task undone and with the tempter went his slothful way, the other toiled until the setting sun with stealing shadows blurred the dusty day. ere harvest time, upon earth's peaceful breast each laid him down among the unreaping dead. "labour hath other recompense than rest, else were the toiler like the fool," i said; "god meteth him not less, but rather more because he sowed and others reaped his store." mine host there stands a hostel by a travelled way; life is the road and death the worthy host; each guest he greets, nor ever lacks to say, "how have ye fared?" they answer him, the most, "this lodging place is other than we sought; we had intended farther, but the gloom came on apace, and found us ere we thought: yet will we lodge. thou hast abundant room." within sit haggard men that speak no word, no fire gleams their cheerful welcome shed; no voice of fellowship or strife is heard but silence of a multitude of dead. "naught can i offer ye," quoth death, "but rest!" and to his chamber leads each tired guest. equality i saw a king, who spent his life to weave into a nation all his great heart thought, unsatisfied until he should achieve the grand ideal that his manhood sought; yet as he saw the end within his reach, death took the sceptre from his failing hand, and all men said, "he gave his life to teach the task of honour to a sordid land!" within his gates i saw, through all those years, one at his humble toil with cheery face, whom (being dead) the children, half in tears, remembered oft, and missed him from his place. if he be greater that his people blessed than he the children loved, god knoweth best. anarchy i saw a city filled with lust and shame, where men, like wolves, slunk through the grim half-light; and sudden, in the midst of it, there came one who spoke boldly for the cause of right. and speaking, fell before that brutish race like some poor wren that shrieking eagles tear, while brute dishonour, with her bloodless face stood by and smote his lips that moved in prayer. "speak not of god! in centuries that word hath not been uttered! our own king are we." and god stretched forth his finger as he heard and o'er it cast a thousand leagues of sea. disarmament one spake amid the nations, "let us cease from darkening with strife the fair world's light, we who are great in war be great in peace. no longer let us plead the cause by might." but from a million british graves took birth a silent voice -- the million spake as one -- "if ye have righted all the wrongs of earth lay by the sword! its work and ours is done." the dead master amid earth's vagrant noises, he caught the note sublime: to-day around him surges from the silences of time a flood of nobler music, like a river deep and broad, fit song for heroes gathered in the banquet-hall of god. the harvest of the sea the earth grows white with harvest; all day long the sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves her web of silence o'er the thankful song of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves. the wave tops whiten on the sea fields drear, and men go forth at haggard dawn to reap; but ever 'mid the gleaners' song we hear the half-hushed sobbing of the hearts that weep. the dying of pere pierre ". . . with two other priests; the same night he died, and was buried by the shores of the lake that bears his name." chronicle. "nay, grieve not that ye can no honour give to these poor bones that presently must be but carrion; since i have sought to live upon god's earth, as he hath guided me, i shall not lack! where would ye have me lie? high heaven is higher than cathedral nave: do men paint chancels fairer than the sky?" beside the darkened lake they made his grave, below the altar of the hills; and night swung incense clouds of mist in creeping lines that twisted through the tree-trunks, where the light groped through the arches of the silent pines: and he, beside the lonely path he trod, lay, tombed in splendour, in the house of god. eventide the day is past and the toilers cease; the land grows dim 'mid the shadows grey, and hearts are glad, for the dark brings peace at the close of day. each weary toiler, with lingering pace, as he homeward turns, with the long day done, looks out to the west, with the light on his face of the setting sun. yet some see not (with their sin-dimmed eyes) the promise of rest in the fading light; but the clouds loom dark in the angry skies at the fall of night. and some see only a golden sky where the elms their welcoming arms stretch wide to the calling rooks, as they homeward fly at the eventide. it speaks of peace that comes after strife, of the rest he sends to the hearts he tried, of the calm that follows the stormiest life -- god's eventide. upon watts' picture "sic transit" _"what i spent i had; what i saved, i lost; what i gave, i have."_ but yesterday the tourney, all the eager joy of life, the waving of the banners, and the rattle of the spears, the clash of sword and harness, and the madness of the strife; to-night begin the silence and the peace of endless years. (one sings within.) but yesterday the glory and the prize, and best of all, to lay it at her feet, to find my guerdon in her speaking eyes: i grudge them not, -- they pass, albeit sweet. the ring of spears, the winning of the fight, the careless song, the cup, the love of friends, the earth in spring -- to live, to feel the light -- 'twas good the while it lasted: here it ends. remain the well-wrought deed in honour done, the dole for christ's dear sake, the words that fall in kindliness upon some outcast one, -- they seemed so little: now they are my all. a song of comfort _"sleep, weary ones, while ye may -- sleep, oh, sleep!"_ eugene field. thro' may time blossoms, with whisper low, the soft wind sang to the dead below: "think not with regret on the springtime's song and the task ye left while your hands were strong. the song would have ceased when the spring was past, and the task that was joyous be weary at last." to the winter sky when the nights were long the tree-tops tossed with a ceaseless song: "do ye think with regret on the sunny days and the path ye left, with its untrod ways? the sun might sink in a storm cloud's frown and the path grow rough when the night came down." in the grey twilight of the autumn eves, it sighed as it sang through the dying leaves: "ye think with regret that the world was bright, that your path was short and your task was light; the path, though short, was perhaps the best and the toil was sweet, that it led to rest." the pilgrims an uphill path, sun-gleams between the showers, where every beam that broke the leaden sky lit other hills with fairer ways than ours; some clustered graves where half our memories lie; and one grim shadow creeping ever nigh: and this was life. wherein we did another's burden seek, the tired feet we helped upon the road, the hand we gave the weary and the weak, the miles we lightened one another's load, when, faint to falling, onward yet we strode: this too was life. till, at the upland, as we turned to go amid fair meadows, dusky in the night, the mists fell back upon the road below; broke on our tired eyes the western light; the very graves were for a moment bright: and this was death. the shadow of the cross at the drowsy dusk when the shadows creep from the golden west, where the sunbeams sleep, an angel mused: "is there good or ill in the mad world's heart, since on calvary's hill 'round the cross a mid-day twilight fell that darkened earth and o'ershadowed hell?" through the streets of a city the angel sped; like an open scroll men's hearts he read. in a monarch's ear his courtiers lied and humble faces hid hearts of pride. men's hate waxed hot, and their hearts grew cold, as they haggled and fought for the lust of gold. despairing, he cried, "after all these years is there naught but hatred and strife and tears?" he found two waifs in an attic bare; -- a single crust was their meagre fare -- one strove to quiet the other's cries, and the love-light dawned in her famished eyes as she kissed the child with a motherly air: "i don't need mine, you can have my share." then the angel knew that the earthly cross and the sorrow and shame were not wholly loss. at dawn, when hushed was earth's busy hum and men looked not for their christ to come, from the attic poor to the palace grand, the king and the beggar went hand in hand. the night cometh cometh the night. the wind falls low, the trees swing slowly to and fro: around the church the headstones grey cluster, like children strayed away but found again, and folded so. no chiding look doth she bestow: if she is glad, they cannot know; if ill or well they spend their day, cometh the night. singing or sad, intent they go; they do not see the shadows grow; "there yet is time," they lightly say, "before our work aside we lay"; their task is but half-done, and lo! cometh the night. in due season if night should come and find me at my toil, when all life's day i had, tho' faintly, wrought, and shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil were all my labour: shall i count it naught if only one poor gleaner, weak of hand, shall pick a scanty sheaf where i have sown? "nay, for of thee the master doth demand thy work: the harvest rests with him alone." john mccrae an essay in character by sir andrew macphail i. in flanders fields "in flanders fields", the piece of verse from which this little book takes its title, first appeared in 'punch' in the issue of december th, . at the time i was living in flanders at a convent in front of locre, in shelter of kemmel hill, which lies seven miles south and slightly west of ypres. the piece bore no signature, but it was unmistakably from the hand of john mccrae. from this convent of women which was the headquarters of the th canadian field ambulance, i wrote to john mccrae, who was then at boulogne, accusing him of the authorship, and furnished him with evidence. from memory--since at the front one carries one book only--i quoted to him another piece of his own verse, entitled "the night cometh": "cometh the night. the wind falls low, the trees swing slowly to and fro; around the church the headstones grey cluster, like children stray'd away, but found again, and folded so." it will be observed at once by reference to the text that in form the two poems are identical. they contain the same number of lines and feet as surely as all sonnets do. each travels upon two rhymes with the members of a broken couplet in widely separated refrain. to the casual reader this much is obvious, but there are many subtleties in the verse which made the authorship inevitable. it was a form upon which he had worked for years, and made his own. when the moment arrived the medium was ready. no other medium could have so well conveyed the thought. this familiarity with his verse was not a matter of accident. for many years i was editor of the 'university magazine', and those who are curious about such things may discover that one half of the poems contained in this little book were first published upon its pages. this magazine had its origin in mcgill university, montreal, in the year . four years later its borders were enlarged to the wider term, and it strove to express an educated opinion upon questions immediately concerning canada, and to treat freely in a literary way all matters which have to do with politics, industry, philosophy, science, and art. to this magazine during those years john mccrae contributed all his verse. it was therefore not unseemly that i should have written to him, when "in flanders fields" appeared in 'punch'. amongst his papers i find my poor letter, and many others of which something more might be made if one were concerned merely with the literary side of his life rather than with his life itself. two references will be enough. early in he offered "the pilgrims" for publication. i notified him of the place assigned to it in the magazine, and added a few words of appreciation, and after all these years it has come back to me. the letter is dated february th, , and reads: "i place the poem next to my own buffoonery. it is the real stuff of poetry. how did you make it? what have you to do with medicine? i was charmed with it: the thought high, the image perfect, the expression complete; not too reticent, not too full. videntes autem stellam gavisi sunt gaudio magno valde. in our own tongue,--'slainte filidh'." to his mother he wrote, "the latin is translatable as, 'seeing the star they rejoiced with exceeding gladness'." for the benefit of those whose education has proceeded no further than the latin, it may be explained that the two last words mean, "hail to the poet". to the inexperienced there is something portentous about an appearance in print and something mysterious about the business of an editor. a legend has already grown up around the publication of "in flanders fields" in 'punch'. the truth is, "that the poem was offered in the usual way and accepted; that is all." the usual way of offering a piece to an editor is to put it in an envelope with a postage stamp outside to carry it there, and a stamp inside to carry it back. nothing else helps. an editor is merely a man who knows his right hand from his left, good from evil, having the honesty of a kitchen cook who will not spoil his confection by favour for a friend. fear of a foe is not a temptation, since editors are too humble and harmless to have any. there are of course certain slight offices which an editor can render, especially to those whose writings he does not intend to print, but john mccrae required none of these. his work was finished to the last point. he would bring his piece in his hand and put it on the table. a wise editor knows when to keep his mouth shut; but now i am free to say that he never understood the nicety of the semi-colon, and his writing was too heavily stopped. he was not of those who might say,--take it or leave it; but rather,--look how perfect it is; and it was so. also he was the first to recognize that an editor has some rights and prejudices, that certain words make him sick; that certain other words he reserves for his own use,--"meticulous" once a year, "adscititious" once in a life time. this explains why editors write so little. in the end, out of mere good nature, or seeing the futility of it all, they contribute their words to contributors and write no more. the volume of verse as here printed is small. the volume might be enlarged; it would not be improved. to estimate the value and institute a comparison of those herein set forth would be a congenial but useless task, which may well be left to those whose profession it is to offer instruction to the young. to say that "in flanders fields" is not the best would involve one in controversy. it did give expression to a mood which at the time was universal, and will remain as a permanent record when the mood is passed away. the poem was first called to my attention by a sapper officer, then major, now brigadier. he brought the paper in his hand from his billet in dranoutre. it was printed on page , and mr. 'punch' will be glad to be told that, in his annual index, in the issue of december th, , he has misspelled the author's name, which is perhaps the only mistake he ever made. this officer could himself weave the sonnet with deft fingers, and he pointed out many deep things. it is to the sappers the army always goes for "technical material". the poem, he explained, consists of thirteen lines in iambic tetrameter and two lines of two iambics each; in all, one line more than the sonnet's count. there are two rhymes only, since the short lines must be considered blank, and are, in fact, identical. but it is a difficult mode. it is true, he allowed, that the octet of the sonnet has only two rhymes, but these recur only four times, and the liberty of the sestet tempers its despotism,--which i thought a pretty phrase. he pointed out the dangers inherent in a restricted rhyme, and cited the case of browning, the great rhymster, who was prone to resort to any rhyme, and frequently ended in absurdity, finding it easier to make a new verse than to make an end. at great length--but the december evenings in flanders are long, how long, o lord!--this sapper officer demonstrated the skill with which the rhymes are chosen. they are vocalized. consonant endings would spoil the whole effect. they reiterate o and i, not the o of pain and the ay of assent, but the o of wonder, of hope, of aspiration; and the i of personal pride, of jealous immortality, of the ego against the universe. they are, he went on to expound, a recurrence of the ancient question: "how are the dead raised, and with what body do they come?" "how shall i bear my light across?" and of the defiant cry: "if christ be not raised, then is our faith vain." the theme has three phases: the first a calm, a deadly calm, opening statement in five lines; the second in four lines, an explanation, a regret, a reiteration of the first; the third, without preliminary crescendo, breaking out into passionate adjuration in vivid metaphor, a poignant appeal which is at once a blessing and a curse. in the closing line is a satisfying return to the first phase,--and the thing is done. one is so often reminded of the poverty of men's invention, their best being so incomplete, their greatest so trivial, that one welcomes what--this sapper officer surmised--may become a new and fixed mode of expression in verse. as to the theme itself--i am using his words: what is his is mine; what is mine is his--the interest is universal. the dead, still conscious, fallen in a noble cause, see their graves overblown in a riot of poppy bloom. the poppy is the emblem of sleep. the dead desire to sleep undisturbed, but yet curiously take an interest in passing events. they regret that they have not been permitted to live out their life to its normal end. they call on the living to finish their task, else they shall not sink into that complete repose which they desire, in spite of the balm of the poppy. formalists may protest that the poet is not sincere, since it is the seed and not the flower that produces sleep. they might as well object that the poet has no right to impersonate the dead. we common folk know better. we know that in personating the dear dead, and calling in bell-like tones on the inarticulate living, the poet shall be enabled to break the lightnings of the beast, and thereby he, being himself, alas! dead, yet speaketh; and shall speak, to ones and twos and a host. as it is written in resonant bronze: vivos . voco . mortuos . plango . fulgura . frango: words cast by this officer upon a church bell which still rings in far away orwell in memory of his father--and of mine. by this time the little room was cold. for some reason the guns had awakened in the salient. an indian trooper who had just come up, and did not yet know the orders, blew "lights out",--on a cavalry trumpet. the sappers work by night. the officer turned and went his way to his accursed trenches, leaving the verse with me. john mccrae witnessed only once the raw earth of flanders hide its shame in the warm scarlet glory of the poppy. others have watched this resurrection of the flowers in four successive seasons, a fresh miracle every time it occurs. also they have observed the rows of crosses lengthen, the torch thrown, caught, and carried to victory. the dead may sleep. we have not broken faith with them. it is little wonder then that "in flanders fields" has become the poem of the army. the soldiers have learned it with their hearts, which is quite a different thing from committing it to memory. it circulates, as a song should circulate, by the living word of mouth, not by printed characters. that is the true test of poetry,--its insistence on making itself learnt by heart. the army has varied the text; but each variation only serves to reveal more clearly the mind of the maker. the army says, "among the crosses"; "felt dawn and sunset glow"; "lived and were loved". the army may be right: it usually is. nor has any piece of verse in recent years been more widely known in the civilian world. it was used on every platform from which men were being adjured to adventure their lives or their riches in the great trial through which the present generation has passed. many "replies" have been made. the best i have seen was written in the 'new york evening post'. none but those who were prepared to die before vimy ridge that early april day of will ever feel fully the great truth of mr. lillard's opening lines, as they speak for all americans: "rest ye in peace, ye flanders dead. the fight that ye so bravely led we've taken up." they did--and bravely. they heard the cry--"if ye break faith, we shall not sleep." ii. with the guns if there was nothing remarkable about the publication of "in flanders fields", there was something momentous in the moment of writing it. and yet it was a sure instinct which prompted the writer to send it to 'punch'. a rational man wishes to know the news of the world in which he lives; and if he is interested in life, he is eager to know how men feel and comport themselves amongst the events which are passing. for this purpose 'punch' is the great newspaper of the world, and these lines describe better than any other how men felt in that great moment. it was in april, . the enemy was in the full cry of victory. all that remained for him was to occupy paris, as once he did before, and to seize the channel ports. then france, england, and the world were doomed. all winter the german had spent in repairing his plans, which had gone somewhat awry on the marne. he had devised his final stroke, and it fell upon the canadians at ypres. this battle, known as the second battle of ypres, culminated on april nd, but it really extended over the whole month. the inner history of war is written from the recorded impressions of men who have endured it. john mccrae in a series of letters to his mother, cast in the form of a diary, has set down in words the impressions which this event of the war made upon a peculiarly sensitive mind. the account is here transcribed without any attempt at "amplification", or "clarifying" by notes upon incidents or references to places. these are only too well known. friday, april rd, . as we moved up last evening, there was heavy firing about . on our left, the hour at which the general attack with gas was made when the french line broke. we could see the shells bursting over ypres, and in a small village to our left, meeting general----, c.r.a., of one of the divisions, he ordered us to halt for orders. we sent forward notifications to our headquarters, and sent out orderlies to get in touch with the batteries of the farther forward brigades already in action. the story of these guns will be read elsewhere. they had a tough time, but got away safely, and did wonderful service. one battery fired in two opposite directions at once, and both batteries fired at point blank, open sights, at germans in the open. they were at times quite without infantry on their front, for their position was behind the french to the left of the british line. as we sat on the road we began to see the french stragglers--men without arms, wounded men, teams, wagons, civilians, refugees--some by the roads, some across country, all talking, shouting--the very picture of debacle. i must say they were the "tag enders" of a fighting line rather than the line itself. they streamed on, and shouted to us scraps of not too inspiriting information while we stood and took our medicine, and picked out gun positions in the fields in case we had to go in there and then. the men were splendid; not a word; not a shake, and it was a terrific test. traffic whizzed by--ambulances, transport, ammunition, supplies, despatch riders--and the shells thundered into the town, or burst high in the air nearer us, and the refugees streamed. women, old men, little children, hopeless, tearful, quiet or excited, tired, dodging the traffic,--and the wounded in singles or in groups. here and there i could give a momentary help, and the ambulances picked up as they could. so the cold moonlight night wore on--no change save that the towers of ypres showed up against the glare of the city burning; and the shells still sailed in. at . our ammunition column (the part that had been "in") appeared. major---- had waited, like casabianca, for orders until the germans were yards away; then he started, getting safely away save for one wagon lost, and some casualties in men and horses. he found our column, and we prepared to send forward ammunition as soon as we could learn where the batteries had taken up position in retiring, for retire they had to. eleven, twelve, and finally grey day broke, and we still waited. at . word came to go in and support a french counterattack at . a.m. hastily we got the order spread; it was a.m. and three miles to go. of one's feelings all this night--of the asphyxiated french soldiers--of the women and children--of the cheery, steady british reinforcements that moved up quietly past us, going up, not back--i could write, but you can imagine. we took the road at once, and went up at the gallop. the colonel rode ahead to scout a position (we had only four guns, part of the ammunition column, and the brigade staff; the st and th batteries were back in reserve at our last billet). along the roads we went, and made our place on time, pulled up for ten minutes just short of the position, where i put bonfire [his horse] with my groom in a farmyard, and went forward on foot--only a quarter of a mile or so--then we advanced. bonfire had soon to move; a shell killed a horse about four yards away from him, and he wisely took other ground. meantime we went on into the position we were to occupy for seventeen days, though we could not guess that. i can hardly say more than that it was near the yser canal. we got into action at once, under heavy gunfire. we were to the left entirely of the british line, and behind french troops, and so we remained for eight days. a colonel of the r.a., known to fame, joined us and camped with us; he was our link with the french headquarters, and was in local command of the guns in this locality. when he left us eight days later he said, "i am glad to get out of this hell-hole." he was a great comfort to us, for he is very capable, and the entire battle was largely fought "on our own", following the requests of the infantry on our front, and scarcely guided by our own staff at all. we at once set out to register our targets, and almost at once had to get into steady firing on quite a large sector of front. we dug in the guns as quickly as we could, and took as headquarters some infantry trenches already sunk on a ridge near the canal. we were subject from the first to a steady and accurate shelling, for we were all but in sight, as were the german trenches about yards to our front. at times the fire would come in salvos quickly repeated. bursts of fire would be made for ten or fifteen minutes at a time. we got all varieties of projectile, from inch to inch, or perhaps inch; the small ones usually as air bursts, the larger percussion and air, and the heaviest percussion only. my work began almost from the start--steady but never overwhelming, except perhaps once for a few minutes. a little cottage behind our ridge served as a cook-house, but was so heavily hit the second day that we had to be chary of it. during bursts of fire i usually took the back slope of the sharply crested ridge for what shelter it offered. at our st and th arrived, and went into action at once a few hundred yards in our rear. wires were at once put out, to be cut by shells hundreds and hundreds of times, but always repaired by our indefatigable linemen. so the day wore on; in the night the shelling still kept up: three different german attacks were made and repulsed. if we suffered by being close up, the germans suffered from us, for already tales of good shooting came down to us. i got some sleep despite the constant firing, for we had none last night. saturday, april th, . behold us now anything less than two miles north of ypres on the west side of the canal; this runs north, each bank flanked with high elms, with bare trunks of the familiar netherlands type. a few yards to the west a main road runs, likewise bordered; the censor will allow me to say that on the high bank between these we had our headquarters; the ridge is perhaps fifteen to twenty feet high, and slopes forward fifty yards to the water, the back is more steep, and slopes quickly to a little subsidiary water way, deep but dirty. where the guns were i shall not say; but they were not far, and the german aeroplanes that viewed us daily with all but impunity knew very well. a road crossed over the canal, and interrupted the ridge; across the road from us was our billet--the place we cooked in, at least, and where we usually took our meals. looking to the south between the trees, we could see the ruins of the city: to the front on the sky line, with rolling ground in the front, pitted by french trenches, the german lines; to the left front, several farms and a windmill, and farther left, again near the canal, thicker trees and more farms. the farms and windmills were soon burnt. several farms we used for observing posts were also quickly burnt during the next three or four days. all along behind us at varying distances french and british guns; the flashes at night lit up the sky. these high trees were at once a protection and a danger. shells that struck them were usually destructive. when we came in the foliage was still very thin. along the road, which was constantly shelled "on spec" by the germans, one saw all the sights of war: wounded men limping or carried, ambulances, trains of supply, troops, army mules, and tragedies. i saw one bicycle orderly: a shell exploded and he seemed to pedal on for eight or ten revolutions and then collapsed in a heap--dead. straggling soldiers would be killed or wounded, horses also, until it got to be a nightmare. i used to shudder every time i saw wagons or troops on that road. my dugout looked out on it. i got a square hole, by , dug in the side of the hill (west), roofed over with remnants to keep out the rain, and a little sandbag parapet on the back to prevent pieces of "back-kick shells" from coming in, or prematures from our own or the french guns for that matter. some straw on the floor completed it. the ground was treacherous and a slip the first night nearly buried----. so we had to be content with walls straight up and down, and trust to the height of the bank for safety. all places along the bank were more or less alike, all squirrel holes. this morning we supported a heavy french attack at . ; there had been three german attacks in the night, and everyone was tired. we got heavily shelled. in all eight or ten of our trees were cut by shells--cut right off, the upper part of the tree subsiding heavily and straight down, as a usual thing. one would think a piece a foot long was just instantly cut out; and these trees were about inches in diameter. the gas fumes came very heavily: some blew down from the infantry trenches, some came from the shells: one's eyes smarted, and breathing was very laboured. up to noon to-day we fired rounds. last night col. morrison and i slept at a french colonel's headquarters near by, and in the night our room was filled up with wounded. i woke up and shared my bed with a chap with "a wounded leg and a chill". probably thirty wounded were brought into the one little room. col.----, r.a., kept us in communication with the french general in whose command we were. i bunked down in the trench on the top of the ridge: the sky was red with the glare of the city still burning, and we could hear the almost constant procession of large shells sailing over from our left front into the city: the crashes of their explosion shook the ground where we were. after a terribly hard day, professionally and otherwise, i slept well, but it rained and the trench was awfully muddy and wet. sunday, april th, . the weather brightened up, and we got at it again. this day we had several heavy attacks, prefaced by heavy artillery fire; these bursts of fire would result in our getting to rounds right on us or nearby: the heavier our fire (which was on the trenches entirely) the heavier theirs. our food supply came up at dusk in wagons, and the water was any we could get, but of course treated with chloride of lime. the ammunition had to be brought down the roads at the gallop, and the more firing the more wagons. the men would quickly carry the rounds to the guns, as the wagons had to halt behind our hill. the good old horses would swing around at the gallop, pull up in an instant, and stand puffing and blowing, but with their heads up, as if to say, "wasn't that well done?" it makes you want to kiss their dear old noses, and assure them of a peaceful pasture once more. to-day we got our dressing station dugout complete, and slept there at night. three farms in succession burned on our front--colour in the otherwise dark. the flashes of shells over the front and rear in all directions. the city still burning and the procession still going on. i dressed a number of french wounded; one turco prayed to allah and mohammed all the time i was dressing his wound. on the front field one can see the dead lying here and there, and in places where an assault has been they lie very thick on the front slopes of the german trenches. our telephone wagon team hit by a shell; two horses killed and another wounded. i did what i could for the wounded one, and he subsequently got well. this night, beginning after dark, we got a terrible shelling, which kept up till or in the morning. finally i got to sleep, though it was still going on. we must have got a couple of hundred rounds, in single or pairs. every one burst over us, would light up the dugout, and every hit in front would shake the ground and bring down small bits of earth on us, or else the earth thrown into the air by the explosion would come spattering down on our roof, and into the front of the dugout. col. morrison tried the mess house, but the shelling was too heavy, and he and the adjutant joined cosgrave and me, and we four spent an anxious night there in the dark. one officer was on watch "on the bridge" (as we called the trench at the top of the ridge) with the telephones. monday, april th, . another day of heavy actions, but last night much french and british artillery has come in, and the place is thick with germans. there are many prematures (with so much firing) but the pieces are usually spread before they get to us. it is disquieting, however, i must say. and all the time the birds sing in the trees over our heads. yesterday up to noon we fired rounds for the twenty-four hours; to-day we have fired much less, but we have registered fresh fronts, and burned some farms behind the german trenches. about six the fire died down, and we had a peaceful evening and night, and cosgrave and i in the dugout made good use of it. the colonel has an individual dugout, and dodds sleeps "topside" in the trench. to all this, put in a background of anxiety lest the line break, for we are just where it broke before. tuesday, april th, . this morning again registering batteries on new points. at . a heavy attack was prepared by the french and ourselves. the fire was very heavy for half an hour and the enemy got busy too. i had to cross over to the batteries during it, an unpleasant journey. more gas attacks in the afternoon. the french did not appear to press the attack hard, but in the light of subsequent events it probably was only a feint. it seems likely that about this time our people began to thin out the artillery again for use elsewhere; but this did not at once become apparent. at night usually the heavies farther back take up the story, and there is a duel. the germans fire on our roads after dark to catch reliefs and transport. i suppose ours do the same. wednesday, april th, . i have to confess to an excellent sleep last night. at times anxiety says, "i don't want a meal," but experience says "you need your food," so i attend regularly to that. the billet is not too safe either. much german air reconnaissance over us, and heavy firing from both sides during the day. at . we again prepared a heavy artillery attack, but the infantry made little attempt to go on. we are perhaps the "chopping block", and our "preparations" may be chiefly designed to prevent detachments of troops being sent from our front elsewhere. i have said nothing of what goes on on our right and left; but it is equally part and parcel of the whole game; this eight mile front is constantly heavily engaged. at intervals, too, they bombard ypres. our back lines, too, have to be constantly shifted on account of shell fire, and we have desultory but constant losses there. in the evening rifle fire gets more frequent, and bullets are constantly singing over us. some of them are probably ricochets, for we are yards, or nearly, from the nearest german trench. thursday, april th, . this morning our billet was hit. we fire less these days, but still a good deal. there was a heavy french attack on our left. the "gas" attacks can be seen from here. the yellow cloud rising up is for us a signal to open, and we do. the wind is from our side to-day, and a good thing it is. several days ago during the firing a big oxford-grey dog, with beautiful brown eyes, came to us in a panic. he ran to me, and pressed his head hard against my leg. so i got him a safe place and he sticks by us. we call him fleabag, for he looks like it. this night they shelled us again heavily for some hours--the same shorts, hits, overs on percussion, and great yellow-green air bursts. one feels awfully irritated by the constant din--a mixture of anger and apprehension. friday, april th, . thick mist this morning, and relative quietness; but before it cleared the germans started again to shell us. at it cleared, and from to we fired constantly. the french advanced, and took some ground on our left front and a batch of prisoners. this was at a place we call twin farms. our men looked curiously at the boches as they were marched through. some better activity in the afternoon by the allies' aeroplanes. the german planes have had it too much their way lately. many of to-day's shells have been very large-- or inch; a lot of tremendous holes dug in the fields just behind us. saturday, may st, . may day! heavy bombardment at intervals through the day. another heavy artillery preparation at . , but no french advance. we fail to understand why, but orders go. we suffered somewhat during the day. through the evening and night heavy firing at intervals. sunday, may nd, . heavy gunfire again this morning. lieut. h---- was killed at the guns. his diary's last words were, "it has quieted a little and i shall try to get a good sleep." i said the committal service over him, as well as i could from memory. a soldier's death! batteries again registering barrages or barriers of fire at set ranges. at the germans attacked, preceded by gas clouds. fighting went on for an hour and a half, during which their guns hammered heavily with some loss to us. the french lines are very uneasy, and we are correspondingly anxious. the infantry fire was very heavy, and we fired incessantly, keeping on into the night. despite the heavy fire i got asleep at , and slept until daylight which comes at . monday, may rd, . a clear morning, and the accursed german aeroplanes over our positions again. they are usually fired at, but no luck. to-day a shell on our hill dug out a cannon ball about six inches in diameter--probably of napoleon's or earlier times--heavily rusted. a german attack began, but half an hour of artillery fire drove it back. major----, r.a., was up forward, and could see the german reserves. our th was turned on: first round over; shortened and went into gunfire, and his report was that the effect was perfect. the same occurred again in the evening, and again at midnight. the germans were reported to be constantly massing for attack, and we as constantly "went to them". the german guns shelled us as usual at intervals. this must get very tiresome to read; but through it all, it must be mentioned that the constantly broken communications have to be mended, rations and ammunition brought up, the wounded to be dressed and got away. our dugouts have the french engineers and french infantry next door by turns. they march in and out. the back of the hill is a network of wires, so that one has to go carefully. tuesday, may th, . despite intermittent shelling and some casualties the quietest day yet; but we live in an uneasy atmosphere as german attacks are constantly being projected, and our communications are interrupted and scrappy. we get no news of any sort and have just to sit tight and hold on. evening closed in rainy and dark. our dugout is very slenderly provided against it, and we get pretty wet and very dirty. in the quieter morning hours we get a chance of a wash and occasionally a shave. wednesday, may th, . heavily hammered in the morning from to , but at it let up; the sun came out and things looked better. evidently our line has again been thinned of artillery and the requisite minimum to hold is left. there were german attacks to our right, just out of our area. later on we and they both fired heavily, the first battery getting it especially hot. the planes over us again and again, to coach the guns. an attack expected at dusk, but it turned only to heavy night shelling, so that with our fire, theirs, and the infantry cracking away constantly, we got sleep in small quantity all night; bullets whizzing over us constantly. heavy rain from to , and everything wet except the far-in corner of the dugout, where we mass our things to keep them as dry as we may. thursday, may th, . after the rain a bright morning; the leaves and blossoms are coming out. we ascribe our quietude to a welcome flock of allied planes which are over this morning. the germans attacked at eleven, and again at six in the afternoon, each meaning a waking up of heavy artillery on the whole front. in the evening we had a little rain at intervals, but it was light. friday, may th, . a bright morning early, but clouded over later. the germans gave it to us very heavily. there was heavy fighting to the south-east of us. two attacks or threats, and we went in again. saturday, may th, . for the last three days we have been under british divisional control, and supporting our own men who have been put farther to the left, till they are almost in front of us. it is an added comfort. we have four officers out with various infantry regiments for observation and co-operation; they have to stick it in trenches, as all the houses and barns are burned. the whole front is constantly ablaze with big gunfire; the racket never ceases. we have now to do most of the work for our left, as our line appears to be much thinner than it was. a german attack followed the shelling at ; we were fighting hard till , and less regularly all the afternoon. we suffered much, and at one time were down to seven guns. of these two were smoking at every joint, and the levers were so hot that the gunners used sacking for their hands. the pace is now much hotter, and the needs of the infantry for fire more insistent. the guns are in bad shape by reason of dirt, injuries, and heat. the wind fortunately blows from us, so there is no gas, but the attacks are still very heavy. evening brought a little quiet, but very disquieting news (which afterwards proved untrue); and we had to face a possible retirement. you may imagine our state of mind, unable to get anything sure in the uncertainty, except that we should stick out as long as the guns would fire, and we could fire them. that sort of night brings a man down to his "bare skin", i promise you. the night was very cold, and not a cheerful one. sunday, may th, . at we were ordered to get ready to move, and the adjutant picked out new retirement positions; but a little later better news came, and the daylight and sun revived us a bit. as i sat in my dugout a little white and black dog with tan spots bolted in over the parapet, during heavy firing, and going to the farthest corner began to dig furiously. having scraped out a pathetic little hole two inches deep, she sat down and shook, looking most plaintively at me. a few minutes later, her owner came along, a french soldier. bissac was her name, but she would not leave me at the time. when i sat down a little later, she stole out and shyly crawled in between me and the wall; she stayed by me all day, and i hope got later on to safe quarters. firing kept up all day. in thirty hours we had fired rounds, and at times with seven, eight, or nine guns; our wire cut and repaired eighteen times. orders came to move, and we got ready. at dusk we got the guns out by hand, and all batteries assembled at a given spot in comparative safety. we were much afraid they would open on us, for at o'clock they gave us or rounds, hitting the trench parapet again and again. however, we were up the road, the last wagon half a mile away before they opened. one burst near me, and splattered some pieces around, but we got clear, and by were out of the usual fire zone. marched all night, tired as could be, but happy to be clear. i was glad to get on dear old bonfire again. we made about sixteen miles, and got to our billets at dawn. i had three or four hours' sleep, and arose to a peaceful breakfast. we shall go back to the line elsewhere very soon, but it is a present relief, and the next place is sure to be better, for it cannot be worse. much of this narrative is bald and plain, but it tells our part in a really great battle. i have only had hasty notes to go by; in conversation there is much one could say that would be of greater interest. heard of the 'lusitania' disaster on our road out. a terrible affair! here ends the account of his part in this memorable battle, and here follow some general observations upon the experience: northern france, may th, . we got here to refit and rest this morning at , having marched last night at . the general impression in my mind is of a nightmare. we have been in the most bitter of fights. for seventeen days and seventeen nights none of us have had our clothes off, nor our boots even, except occasionally. in all that time while i was awake, gunfire and rifle fire never ceased for sixty seconds, and it was sticking to our utmost by a weak line all but ready to break, knowing nothing of what was going on, and depressed by reports of anxious infantry. the men and the divisions are worthy of all praise that can be given. it did not end in four days when many of our infantry were taken out. it kept on at fever heat till yesterday. this, of course, is the second battle of ypres, or the battle of the yser, i do not know which. at one time we were down to seven guns, but those guns were smoking at every joint, the gunners using cloth to handle the breech levers because of the heat. we had three batteries in action with four guns added from the other units. our casualties were half the number of men in the firing line. the horse lines and the wagon lines farther back suffered less, but the brigade list has gone far higher than any artillery normal. i know one brigade r.a. that was in the mons retreat and had about the same. i have done what fell to hand. my clothes, boots, kit, and dugout at various times were sadly bloody. two of our batteries are reduced to two officers each. we have had constant accurate shell-fire, but we have given back no less. and behind it all was the constant background of the sights of the dead, the wounded, the maimed, and a terrible anxiety lest the line should give way. during all this time, we have been behind french troops, and only helping our own people by oblique fire when necessary. our horses have suffered heavily too. bonfire had a light wound from a piece of shell; it is healing and the dear old fellow is very fit. had my first ride for seventeen days last night. we never saw horses but with the wagons bringing up the ammunition. when fire was hottest they had to come two miles on a road terribly swept, and they did it magnificently. but how tired we are! weary in body and wearier in mind. none of our men went off their heads but men in units nearby did--and no wonder. france, may th, . i am glad you had your mind at rest by the rumour that we were in reserve. what newspaper work! the poor old artillery never gets any mention, and the whole show is the infantry. it may interest you to note on your map a spot on the west bank of the canal, a mile and a half north of ypres, as the scene of our labours. there can be no harm in saying so, now that we are out of it. the unit was the most advanced of all the allies' guns by a good deal except one french battery which stayed in a position yet more advanced for two days, and then had to be taken out. i think it may be said that we saw the show from the soup to the coffee. france, may th, . the farther we get away from ypres the more we learn of the enormous power the germans put in to push us over. lord only knows how many men they had, and how many they lost. i wish i could embody on paper some of the varied sensations of that seventeen days. all the gunners down this way passed us all sorts of 'kudos' over it. our guns--those behind us, from which we had to dodge occasional prematures--have a peculiar bang-sound added to the sharp crack of discharge. the french has a sharp wood-block-chop sound, and the shell goes over with a peculiar whine--not unlike a cat, but beginning with n--thus,--n-eouw. the big fellows, yards or more behind, sounded exactly like our own, but the flash came three or four seconds before the sound. of the german shells--the field guns come with a great velocity--no warning--just whizz-bang; white smoke, nearly always air bursts. the next size, probably inch howitzers, have a perceptible time of approach, an increasing whine, and a great burst on the percussion--dirt in all directions. and even if a shell hit on the front of the canal bank, and one were on the back of the bank, five, eight, or ten seconds later one would hear a belated whirr, and curved pieces of shell would light--probably parabolic curves or boomerangs. these shells have a great back kick; from the field gun shrapnel we got nothing behind the shell--all the pieces go forward. from the howitzers, the danger is almost as great behind as in front if they burst on percussion. then the large shrapnel--air-burst--have a double explosion, as if a giant shook a wet sail for two flaps; first a dark green burst of smoke; then a lighter yellow burst goes out from the centre, forwards. i do not understand the why of it. then the -inch shells: a deliberate whirring course--a deafening explosion--black smoke, and earth or feet in the air. these always burst on percussion. the constant noise of our own guns is really worse on the nerves than the shell; there is the deafening noise, and the constant whirr of shells going overhead. the earth shakes with every nearby gun and every close shell. i think i may safely enclose a cross section of our position. the left is the front: a slope down of feet in yards to the canal, a high row of trees on each bank, then a short yards slope up to the summit of the trench, where the brain of the outfit was; then a telephone wired slope, and on the sharp slope, the dugouts, including my own. the nondescript affair on the low slope is the gun position, behind it the men's shelter pits. behind my dugout was a rapid small stream, on its far bank a row of pollard willows, then yards of field, then a road with two parallel rows of high trees. behind this again, several hundred yards of fields to cross before the main gun positions are reached. more often fire came from three quarters left, and because our ridge died away there was a low spot over which they could come pretty dangerously. the road thirty yards behind us was a nightmare to me. i saw all the tragedies of war enacted there. a wagon, or a bunch of horses, or a stray man, or a couple of men, would get there just in time for a shell. one would see the absolute knock-out, and the obviously lightly wounded crawling off on hands and knees; or worse yet, at night, one would hear the tragedy--"that horse scream"--or the man's moan. all our own wagons had to come there (one every half hour in smart action), be emptied, and the ammunition carried over by hand. do you wonder that the road got on our nerves? on this road, too, was the house where we took our meals. it was hit several times, windows all blown in by nearby shells, but one end remained for us. seventeen days of hades! at the end of the first day if anyone had told us we had to spend seventeen days there, we would have folded our hands and said it could not be done. on the fifteenth day we got orders to go out, but that was countermanded in two hours. to the last we could scarcely believe we were actually to get out. the real audacity of the position was its safety; the germans knew to a foot where we were. i think i told you of some of the "you must stick it out" messages we got from our [french] general,--they put it up to us. it is a wonder to me that we slept when, and how, we did. if we had not slept and eaten as well as possible we could not have lasted. and while we were doing this, the london office of a canadian newspaper cabled home "canadian artillery in reserve." such is fame! thursday, may th, . day cloudy and chilly. we wore our greatcoats most of the afternoon, and looked for bits of sunlight to get warm. about two o'clock the heavy guns gave us a regular "black-smithing". every time we fired we drew a perfect hornet's nest about our heads. while attending to a casualty, a shell broke through both sides of the trench, front and back, about twelve feet away. the zigzag of the trench was between it and us, and we escaped. from my bunk the moon looks down at me, and the wind whistles along the trench like a corridor. as the trenches run in all directions they catch the wind however it blows, so one is always sure of a good draught. we have not had our clothes off since last saturday, and there is no near prospect of getting them off. friday, may th, . warmer this morning and sunny, a quiet morning, as far as we were concerned. one battery fired twenty rounds and the rest "sat tight". newspapers which arrive show that up to may th, the canadian public has made no guess at the extent of the battle of ypres. the canadian papers seem to have lost interest in it after the first four days; this regardless of the fact that the artillery, numerically a quarter of the division, was in all the time. one correspondent writes from the canadian rest camp, and never mentions ypres. others say they hear heavy bombarding which appears to come from armentieres. a few strokes will complete the picture: wednesday, april th*, . this morning is the sixth day of this fight; it has been constant, except that we got good chance to sleep for the last two nights. our men have fought beyond praise. canadian soldiers have set a standard for themselves which will keep posterity busy to surpass. and the war office published that the . guns captured were canadian. they were not: the division has not lost a gun so far by capture. we will make a good job of it--if we can. * [sic] this should read april th.--a. l., . may st, . this is the ninth day that we have stuck to the ridge, and the batteries have fought with a steadiness which is beyond all praise. if i could say what our casualties in men, guns, and horses were, you would see at a glance it has been a hot corner; but we have given better than we got, for the german casualties from this front have been largely from artillery, except for the french attack of yesterday and the day before, when they advanced appreciably on our left. the front, however, just here remains where it was, and the artillery fire is very heavy--i think as heavy here as on any part of the line, with the exception of certain cross-roads which are the particular object of fire. the first four days the anxiety was wearing, for we did not know at what minute the german army corps would come for us. we lie out in support of the french troops entirely, and are working with them. since that time evidently great reinforcements have come in, and now we have a most formidable force of artillery to turn on them. fortunately the weather has been good; the days are hot and summer-like. yesterday in the press of bad smells i got a whiff of a hedgerow in bloom. the birds perch on the trees over our heads and twitter away as if there was nothing to worry about. bonfire is still well. i do hope he gets through all right. flanders, march th, . the brigade is actually in twelve different places. the ammunition column and the horse and wagon lines are back, and my corporal visits them every day. i attend the gun lines; any casualty is reported by telephone, and i go to it. the wounded and sick stay where they are till dark, when the field ambulances go over certain grounds and collect. a good deal of suffering is entailed by the delay till night, but it is useless for vehicles to go on the roads within yards of the trenches. they are willing enough to go. most of the trench injuries are of the head, and therefore there is a high proportion of killed in the daily warfare as opposed to an attack. our canadian plots fill up rapidly. and here is one last note to his mother: on the eve of the battle of ypres i was indebted to you for a letter which said "take good care of my son jack, but i would not have you unmindful that, sometimes, when we save we lose." i have that last happy phrase to thank. often when i had to go out over the areas that were being shelled, it came into my mind. i would shoulder the box, and "go to it". at this time the canadian division was moving south to take its share in the events that happened in the la bassee sector. here is the record: tuesday, june st, . - / miles northeast of festubert, near la bassee. last night a pr. and a -inch howitzer fired at intervals of five minutes from till ; most of them within or yards--a very tiresome procedure; much of it is on registered roads. in the morning i walked out to le touret to the wagon lines, got bonfire, and rode to the headquarters at vendin-lez-bethune, a little village a mile past bethune. left the horse at the lines and walked back again. an unfortunate shell in the st killed a sergeant and wounded two men; thanks to the strong emplacements the rest of the crew escaped. in the evening went around the batteries and said good-bye. we stood by while they laid away the sergeant who was killed. kind hands have made two pathetic little wreaths of roses; the grave under an apple-tree, and the moon rising over the horizon; a siege-lamp held for the book. of the last days the guns have been in action . captain lockhart, late with fort garry horse, arrived to relieve me. i handed over, came up to the horse lines, and slept in a covered wagon in a courtyard. we were all sorry to part--the four of us have been very intimate and had agreed perfectly--and friendships under these circumstances are apt to be the real thing. i am sorry to leave them in such a hot corner, but cannot choose and must obey orders. it is a great relief from strain, i must admit, to be out, but i could wish that they all were. this phase of the war lasted two months precisely, and to john mccrae it must have seemed a lifetime since he went into this memorable action. the events preceding the second battle of ypres received scant mention in his letters; but one remains, which brings into relief one of the many moves of that tumultuous time. april st, . we moved out in the late afternoon, getting on the road a little after dark. such a move is not unattended by danger, for to bring horses and limbers down the roads in the shell zone in daylight renders them liable to observation, aerial or otherwise. more than that, the roads are now beginning to be dusty, and at all times there is the noise which carries far. the roads are nearly all registered in their battery books, so if they suspect a move, it is the natural thing to loose off a few rounds. however, our anxiety was not borne out, and we got out of the danger zone by . --a not too long march in the dark, and then for the last of the march a glorious full moon. the houses everywhere are as dark as possible, and on the roads noises but no lights. one goes on by the long rows of trees that are so numerous in this country, on cobblestones and country roads, watching one's horses' ears wagging, and seeing not much else. our maps are well studied before we start, and this time we are not far out of familiar territory. we got to our new billet about --quite a good farmhouse; and almost at once one feels the relief of the strain of being in the shell zone. i cannot say i had noticed it when there; but one is distinctly relieved when out of it. such, then, was the life in flanders fields in which the verse was born. this is no mere surmise. there is a letter from major-general e. w. b. morrison, c.b., c.m.g., d.s.o., who commanded the brigade at the time, which is quite explicit. "this poem," general morrison writes, "was literally born of fire and blood during the hottest phase of the second battle of ypres. my headquarters were in a trench on the top of the bank of the ypres canal, and john had his dressing station in a hole dug in the foot of the bank. during periods in the battle men who were shot actually rolled down the bank into his dressing station. along from us a few hundred yards was the headquarters of a regiment, and many times during the sixteen days of battle, he and i watched them burying their dead whenever there was a lull. thus the crosses, row on row, grew into a good-sized cemetery. just as he describes, we often heard in the mornings the larks singing high in the air, between the crash of the shell and the reports of the guns in the battery just beside us. i have a letter from him in which he mentions having written the poem to pass away the time between the arrival of batches of wounded, and partly as an experiment with several varieties of poetic metre. i have a sketch of the scene, taken at the time, including his dressing station; and during our operations at passchendaele last november, i found time to make a sketch of the scene of the crosses, row on row, from which he derived his inspiration." the last letter from the front is dated june st, . upon that day he was posted to no. general hospital at boulogne, and placed in charge of medicine with the rank of lieutenant-colonel as of date th april, . here he remained until the day of his death on january th, . iii. the brand of war there are men who pass through such scenes unmoved. if they have eyes, they do not see; and ears, they do not hear. but john mccrae was profoundly moved, and bore in his body until the end the signs of his experience. before taking up his new duties he made a visit to the hospitals in paris to see if there was any new thing that might be learned. a nursing sister in the american ambulance at neuilly-sur-seine met him in the wards. although she had known him for fifteen years she did not recognize him,--he appeared to her so old, so worn, his face lined and ashen grey in colour, his expression dull, his action slow and heavy. to those who have never seen john mccrae since he left canada this change in his appearance will seem incredible. he was of the eckfords, and the eckford men were "bonnie men", men with rosy cheeks. it was a year before i met him again, and he had not yet recovered from the strain. although he was upwards of forty years of age when he left canada he had always retained an appearance of extreme youthfulness. he frequented the company of men much younger than himself, and their youth was imputed to him. his frame was tall and well knit, and he showed alertness in every move. he would arise from the chair with every muscle in action, and walk forth as if he were about to dance. the first time i saw him he was doing an autopsy at the montreal general hospital upon the body of a child who had died under my care. this must have been in the year , and the impression of boyishness remained until i met him in france sixteen years later. his manner of dress did much to produce this illusion. when he was a student in london he employed a tailor in queen victoria street to make his clothes; but with advancing years he neglected to have new measurements taken or to alter the pattern of his cloth. to obtain a new suit was merely to write a letter, and he was always economical of time. in those days jackets were cut short, and he adhered to the fashion with persistent care. this appearance of youth at times caused chagrin to those patients who had heard of his fame as a physician, and called upon him for the first time. in the royal victoria hospital, after he had been appointed physician, he entered the wards and asked a nurse to fetch a screen so that he might examine a patient in privacy. "students are not allowed to use screens," the young woman warned him with some asperity in her voice. if i were asked to state briefly the impression which remains with me most firmly, i should say it was one of continuous laughter. that is not true, of course, for in repose his face was heavy, his countenance more than ruddy; it was even of a "choleric" cast, and at times almost livid, especially when he was recovering from one of those attacks of asthma from which he habitually suffered. but his smile was his own, and it was ineffable. it filled the eyes, and illumined the face. it was the smile of sheer fun, of pure gaiety, of sincere playfulness, innocent of irony; with a tinge of sarcasm--never. when he allowed himself to speak of meanness in the profession, of dishonesty in men, of evil in the world, his face became formidable. the glow of his countenance deepened; his words were bitter, and the tones harsh. but the indignation would not last. the smile would come back. the effect was spoiled. everyone laughed with him. after his experience at the front the old gaiety never returned. there were moments of irascibility and moods of irritation. the desire for solitude grew upon him, and with bonfire and bonneau he would go apart for long afternoons far afield by the roads and lanes about boulogne. the truth is: he felt that he and all had failed, and that the torch was thrown from failing hands. we have heard much of the suffering, the misery, the cold, the wet, the gloom of those first three winters; but no tongue has yet uttered the inner misery of heart that was bred of those three years of failure to break the enemy's force. he was not alone in this shadow of deep darkness. givenchy, festubert, neuve-chapelle, ypres, hooge, the somme--to mention alone the battles in which up to that time the canadian corps had been engaged--all ended in failure; and to a sensitive and foreboding mind there were sounds and signs that it would be given to this generation to hear the pillars and fabric of empire come crashing into the abysm of chaos. he was not at the somme in that october of , but those who returned up north with the remnants of their division from that place of slaughter will remember that, having done all men could do, they felt like deserters because they had not left their poor bodies dead upon the field along with friends of a lifetime, comrades of a campaign. this is no mere matter of surmise. the last day i spent with him we talked of those things in his tent, and i testify that it is true. iv. going to the wars john mccrae went to the war without illusions. at first, like many others of his age, he did not "think of enlisting", although "his services are at the disposal of the country if it needs them." in july, , he was at work upon the second edition of the 'text-book of pathology' by adami and mccrae, published by messrs. lea and febiger, and he had gone to philadelphia to read the proofs. he took them to atlantic city where he could "sit out on the sand, and get sunshine and oxygen, and work all at once." it was a laborious task, passing eighty to a hundred pages of highly technical print each day. then there was the index, between six and seven thousand items. "i have," so he writes, "to change every item in the old index and add others. i have a pile of pages, in all. i look at the index, find the old page among the , and then change the number. this about times, so you may guess the drudgery." on july th, the work was finished, registered, and entrusted to the mail with a special delivery stamp. the next day he wrote the preface, "which really finished the job." in very truth his scientific work was done. it was now midsummer. the weather was hot. he returned to montreal. practice was dull. he was considering a voyage to havre and "a little trip with dr. adami" when he arrived. on july th, he left canada "for better or worse. with the world so disturbed," he records, "i would gladly have stayed more in touch with events, but i dare say one is just as happy away from the hundred conflicting reports." the ship was the 'scotian' of the allan line, and he "shared a comfortable cabin with a professor of greek," who was at the university in his own time. for one inland born, he had a keen curiosity about ships and the sea. there is a letter written when he was thirteen years of age in which he gives an account of a visit to a naval exhibition in london. he describes the models which he saw, and gives an elaborate table of names, dimensions, and tonnage. he could identify the house flags and funnels of all the principal liners; he could follow a ship through all her vicissitudes and change of ownership. when he found himself in a seaport town his first business was to visit the water front and take knowledge of the vessels that lay in the stream or by the docks. one voyage he made to england was in a cargo ship. with his passion for work he took on the duties of surgeon, and amazed the skipper with a revelation of the new technique in operations which he himself had been accustomed to perform by the light of experience alone. on the present and more luxurious voyage, he remarks that the decks were roomy, the ship seven years old, and capable of fifteen knots an hour, the passengers pleasant, and including a large number of french. all now know only too well the nature of the business which sent those ardent spirits flocking home to their native land. forty-eight hours were lost in fog. the weather was too thick for making the straits, and the 'scotian' proceeded by cape race on her way to havre. under date of august - the first reference to the war appears: "all is excitement; the ship runs without lights. surely the german kaiser has his head in the noose at last: it will be a terrible war, and the finish of one or the other. i am afraid my holiday trip is knocked galley west; but we shall see." the voyage continues. a "hundred miles from moville we turned back, and headed south for queenstown; thence to the channel; put in at portland; a squadron of battleships; arrived here this morning." the problem presented itself to him as to many another. the decision was made. to go back to america was to go back from the war. here are the words: "it seems quite impossible to return, and i do not think i should try. i would not feel quite comfortable over it. i am cabling to morrison at ottawa, that i am available either as combatant or medical if they need me. i do not go to it very light-heartedly, but i think it is up to me." it was not so easy in those days to get to the war, as he and many others were soon to discover. there was in canada at the time a small permanent force of men, a military college, a headquarters staff, and divisional staff for the various districts into which the country was divided. in addition there was a body of militia with a strength of about , officers and other ranks. annual camps were formed at which all arms of the service were represented, and the whole was a very good imitation of service conditions. complete plans for mobilization were in existence, by which a certain quota, according to the establishment required, could be detailed from each district. but upon the outbreak of war the operations were taken in hand by a minister of militia who assumed in his own person all those duties usually assigned to the staff. he called to his assistance certain business and political associates, with the result that volunteers who followed military methods did not get very far. accordingly we find it written in john mccrae's diary from london: "nothing doing here. i have yet no word from the department at ottawa, but i try to be philosophical until i hear from morrison. if they want me for the canadian forces, i could use my old sam browne belt, sword, and saddle if it is yet extant. at times i wish i could go home with a clear conscience." he sailed for canada in the 'calgarian' on august th, having received a cablegram from colonel morrison, that he had been provisionally appointed surgeon to the st brigade artillery. the night he arrived in montreal i dined with him at the university club, and he was aglow with enthusiasm over this new adventure. he remained in montreal for a few days, and on september th, joined the unit to which he was attached as medical officer. before leaving montreal he wrote to his sister geills: "out on the awful old trail again! and with very mixed feelings, but some determination. i am off to val-cartier to-night. i was really afraid to go home, for i feared it would only be harrowing for mater, and i think she agrees. we can hope for happier times. everyone most kind and helpful: my going does not seem to surprise anyone. i know you will understand it is hard to go home, and perhaps easier for us all that i do not. i am in good hope of coming back soon and safely: that, i am glad to say, is in other and better hands than ours." v. south africa in the autumn of , after john mccrae had gone over-seas, i was in a warehouse in montreal, in which one might find an old piece of mahogany wood. his boxes were there in storage, with his name plainly printed upon them. the storeman, observing my interest, remarked: "this doctor mccrae cannot be doing much business; he is always going to the wars." the remark was profoundly significant of the state of mind upon the subject of war which prevailed at the time in canada in more intelligent persons. to this storeman war merely meant that the less usefully employed members of the community sent their boxes to him for safe-keeping until their return. war was a great holiday from work; and he had a vague remembrance that some fifteen years before this customer had required of him a similar service when the south african war broke out. either 'in esse' or 'in posse' john mccrae had "always been going to the wars." at fourteen years of age he joined the guelph highland cadets, and rose to the rank of st lieutenant. as his size and strength increased he reverted to the ranks and transferred to the artillery. in due time he rose from gunner to major. the formal date of his "gazette" is - - as they write it in the army; but he earned his rank in south africa. war was the burden of his thought; war and death the theme of his verse. at the age of thirteen we find him at a gallery in nottingham, writing this note: "i saw the picture of the artillery going over the trenches at tel-el-kebir. it is a good picture; but there are four teams on the guns. perhaps an extra one had to be put on." if his nomenclature was not correct, the observation of the young artillerist was exact. such excesses were not permitted in his father's battery in guelph, ontario. during this same visit his curiosity led him into the house of lords, and the sum of his written observation is, "when someone is speaking no one seems to listen at all." his mother i never knew. canada is a large place. with his father i had four hours' talk from seven to eleven one june evening in london in . at the time i was on leave from france to give the cavendish lecture, a task which demanded some thought; and after two years in the army it was a curious sensation--watching one's mind at work again. the day was sunday. i had walked down to the river to watch the flowing tide. to one brought up in a country of streams and a moving sea the curse of flanders is her stagnant waters. it is little wonder the exiles from the judaean hillsides wept beside the slimy river. the thames by evening in june, memories that reached from tacitus to wordsworth, the embrasure that extends in front of the egyptian obelisk for a standing place, and some children "swimming a dog";--that was the scene and circumstance of my first meeting with his father. a man of middle age was standing by. he wore the flashings of a lieutenant-colonel and for badges the artillery grenades. he seemed a friendly man; and under the influence of the moment, which he also surely felt, i spoke to him. "a fine river,"--that was a safe remark. "but i know a finer." "pharpar and abana?" i put the stranger to the test. "no," he said. "the st. lawrence is not of damascus." he had answered to the sign, and looked at my patches. "i have a son in france, myself," he said. "his name is mccrae." "not john mccrae?" "john mccrae is my son." the resemblance was instant, but this was an older man than at first sight he seemed to be. i asked him to dinner at morley's, my place of resort for a length of time beyond the memory of all but the oldest servants. he had already dined but he came and sat with me, and told me marvellous things. david mccrae had raised, and trained, a field battery in guelph, and brought it overseas. he was at the time upwards of seventy years of age, and was considered on account of years alone "unfit" to proceed to the front. for many years he had commanded a field battery in the canadian militia, went on manoeuvres with his "cannons", and fired round shot. when the time came for using shells he bored the fuse with a gimlet; and if the gimlet were lost in the grass, the gun was out of action until the useful tool could be found. this "cannon ball" would travel over the country according to the obstacles it encountered and, "if it struck a man, it might break his leg." in such a martial atmosphere the boy was brought up, and he was early nourished with the history of the highland regiments. also from his father he inherited, or had instilled into him, a love of the out of doors, a knowledge of trees, and plants, a sympathy with birds and beasts, domestic and wild. when the south african war broke out a contingent was dispatched from canada, but it was so small that few of those desiring to go could find a place. this explains the genesis of the following letter: i see by to-night's bulletin that there is to be no second contingent. i feel sick with disappointment, and do not believe that i have ever been so disappointed in my life, for ever since this business began i am certain there have not been fifteen minutes of my waking hours that it has not been in my mind. it has to come sooner or later. one campaign might cure me, but nothing else ever will, unless it should be old age. i regret bitterly that i did not enlist with the first, for i doubt if ever another chance will offer like it. this is not said in ignorance of what the hardships would be. i am ashamed to say i am doing my work in a merely mechanical way. if they are taking surgeons on the other side, i have enough money to get myself across. if i knew any one over there who could do anything, i would certainly set about it. if i can get an appointment in england by going, i will go. my position here i do not count as an old boot in comparison. in the end he accomplished the desire of his heart, and sailed on the 'laurentian'. concerning the voyage one transcription will be enough: on orderly duty. i have just been out taking the picket at . p.m. in the stables the long row of heads in the half-darkness, the creaking of the ship, the shivering of the hull from the vibration of the engines, the sing of a sentry on the spar deck to some passer-by. then to the forward deck: the sky half covered with scudding clouds, the stars bright in the intervals, the wind whistling a regular blow that tries one's ears, the constant swish as she settles down to a sea; and, looking aft, the funnel with a wreath of smoke trailing away off into the darkness on the starboard quarter; the patch of white on the funnel discernible dimly; the masts drawing maps across the sky as one looks up; the clank of shovels coming up through the ventilators,--if you have ever been there, you know it all. there was a voluntary service at six; two ships' lanterns and the men all around, the background of sky and sea, and the strains of "nearer my god to thee" rising up in splendid chorus. it was a very effective scene, and it occurred to me that this was "the rooibaatjees singing on the road," as the song says. the next entry is from south africa: green point camp, capetown, february th, . you have no idea of the work. section commanders live with their sections, which is the right way. it makes long hours. i never knew a softer bed than the ground is these nights. i really enjoy every minute though there is anxiety. we have lost all our spare horses. we have only enough to turn out the battery and no more. after a description of a number of the regiments camped near by them, he speaks of the indian troops, and then says: we met the high priest of it all, and i had a five minutes' chat with him--kipling i mean. he visited the camp. he looks like his pictures, and is very affable. he told me i spoke like a winnipeger. he said we ought to "fine the men for drinking unboiled water. don't give them c.b.; it is no good. fine them, or drive common sense into them. all canadians have common sense." the next letter is from the lines of communication: van wyks vlei, march nd, . here i am with my first command. each place we strike is a little more god-forsaken than the last, and this place wins up to date. we marched last week from victoria west to carnovan, about miles. we stayed there over sunday, and on monday my section was detached with mounted infantry, i being the only artillery officer. we marched miles in hours with stops; not very fast, but quite satisfactory. my horse is doing well, although very thin. night before last on the road we halted, and i dismounted for a minute. when we started i pulled on the lines but no answer. the poor old chap was fast asleep in his tracks, and in about thirty seconds too. this continuous marching is really hard work. the men at every halt just drop down in the road and sleep until they are kicked up again in ten minutes. they do it willingly too. i am commanding officer, adjutant, officer on duty, and all the rest since we left the main body. talk about the army in flanders! you should hear this battalion. i always knew soldiers could swear, but you ought to hear these fellows. i am told the first contingent has got a name among the regulars. three weeks later he writes: april th, . we certainly shall have done a good march when we get to the railroad, miles through a country desolate of forage carrying our own transport and one-half rations of forage, and frequently the men's rations. for two days running we had nine hours in the saddle without food. my throat was sore and swollen for a day or two, and i felt so sorry for myself at times that i laughed to think how i must have looked: sitting on a stone, drinking a pan of tea without trimmings, that had got cold, and eating a shapeless lump of brown bread; my one "hank" drawn around my neck, serving as hank and bandage alternately. it is miserable to have to climb up on one's horse with a head like a buzz saw, the sun very hot, and "gargle" in one's water bottle. it is surprising how i can go without water if i have to on a short stretch, that is, of ten hours in the sun. it is after nightfall that the thirst really seems to attack one and actually gnaws. one thinks of all the cool drinks and good things one would like to eat. please understand that this is not for one instant in any spirit of growling. the detail was now established at victoria road. three entries appear*: * i only count two. . . . a. l., . april rd, . we are still here in camp hoping for orders to move, but they have not yet come. most of the other troops have gone. a squadron of the m.c.r., my messmates for the past five weeks, have gone and i am left an orphan. i was very sorry to see them go. they, in the kindness of their hearts, say, if i get stranded, they will do the best they can to get a troop for me in the squadron or some such employment. impracticable, but kind. i have no wish to cease to be a gunner. victoria road, may th, . the horses are doing as well as one can expect, for the rations are insufficient. our men have been helping to get ready a rest camp near us, and have been filling mattresses with hay. every fatigue party comes back from the hospital, their jackets bulging with hay for the horses. two bales were condemned as too musty to put into the mattresses, and we were allowed to take them for the horses. they didn't leave a spear of it. isn't it pitiful? everything that the heart of man and woman can devise has been sent out for the "tommies", but no one thinks of the poor horses. they get the worst of it all the time. even now we blush to see the handful of hay that each horse gets at a feed. the boer war is so far off in time and space that a few further detached references must suffice: when riding into bloemfontein met lord----'s funeral at the cemetery gates,--band, firing party, union jack, and about three companies. a few yards farther on a "tommy" covered only by his blanket, escorted by thirteen men all told, the last class distinction that the world can ever make. we had our baptism of fire yesterday. they opened on us from the left flank. their first shell was about yards in front--direction good. the next was yards over; and we thought we were bracketed. some shrapnel burst over us and scattered on all sides. i felt as if a hail storm was coming down, and wanted to turn my back, but it was over in an instant. the whistle of a shell is unpleasant. you hear it begin to scream; the scream grows louder and louder; it seems to be coming exactly your way; then you realize that it has gone over. most of them fell between our guns and wagons. our position was quite in the open. with ian hamilton's column near balmoral. the day was cold, much like a december day at home, and by my kit going astray i had only light clothing. the rain was fearfully chilly. when we got in about dark we found that the transport could not come up, and it had all our blankets and coats. i had my cape and a rubber sheet for the saddle, both soaking wet. being on duty i held to camp, the others making for the house nearby where they got poor quarters. i bunked out, supperless like every one else, under an ammunition wagon. it rained most of the night and was bitterly cold. i slept at intervals, keeping the same position all night, both legs in a puddle and my feet being rained on: it was a long night from dark at . to morning. ten men in the infantry regiment next us died during the night from exposure. altogether i never knew such a night, and with decent luck hope never to see such another. as we passed we saw the connaughts looking at the graves of their comrades of twenty years ago. the battery rode at attention and gave "eyes right": the first time for twenty years that the roll of a british gun has broken in on the silence of those unnamed graves. we were inspected by lord roberts. the battery turned out very smart, and lord roberts complimented the major on its appearance. he then inspected, and afterwards asked to have the officers called out. we were presented to him in turn; he spoke a few words to each of us, asking what our corps and service had been. he seemed surprised that we were all field artillery men, but probably the composition of the other canadian units had to do with this. he asked a good many questions about the horses, the men, and particularly about the spirits of the men. altogether he showed a very kind interest in the battery. at nine took the presbyterian parade to the lines, the first presbyterian service since we left canada. we had the right, the gordons and the royal scots next. the music was excellent, led by the brass band of the royal scots, which played extremely well. all the singing was from the psalms and paraphrases: "old hundred" and "duke street" among them. it was very pleasant to hear the old reliables once more. "mccrae's covenanters" some of the officers called us; but i should not like to set our conduct up against the standard of those austere men. at lyndenburg: the boers opened on us at about , yards, the fire being accurate from the first. they shelled us till dark, over three hours. the guns on our left fired for a long time on buller's camp, the ones on our right on us. we could see the smoke and flash; then there was a soul-consuming interval of to seconds when we would hear the report, and about five seconds later the burst. many in succession burst over and all around us. i picked up pieces which fell within a few feet. it was a trying afternoon, and we stood around wondering. we moved the horses back, and took cover under the wagons. we were thankful when the sun went down, especially as for the last hour of daylight they turned all their guns on us. the casualties were few. the next morning a heavy mist prevented the enemy from firing. the division marched out at . a.m. the attack was made in three columns: cavalry brigade on the left; buller's troops in the centre, hamilton's on the right. the canadian artillery were with hamilton's division. the approach to the hill was exposed everywhere except where some cover was afforded by ridges. we marched out as support to the gordons, the cavalry and the royal horse artillery going out to our right as a flank guard. while we were waiting three -pound shells struck the top of the ridge in succession about to yards in front of the battery line. we began to feel rather shaky. on looking over the field at this time one could not tell that anything was occurring except for the long range guns replying to the fire from the hill. the enemy had opened fire as soon as our advance was pushed out. with a glass one could distinguish the infantry pushing up in lines, five or six in succession, the men being some yards apart. then came a long pause, broken only by the big guns. at last we got the order to advance just as the big guns of the enemy stopped their fire. we advanced about four miles mostly up the slope, which is in all about feet high, over a great deal of rough ground and over a number of spruits. the horses were put to their utmost to draw the guns up the hills. as we advanced we could see artillery crawling in from both flanks, all converging to the main hill, while far away the infantry and cavalry were beginning to crown the heights near us. then the field guns and the pompoms began to play. as the field guns came up to a broad plateau section after section came into action, and we fired shrapnel and lyddite on the crests ahead and to the left. every now and then a rattle of mausers and metfords would tell us that the infantry were at their work, but practically the battle was over. from being an infantry attack as expected it was the gunners' day, and the artillery seemed to do excellent work. general buller pushed up the hill as the guns were at work, and afterwards general hamilton; the one as grim as his pictures, the other looking very happy. the wind blew through us cold like ice as we stood on the hill; as the artillery ceased fire the mist dropped over us chilling us to the bone. we were afraid we should have to spend the night on the hill, but a welcome order came sending us back to camp, a distance of five miles by the roads, as buller would hold the hill, and our force must march south. our front was over eight miles wide and the objective feet higher than our camp, and over six miles away. if the enemy had had the nerve to stand, the position could scarcely have been taken; certainly not without the loss of thousands. for this campaign he received the queen's medal with three clasps. vi. children and animals through all his life, and through all his letters, dogs and children followed him as shadows follow men. to walk in the streets with him was a slow procession. every dog and every child one met must be spoken to, and each made answer. throughout the later letters the names bonfire and bonneau occur continually. bonfire was his horse, and bonneau his dog. this horse, an irish hunter, was given to him by john l. todd. it was wounded twice, and now lives in honourable retirement at a secret place which need not be disclosed to the army authorities. one officer who had visited the hospital writes of seeing him going about the wards with bonneau and a small french child following after. in memory of his love for animals and children the following extracts will serve: you ask if the wee fellow has a name--mike, mostly, as a term of affection. he has found a cupboard in one ward in which oakum is stored, and he loves to steal in there and "pick oakum", amusing himself as long as is permitted. i hold that this indicates convict ancestry to which mike makes no defence. the family is very well, even one-eyed mike is able to go round the yard in his dressing-gown, so to speak. he is a queer pathetic little beast and madame has him "hospitalized" on the bottom shelf of the sideboard in the living room, whence he comes down (six inches to the floor) to greet me, and then gravely hirples back, the hind legs looking very pathetic as he hops in. but he is full of spirit and is doing very well. as to the animals--"those poor voiceless creatures," say you. i wish you could hear them. bonneau and mike are a perfect dignity and impudence; and both vocal to a wonderful degree. mike's face is exactly like the terrier in the old picture, and he sits up and gives his paw just like bonneau, and i never saw him have any instruction; and as for voice, i wish you could hear bonfire's "whicker" to me in the stable or elsewhere. it is all but talk. there is one ward door that he tries whenever we pass. he turns his head around, looks into the door, and waits. the sisters in the ward have changed frequently, but all alike "fall for it", as they say, and produce a biscuit or some such dainty which bonfire takes with much gravity and gentleness. should i chide him for being too eager and give him my hand saying, "gentle now," he mumbles with his lips, and licks with his tongue like a dog to show how gentle he can be when he tries. truly a great boy is that same. on this subject i am like a doting grandmother, but forgive it. i have a very deep affection for bonfire, for we have been through so much together, and some of it bad enough. all the hard spots to which one's memory turns the old fellow has shared, though he says so little about it. this love of animals was no vagrant mood. fifteen years before in south africa he wrote in his diary under date of september th, : i wish i could introduce you to the dogs of the force. the genus dog here is essentially sociable, and it is a great pleasure to have them about. i think i have a personal acquaintance with them all. there are our pups--dolly, whom i always know by her one black and one white eyebrow; grit and tory, two smaller gentlemen, about the size of a pound of butter--and fighters; one small white gentleman who rides on a horse, on the blanket; kitty, the monkey, also rides the off lead of the forge wagon. there is a black almond-eyed person belonging to the royal scots, who begins to twist as far as i can see her, and comes up in long curves, extremely genially. a small shaggy chap who belongs to the royal irish stands upon his hind legs and spars with his front feet--and lots of others--every one of them "a soldier and a man". the royal scots have a monkey, jenny, who goes around always trailing a sack in her hand, into which she creeps if necessary to obtain shelter. the other day old jack, my horse, was bitten by his next neighbor; he turned slowly, eyed his opponent, shifted his rope so that he had a little more room, turned very deliberately, and planted both heels in the offender's stomach. he will not be run upon. from a time still further back comes a note in a like strain. in he was house physician in a children's hospital at mt. airy, maryland, when he wrote: a kitten has taken up with a poor cripple dying of muscular atrophy who cannot move. it stays with him all the time, and sleeps most of the day in his straw hat. to-night i saw the kitten curled up under the bed-clothes. it seems as if it were a gift of providence that the little creature should attach itself to the child who needs it most. of another child: the day she died she called for me all day, deposed the nurse who was sitting by her, and asked me to remain with her. she had to be held up on account of lack of breath; and i had a tiring hour of it before she died, but it seemed to make her happier and was no great sacrifice. her friends arrived twenty minutes too late. it seems hard that death will not wait the poor fraction of an hour, but so it is. and here are some letters to his nephews and nieces which reveal his attitude both to children and to animals. from bonfire to sergt.-major jack kilgour august th, . did you ever have a sore hock? i have one now, and cruickshank puts bandages on my leg. he also washed my white socks for me. i am glad you got my picture. my master is well, and the girls tell me i am looking well, too. the ones i like best give me biscuits and sugar, and sometimes flowers. one of them did not want to give me some mignonette the other day because she said it would make me sick. it did not make me sick. another one sends me bags of carrots. if you don't know how to eat carrots, tops and all, you had better learn, but i suppose you are just a boy, and do not know how good oats are. bonfire his * mark. * here and later, this mark is that of a horse-shoe. a. l., . from bonfire to sergt.-major jack kilgour october st, . dear jack, did you ever eat blackberries? my master and i pick them every day on the hedges. i like twenty at a time. my leg is better but i have a lump on my tummy. i went to see my doctor to-day, and he says it is nothing at all. i have another horse staying in my stable now; he is black, and about half my size. he does not keep me awake at night. yours truly, bonfire his * mark. from bonfire to margaret kilgour, civilian november th, . dear margaret: this is guy fox day! i spell it that way because fox-hunting was my occupation a long time ago before the war. how are sergt.-major jack and corporal david? ask jack if he ever bites through his rope at night, and gets into the oat-box. and as for the corporal, "i bet you" i can jump as far as he can. i hear david has lost his red coat. i still have my grey one, but it is pretty dirty now, for i have not had a new one for a long time. i got my hair cut a few weeks ago and am to have new boots next week. bonneau and follette send their love. yours truly, bonfire his * mark. in flanders, april rd, . my dear margaret: there is a little girl in this house whose name is clothilde. she is ten years old, and calls me "monsieur le major". how would you like it if twenty or thirty soldiers came along and lived in your house and put their horses in the shed or the stable? there are not many little boys and girls left in this part of the country, but occasionally one meets them on the roads with baskets of eggs or loaves of bread. most of them have no homes, for their houses have been burnt by the germans; but they do not cry over it. it is dangerous for them, for a shell might hit them at any time--and it would not be an eggshell, either. bonfire is very well. mother sent him some packets of sugar, and if ever you saw a big horse excited about a little parcel, it was bonfire. he can have only two lumps in any one day, for there is not much of it. twice he has had gingerbread and he is very fond of that. it is rather funny for a soldier-horse, is it not? but soldier horses have a pretty hard time of it, sometimes, so we do not grudge them a little luxury. bonfire's friends are king, and prince, and saxonia,--all nice big boys. if they go away and leave him, he whinnies till he catches sight of them again, and then he is quite happy. how is the th street brigade getting on? tell mother i recommend jack for promotion to corporal if he has been good. david will have to be a gunner for awhile yet, for everybody cannot be promoted. give my love to katharine, and jack, and david. your affectionate uncle jack. bonfire, and bonneau, and little mike, are all well. mike is about four months old and has lost an eye and had a leg broken, but he is a very good little boy all the same. he is very fond of bonfire, and bonneau, and me. i go to the stable and whistle, and bonneau and mike come running out squealing with joy, to go for a little walk with me. when mike comes to steps, he puts his feet on the lowest steps and turns and looks at me and i lift him up. he is a dear ugly little chap. the dogs are often to be seen sprawled on the floor of my tent. i like to have them there for they are very home-like beasts. they never seem french to me. bonneau can "donner la patte" in good style nowadays, and he sometimes curls up inside the rabbit hutch, and the rabbits seem to like him. i wish you could see the hundreds of rabbits there are here on the sand-dunes; there are also many larks and jackdaws. (these are different from your brother jack, although they have black faces.) there are herons, curlews, and even ducks; and the other day i saw four young weasels in a heap, jumping over each other from side to side as they ran. sir bertrand dawson has a lovely little spaniel, sue, quite black, who goes around with him. i am quite a favourite, and one day sir bertrand said to me, "she has brought you a present," and here she was waiting earnestly for me to remove from her mouth a small stone. it is usually a simple gift, i notice, and does not embarrass by its value. bonfire is very sleek and trim, and we journey much. if i sit down in his reach i wish you could see how deftly he can pick off my cap and swing it high out of my reach. he also carries my crop; his games are simple, but he does not readily tire of them. i lost poor old windy. he was the regimental dog of the st batt. lincolns, and came to this vale of avalon to be healed of his second wound. he spent a year at gallipoli and was "over the top" twice with his battalion. he came to us with his papers like any other patient, and did very well for a while, but took suddenly worse. he had all that care and love could suggest and enough morphine to keep the pain down; but he was very pathetic, and i had resolved that it would be true friendship to help him over when he "went west". he is buried in our woods like any other good soldier, and yesterday i noticed that some one has laid a little wreath of ivy on his grave. he was an old dog evidently, but we are all sore-hearted at losing him. his kit is kept should his master return,--only his collar with his honourable marks, for his wardrobe was of necessity simple. so another sad chapter ends. september th, . bonneau gravely accompanies me round the wards and waits for me, sitting up in a most dignified way. he comes into my tent and sits there very gravely while i dress. two days ago a sister brought out some biscuits for bonfire, and not understanding the rules of the game, which are bit and bit about for bonfire and bonneau, gave all to bonfire, so that poor bonneau sat below and caught the crumbs that fell. i can see that bonfire makes a great hit with the sisters because he licks their hands just like a dog, and no crumb is too small to be gone after. april, . i was glad to get back; bonfire and bonneau greeted me very enthusiastically. i had a long long story from the dog, delivered with uplifted muzzle. they tell me he sat gravely on the roads a great deal during my absence, and all his accustomed haunts missed him. he is back on rounds faithfully. vii. the old land and the new if one were engaged upon a formal work of biography rather than a mere essay in character, it would be just and proper to investigate the family sources from which the individual member is sprung; but i must content myself within the bounds which i have set, and leave the larger task to a more laborious hand. the essence of history lies in the character of the persons concerned, rather than in the feats which they performed. a man neither lives to himself nor in himself. he is indissolubly bound up with his stock, and can only explain himself in terms common to his family; but in doing so he transcends the limits of history, and passes into the realms of philosophy and religion. the life of a canadian is bound up with the history of his parish, of his town, of his province, of his country, and even with the history of that country in which his family had its birth. the life of john mccrae takes us back to scotland. in canada there has been much writing of history of a certain kind. it deals with events rather than with the subtler matter of people, and has been written mainly for purposes of advertising. if the french made a heroic stand against the iroquois, the sacred spot is now furnished with an hotel from which a free 'bus runs to a station upon the line of an excellent railway. maisonneuve fought his great fight upon a place from which a vicious mayor cut the trees which once sheltered the soldier, to make way for a fountain upon which would be raised "historical" figures in concrete stone. the history of canada is the history of its people, not of its railways, hotels, and factories. the material exists in written or printed form in the little archives of many a family. such a chronicle is in possession of the eckford family which now by descent on the female side bears the honoured names of gow, and mccrae. john eckford had two daughters, in the words of old jamie young, "the most lovingest girls he ever knew." the younger, janet simpson, was taken to wife by david mccrae, st january, , and on november th, , became the mother of john. to her he wrote all these letters, glowing with filial devotion, which i am privileged to use so freely. there is in the family a tradition of the single name for the males. it was therefore proper that the elder born should be called thomas, more learned in medicine, more assiduous in practice, and more weighty in intellect even than the otherwise more highly gifted john. he too is professor of medicine, and co-author of a profound work with his master and relative by marriage--sir william osler. also, he wore the king's uniform and served in the present war. this john eckford, accompanied by his two daughters, the mother being dead, his sister, her husband who bore the name of chisholm, and their numerous children emigrated to canada, may th, , in the ship 'clutha' which sailed from the broomielaw bound for quebec. the consort, 'wolfville', upon which they had originally taken passage, arrived in quebec before them, and lay in the stream, flying the yellow flag of quarantine. cholera had broken out. "be still, and see the salvation of the lord," were the words of the family morning prayers. in the 'clutha' also came as passengers james and mary gow; their cousin, one duncan monach; mrs. hanning, who was a sister of thomas carlyle; and her two daughters. on the voyage they escaped the usual hardships, and their fare appears to us in these days to have been abundant. the weekly ration was three quarts of water, two ounces of tea, one half pound of sugar, one half pound molasses, three pounds of bread, one pound of flour, two pounds of rice, and five pounds of oatmeal. the reason for this migration is succinctly stated by the head of the house. "i know how hard it was for my mother to start me, and i wanted land for my children and a better opportunity for them." and yet his parents in their time appear to have "started" him pretty well, although his father was obliged to confess, "i never had more of this world's goods than to bring up my family by the labour of my hands honestly, but it is more than my master owned, who had not where to lay his head." they allowed him that very best means of education, a calmness of the senses, as he herded sheep on the cheviot hills. they put him to the university in edinburgh, as a preparation for the ministry, and supplied him with ample oatmeal, peasemeal bannocks, and milk. in that great school of divinity he learned the hebrew, greek, and latin; he studied italian, and french under surenne, him of blessed memory even unto this day. john eckford in married margaret christie, and he went far afield for a wife, namely from newbiggin in forfar, where for fourteen years he had his one and only charge, to strathmiglo in fife. the marriage was fruitful and a happy one, although there is a hint in the record of some religious difference upon which one would like to dwell if the subject were not too esoteric for this generation. the minister showed a certain indulgence, and so long as his wife lived he never employed the paraphrases in the solemn worship of the sanctuary. she was a woman of provident mind. shortly after they were married he made the discovery that she had prepared the grave clothes for him as well as for herself. too soon, after only eight years, it was her fate to be shrouded in them. after her death--probably because of her death--john eckford emigrated to canada. to one who knows the early days in canada there is nothing new in the story of this family. they landed in montreal july th, , forty-four days out from glasgow. they proceeded by steamer to hamilton, the fare being about a dollar for each passenger. the next stage was to guelph; then on to durham, and finally they came to the end of their journeying near walkerton in bruce county in the primeval forest, from which they cut out a home for themselves and for their children. it was "the winter of the deep snow". one transcription from the record will disclose the scene: at length a grave was dug on a knoll in the bush at the foot of a great maple with a young snow-laden hemlock at the side. the father and the eldest brother carried the box along the shovelled path. the mother close behind was followed by the two families. the snow was falling heavily. at the grave john eckford read a psalm, and prayed, "that they might be enabled to believe, the mercy of the lord is from everlasting to everlasting unto them that fear him." john mccrae himself was an indefatigable church-goer. there is a note in childish characters written from edinburgh in his thirteenth year, "on sabbath went to service four times." there the statement stands in all its austerity. a letter from a chaplain is extant in which a certain mild wonder is expressed at the regularity in attendance of an officer of field rank. to his sure taste in poetry the hymns were a sore trial. "only forty minutes are allowed for the service," he said, "and it is sad to see them 'snappit up' by these poor bald four-line things." on easter sunday, , he wrote: "we had a church parade this morning, the first since we arrived in france. truly, if the dead rise not, we are of all men the most miserable." on the funeral service of a friend he remarks: "'forasmuch as it hath pleased almighty god,'--what a summary of the whole thing that is!" on many occasions he officiated in the absence of the chaplains who in those days would have as many as six services a day. in civil life in montreal he went to church in the evening, and sat under the reverend james barclay of st. pauls, now designated by some at least as st. andrews. viii. the civil years it will be observed in this long relation of john mccrae that little mention has yet been made of what after all was his main concern in life. for twenty years he studied and practised medicine. to the end he was an assiduous student and a very profound practitioner. he was a student, not of medicine alone, but of all subjects ancillary to the science, and to the task he came with a mind braced by a sound and generous education. any education of real value a man must have received before he has attained to the age of seven years. indeed he may be left impervious to its influence at seven weeks. john mccrae's education began well. it began in the time of his two grandfathers at least, was continued by his father and mother before he came upon this world's scene, and by them was left deep founded for him to build upon. noble natures have a repugnance from work. manual labour is servitude. a day of idleness is a holy day. for those whose means do not permit to live in idleness the school is the only refuge; but they must prove their quality. this is the goal which drives many scotch boys to the university, scorning delights and willing to live long, mind-laborious days. john mccrae's father felt bound "to give the boy a chance," but the boy must pass the test. the test in such cases is the shorter catechism, that compendium of all intellectual argument. how the faithful aspirant for the school acquires this body of written knowledge at a time when he has not yet learned the use of letters is a secret not to be lightly disclosed. it may indeed be that already his education is complete. upon the little book is always printed the table of multiples, so that the obvious truth which is comprised in the statement, "two by two makes four", is imputed to the contents which are within the cover. in studying the table the catechism is learned surreptitiously, and therefore without self-consciousness. so, in this well ordered family with its atmosphere of obedience, we may see the boy, like a youthful socrates going about with a copy of the book in his hand, enquiring of those, who could already read, not alone what were the answers to the questions but the very questions themselves to which an answer was demanded. this learning, however, was only a minor part of life, since upon a farm life is very wide and very deep. in due time the school was accomplished, and there was a master in the school--let his name be recorded--william tytler, who had a feeling for english writing and a desire to extend that feeling to others. in due time also the question of a university arose. there was a man in canada named dawson--sir william dawson. i have written of him in another place. he had the idea that a university had something to do with the formation of character, and that in the formation of character religion had a part. he was principal of mcgill. i am not saying that all boys who entered that university were religious boys when they went in, or even religious men when they came out; but religious fathers had a general desire to place their boys under sir william dawson's care. those were the days of a queer, and now forgotten, controversy over what was called "science and religion". of that also i have written in another place. it was left to sir william dawson to deliver the last word in defence of a cause that was already lost. his book came under the eye of david mccrae, as most books of the time did, and he was troubled in his heart. his boys were at the university of toronto. it was too late; but he eased his mind by writing a letter. to this letter john replies under date th december, : "you say that after reading dawson's book you almost regretted that we had not gone to mcgill. that, i consider, would have been rather a calamity, about as much so as going to queen's." we are not always wiser than our fathers were, and in the end he came to mcgill after all. for good or ill, john mccrae entered the university of toronto in , with a scholarship for "general proficiency". he joined the faculty of arts, took the honours course in natural sciences, and graduated from the department of biology in , his course having been interrupted by two severe illnesses. from natural science, it was an easy step to medicine, in which he was encouraged by ramsay wright, a. b. macallum, a. mcphedran, and i. h. cameron. in he graduated again, with a gold medal, and a scholarship in physiology and pathology. the previous summer he had spent at the garrett children's hospital in mt. airy, maryland. upon graduating he entered the toronto general hospital as resident house officer; in he occupied a similar post at johns hopkins. then he came to mcgill university as fellow in pathology and pathologist to the montreal general hospital. in time he was appointed physician to the alexandra hospital for infectious diseases; later assistant physician to the royal victoria hospital, and lecturer in medicine in the university. by examination he became a member of the royal college of physicians, london. in he was elected a member of the association of american physicians. these are distinctions won by few in the profession. in spite, or rather by reason, of his various attainments john mccrae never developed, or degenerated, into the type of the pure scientist. for the laboratory he had neither the mind nor the hands. he never peered at partial truths so closely as to mistake them for the whole truth; therefore, he was unfitted for that purely scientific career which was developed to so high a pitch of perfection in that nation which is now no longer mentioned amongst men. he wrote much, and often, upon medical problems. the papers bearing his name amount to thirty-three items in the catalogues. they testify to his industry rather than to invention and discovery, but they have made his name known in every text-book of medicine. apart from his verse, and letters, and diaries, and contributions to journals and books of medicine, with an occasional address to students or to societies, john mccrae left few writings, and in these there is nothing remarkable by reason of thought or expression. he could not write prose. fine as was his ear for verse he could not produce that finer rhythm of prose, which comes from the fall of proper words in proper sequence. he never learned that if a writer of prose takes care of the sound the sense will take care of itself. he did not scrutinize words to discover their first and fresh meaning. he wrote in phrases, and used words at second-hand as the journalists do. bullets "rained"; guns "swept"; shells "hailed"; events "transpired", and yet his appreciation of style in others was perfect, and he was an insatiable reader of the best books. his letters are strewn with names of authors whose worth time has proved. to specify them would merely be to write the catalogue of a good library. the thirteen years with which this century opened were the period in which john mccrae established himself in civil life in montreal and in the profession of medicine. of this period he has left a chronicle which is at once too long and too short. all lives are equally interesting if only we are in possession of all the facts. places like oxford and cambridge have been made interesting because the people who live in them are in the habit of writing, and always write about each other. family letters have little interest even for the family itself, if they consist merely of a recital of the trivial events of the day. they are prized for the unusual and for the sentiment they contain. diaries also are dull unless they deal with selected incidents; and selection is the essence of every art. few events have any interest in themselves, but any event can be made interesting by the pictorial or literary art. when he writes to his mother, that, as he was coming out of the college, an irish setter pressed a cold nose against his hand, that is interesting because it is unusual. if he tells us that a professor took him by the arm, there is no interest in that to her or to any one else. for that reason the ample letters and diaries which cover these years need not detain us long. there is in them little selection, little art--too much professor and too little dog. it is, of course, the business of the essayist to select; but in the present case there is little to choose. he tells of invitations to dinner, accepted, evaded, or refused; but he does not always tell who were there, what he thought of them, or what they had to eat. dinner at the adami's,--supper at ruttan's,--a night with owen,--tea at the reford's,--theatre with the hickson's,--a reception at the angus's,--or a dance at the allan's,--these events would all be quite meaningless without an exposition of the social life of montreal, which is too large a matter to undertake, alluring as the task would be. even then, one would be giving one's own impressions and not his. wherever he lived he was a social figure. when he sat at table the dinner was never dull. the entertainment he offered was not missed by the dullest intelligence. his contribution was merely "stories", and these stories in endless succession were told in a spirit of frank fun. they were not illustrative, admonitory, or hortatory. they were just amusing, and always fresh. this gift he acquired from his mother, who had that rare charm of mimicry without mockery, and caricature without malice. in all his own letters there is not an unkind comment or tinge of ill-nature, although in places, especially in later years, there is bitter indignation against those canadian patriots who were patriots merely for their bellies' sake. taken together his letters and diaries are a revelation of the heroic struggle by which a man gains a footing in a strange place in that most particular of all professions, a struggle comprehended by those alone who have made the trial of it. and yet the method is simple. it is all disclosed in his words, "i have never refused any work that was given me to do." these records are merely a chronicle of work. outdoor clinics, laboratory tasks, post-mortems, demonstrating, teaching, lecturing, attendance upon the sick in wards and homes, meetings, conventions, papers, addresses, editing, reviewing,--the very remembrance of such a career is enough to appall the stoutest heart. but john mccrae was never appalled. he went about his work gaily, never busy, never idle. each minute was pressed into the service, and every hour was made to count. in the first eight months of practice he claims to have made ninety dollars. it is many years before we hear him complain of the drudgery of sending out accounts, and sighing for the services of a bookkeeper. this is the only complaint that appears in his letters. there were at the time in montreal two rival schools, and are yet two rival hospitals. but john mccrae was of no party. he was the friend of all men, and the confidant of many. he sought nothing for himself and by seeking not he found what he most desired. his mind was single and his intention pure; his acts unsullied by selfish thought; his aim was true because it was steady and high. his aid was never sought for any cause that was unworthy, and those humorous eyes could see through the bones to the marrow of a scheme. in spite of his singular innocence, or rather by reason of it, he was the last man in the world to be imposed upon. in all this devastating labour he never neglected the assembling of himself together with those who write and those who paint. indeed, he had himself some small skill in line and colour. his hands were the hands of an artist--too fine and small for a body that weighted pounds, and measured more than five feet eleven inches in height. there was in montreal an institution known as "the pen and pencil club". no one now living remembers a time when it did not exist. it was a peculiar club. it contained no member who should not be in it; and no one was left out who should be in. the number was about a dozen. for twenty years the club met in dyonnet's studio, and afterwards, as the result of some convulsion, in k. r. macpherson's. a ceremonial supper was eaten once a year, at which one dressed the salad, one made the coffee, and harris sang a song. here all pictures were first shown, and writings read--if they were not too long. if they were, there was in an adjoining room a tin chest, which in these austere days one remembers with refreshment. when john mccrae was offered membership he "grabbed at it", and the place was a home for the spirit wearied by the week's work. there brymner and the other artists would discourse upon writings, and burgess and the other writers would discourse upon pictures. it is only with the greatest of resolution, fortified by lack of time and space, that i have kept myself to the main lines of his career, and refrained from following him into by-paths and secret, pleasant places; but i shall not be denied just one indulgence. in the great days when lord grey was governor-general he formed a party to visit prince edward island. the route was a circuitous one. it began at ottawa; it extended to winnipeg, down the nelson river to york factory, across hudson bay, down the strait, by belle isle and newfoundland, and across the gulf of st. lawrence to a place called orwell. lord grey in the matter of company had the reputation of doing himself well. john mccrae was of the party. it also included john macnaughton, l. s. amery, lord percy, lord lanesborough, and one or two others. the ship had called at north sydney where lady grey and the lady evelyn joined. through the place in a deep ravine runs an innocent stream which broadens out into still pools, dark under the alders. there was a rod--a very beautiful rod in two pieces. it excited his suspicion. it was put into his hand, the first stranger hand that ever held it; and the first cast showed that it was a worthy hand. the sea-trout were running that afternoon. thirty years before, in that memorable visit to scotland, he had been taken aside by "an old friend of his grandfather's". it was there he learned "to love the trooties". the love and the art never left him. it was at this same orwell his brother first heard the world called to arms on that early august morning in . in those civil years there were, of course, diversions: visits to the united states and meetings with notable men--welch, futcher, hurd, white, howard, barker: voyages to europe with a detailed itinerary upon the record; walks and rides upon the mountain; excursion in winter to the woods, and in summer to the lakes; and one visit to the packards in maine, with the sea enthusiastically described. upon those woodland excursions and upon many other adventures his companion is often referred to as "billy t.", who can be no other than lieut.-col. w. g. turner, "m.c." much is left out of the diary that we would wish to have recorded. there is tantalizing mention of "conversations" with shepherd--with roddick--with chipman--with armstrong--with gardner--with martin--with moyse. occasionally there is a note of description: "james mavor is a kindly genius with much knowledge"; "tait mckenzie presided ideally" at a shakespeare dinner; "stephen leacock does not keep all the good things for his publisher." those who know the life in montreal may well for themselves supply the details. ix. dead in his prime john mccrae left the front after the second battle of ypres, and never returned. on june st, , he was posted to no. general hospital at boulogne, a most efficient unit organized by mcgill university and commanded by that fine soldier colonel h. s. birkett, c.b. he was placed in charge of medicine, with the rank of lieut.-colonel as from april th, , and there he remained until his death. at first he did not relish the change. his heart was with the guns. he had transferred from the artillery to the medical service as recently as the previous autumn, and embarked a few days afterwards at quebec, on the th of september, arriving at davenport, october th, . although he was attached as medical officer to the st brigade of artillery, he could not forget that he was no longer a gunner, and in those tumultuous days he was often to be found in the observation post rather than in his dressing station. he had inherited something of the old army superciliousness towards a "non-combatant" service, being unaware that in this war the battle casualties in the medical corps were to be higher than in any other arm of the service. from south africa he wrote exactly fifteen years before: "i am glad that i am not 'a medical' out here. no 'r.a.m.c.' or any other 'm.c.' for me. there is a big breach, and the medicals are on the far side of it." on august th, , he writes from his hospital post, "i expect to wish often that i had stuck by the artillery." but he had no choice. of this period of his service there is little written record. he merely did his work, and did it well, as he always did what his mind found to do. his health was failing. he suffered from the cold. a year before his death he writes on january th, : the cruel cold is still holding. everyone is suffering, and the men in the wards in bed cannot keep warm. i know of nothing so absolutely pitiless as weather. let one wish; let one pray; do what one will; still the same clear sky and no sign,--you know the cold brand of sunshine. for my own part i do not think i have ever been more uncomfortable. everything is so cold that it hurts to pick it up. to go to bed is a nightmare and to get up a worse one. i have heard of cold weather in europe, and how the poor suffer,--now i know! all his life he was a victim of asthma. the first definite attack was in the autumn of , and the following winter it recurred with persistence. for the next five years his letters abound in references to the malady. after coming to montreal it subsided; but he always felt that the enemy was around the corner. he had frequent periods in bed; but he enjoyed the relief from work and the occasion they afforded for rest and reading. in january, , minutes begin to appear upon his official file which were of great interest to him, and to us. colonel birkett had relinquished command of the unit to resume his duties as dean of the medical faculty of mcgill university. he was succeeded by that veteran soldier, colonel j. m. elder, c.m.g. at the same time the command of no. general hospital fell vacant. lieut.-colonel mccrae was required for that post; but a higher honour was in store, namely the place of consultant to the british armies in the field. all these events, and the final great event, are best recorded in the austere official correspondence which i am permitted to extract from the files: from d.m.s. canadian contingents. (major-general c. l. foster, c.b.). to o.c. no. general hospital, b.e.f., th december, : there is a probability of the command of no. general hospital becoming vacant. it is requested, please, that you obtain from lieut.-col. j. mccrae his wishes in the matter. if he is available, and willing to take over this command, it is proposed to offer it to him. o.c. no. general hospital, b.e.f., to d.m.s. canadian contingents, th december, : lieut.-colonel mccrae desires me to say that, while he naturally looks forward to succeeding to the command of this unit, he is quite willing to comply with your desire, and will take command of no. general hospital at any time you may wish. d.g.m.s. british armies in france. to d.m.s. canadian contingents, january nd, : it is proposed to appoint lieut.-colonel j. mccrae, now serving with no. canadian general hospital, consulting physician to the british armies in france. notification of this appointment, when made, will be sent to you in due course. d.m.s. canadian contingents. to o.c. no. general hospital, b.e.f., january th, : since receiving your letter i have information from g.h.q. that they will appoint a consultant physician to the british armies in the field, and have indicated their desire for lieut.-colonel mccrae for this duty. this is a much higher honour than commanding a general hospital, and i hope he will take the post, as this is a position i have long wished should be filled by a c.a.m.c. officer. d.m.s. canadian contingents. to d.g.m.s., g.h.q., nd echelon, january th, : i fully concur in this appointment, and consider this officer will prove his ability as an able consulting physician. telegram: d.g.m.s., g.h.q., nd echelon. to d.m.s. canadian contingents, january th, : any objection to lieut.-col. j. mccrae being appointed consulting physician to british armies in france. if appointed, temporary rank of colonel recommended. telegram: o.c. no. general hospital, b.e.f. to d.m.s. canadian contingents, january th, : lieut.-col. john mccrae seriously ill with pneumonia at no. general hospital. telegram: o.c. no. general hospital. to o.c. no. general hospital, b.e.f., january th, : lieut.-col. john mccrae died this morning. this was the end. for him the war was finished and all the glory of the world had passed. henceforth we are concerned not with the letters he wrote, but with the letters which were written about him. they came from all quarters, literally in hundreds, all inspired by pure sympathy, but some tinged with a curiosity which it is hoped this writing will do something to assuage. let us first confine ourselves to the facts. they are all contained in a letter which colonel elder wrote to myself in common with other friends. on wednesday, january rd, he was as usual in the morning; but in the afternoon colonel elder found him asleep in his chair in the mess room. "i have a slight headache," he said. he went to his quarters. in the evening he was worse, but had no increase of temperature, no acceleration of pulse or respiration. at this moment the order arrived for him to proceed forthwith as consulting physician of the first army. colonel elder writes, "i read the order to him, and told him i should announce the contents at mess. he was very much pleased over the appointment. we discussed the matter at some length, and i took his advice upon measures for carrying on the medical work of the unit." next morning he was sleeping soundly, but later on he professed to be much better. he had no fever, no cough, no pain. in the afternoon he sent for colonel elder, and announced that he had pneumonia. there were no signs in the chest; but the microscope revealed certain organisms which rather confirmed the diagnosis. the temperature was rising. sir bertrand dawson was sent for. he came by evening from wimereux, but he could discover no physical signs. in the night the temperature continued to rise, and he complained of headache. he was restless until the morning, "when he fell into a calm, untroubled sleep." next morning, being friday, he was removed by ambulance to no. general hospital at wimereux. in the evening news came that he was better; by the morning the report was good, a lowered temperature and normal pulse. in the afternoon the condition grew worse; there were signs of cerebral irritation with a rapid, irregular pulse; his mind was quickly clouded. early on sunday morning the temperature dropped, and the heart grew weak; there was an intense sleepiness. during the day the sleep increased to coma, and all knew the end was near. his friends had gathered. the choicest of the profession was there, but they were helpless. he remained unconscious, and died at half past one on monday morning. the cause of death was double pneumonia with massive cerebral infection. colonel elder's letter concludes: "we packed his effects in a large box, everything that we thought should go to his people, and gow took it with him to england to-day." walter gow was his cousin, a son of that gow who sailed with the eckfords from glasgow in the 'clutha'. at the time he was deputy minister in london of the overseas military forces of canada. he had been sent for but arrived too late;--all was so sudden. the funeral was held on tuesday afternoon, january th, at the cemetery in wimereux. the burial was made with full military pomp. from the canadian corps came lieut.-general sir arthur currie, the general officer commanding; major-general e. w. b. morrison, and brigadier-general w. o. h. dodds, of the artillery. sir a. t. sloggett, the director-general of medical services, and his staff were waiting at the grave. all commanding officers at the base, and all deputy directors were there. there was also a deputation from the harvard unit headed by harvey cushing. bonfire went first, led by two grooms, and decked in the regulation white ribbon, not the least pathetic figure in the sad procession. a hundred nursing sisters in caps and veils stood in line, and then proceeded in ambulances to the cemetery, where they lined up again. seventy-five of the personnel from the hospital acted as escort, and six sergeants bore the coffin from the gates to the grave. the firing party was in its place. then followed the chief mourners, colonel elder and sir bertrand dawson; and in their due order, the rank and file of no. with their officers; the rank and file of no. with their officers; all officers from the base, with major-general wilberforce and the deputy directors to complete. it was a springtime day, and those who have passed all those winters in france and in flanders will know how lovely the springtime may be. so we may leave him, "on this sunny slope, facing the sunset and the sea." these are the words used by one of the nurses in a letter to a friend,--those women from whom no heart is hid. she also adds: "the nurses lamented that he became unconscious so quickly they could not tell him how much they cared. to the funeral all came as we did, because we loved him so." at first there was the hush of grief and the silence of sudden shock. then there was an outbreak of eulogy, of appraisement, and sorrow. no attempt shall be made to reproduce it here; but one or two voices may be recorded in so far as in disjointed words they speak for all. stephen leacock, for those who write, tells of his high vitality and splendid vigour--his career of honour and marked distinction--his life filled with honourable endeavour and instinct with the sense of duty--a sane and equable temperament--whatever he did, filled with sure purpose and swift conviction. dr. a. d. blackader, acting dean of the medical faculty of mcgill university, himself speaking from out of the shadow, thus appraises his worth: "as a teacher, trusted and beloved; as a colleague, sincere and cordial; as a physician, faithful, cheerful, kind. an unkind word he never uttered." oskar klotz, himself a student, testifies that the relationship was essentially one of master and pupil. from the head of his first department at mcgill, professor, now colonel, adami, comes the weighty phrase, that he was sound in diagnosis; as a teacher inspiring; that few could rise to his high level of service. there is yet a deeper aspect of this character with which we are concerned; but i shrink from making the exposition, fearing lest with my heavy literary tread i might destroy more than i should discover. when one stands by the holy place wherein dwells a dead friend's soul--the word would slip out at last--it becomes him to take off the shoes from off his feet. but fortunately the dilemma does not arise. the task has already been performed by one who by god has been endowed with the religious sense, and by nature enriched with the gift of expression; one who in his high calling has long been acquainted with the grief of others, and is now himself a man of sorrow, having seen with understanding eyes, these great days range like tides, and leave our dead on every shore. on february th, , a memorial service was held in the royal victoria college. principal sir william peterson presided. john macnaughton gave the address in his own lovely and inimitable words, to commemorate one whom he lamented, "so young and strong, in the prime of life, in the full ripeness of his fine powers, his season of fruit and flower bearing. he never lost the simple faith of his childhood. he was so sure about the main things, the vast things, the indispensable things, of which all formulated faiths are but a more or less stammering expression, that he was content with the rough embodiment in which his ancestors had laboured to bring those great realities to bear as beneficent and propulsive forces upon their own and their children's minds and consciences. his instinctive faith sufficed him." to his own students john mccrae once quoted the legend from a picture, to him "the most suggestive picture in the world": what i spent i had: what i saved i lost: what i gave i have;--and he added: "it will be in your power every day to store up for yourselves treasures that will come back to you in the consciousness of duty well done, of kind acts performed, things that having given away freely you yet possess. it has often seemed to me that when in the judgement those surprised faces look up and say, lord, when saw we thee an' hungered and fed thee; or thirsty and gave thee drink; a stranger, and took thee in; naked and clothed thee; and there meets them that warrant-royal of all charity, inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me, there will be amongst those awed ones many a practitioner of medicine." and finally i shall conclude this task to which i have set a worn but willing hand, by using again the words which once i used before: beyond all consideration of his intellectual attainments john mccrae was the well beloved of his friends. he will be missed in his place; and wherever his companions assemble there will be for them a new poignancy in the miltonic phrase, but o the heavy change, now thou art gone, now thou art gone, and never must return! london, th november, . the chinese nightingale and other poems, by vachel lindsay. [nicholas vachel lindsay, illinois poet. - .] [note on text: italicized words or phrases capitalized. italicized stanzas are indented spaces. some errors have been corrected. lines longer than characters are broken according to metre, and the continuation is indented two spaces.] the chinese nightingale and other poems by vachel lindsay author of "the congo", "general william booth enters into heaven", "adventures while preaching the gospel of beauty", etc. this book is dedicated to sara teasdale, poet harriet monroe awarded the levinson prize to "the chinese nightingale", as the best contribution to "poetry: a magazine of verse", for the year . table of contents first section the chinese nightingale second section america watching the war, august, , to april, where is the real non-resistant? here's to the mice! when bryan speaks to jane addams at the hague i. speak now for peace ii. tolstoi is plowing yet the tale of the tiger tree the merciful hand third section america at war with germany, beginning april, our mother pocahontas concerning emperors niagara mark twain and joan of arc the bankrupt peace maker "this, my song, is made for kerensky" fourth section tragedies, comedies, and dreams our guardian angels and their children epitaphs for two players i. edwin booth ii. john bunny, motion picture comedian mae marsh, motion picture actress two old crows the drunkard's funeral the raft the ghosts of the buffaloes the broncho that would not be broken the prairie battlements the flower of mending alone in the wind, on the prairie to lady jane how i walked alone in the jungles of heaven fifth section the poem games an account of the poem games the king of yellow butterflies the potatoes' dance the booker washington trilogy i. simon legree ii. john brown iii. king solomon and the queen of sheba how samson bore away the gates of gaza the chinese nightingale and other poems first section the chinese nightingale a song in chinese tapestries "how, how," he said. "friend chang," i said, "san francisco sleeps as the dead-- ended license, lust and play: why do you iron the night away? your big clock speaks with a deadly sound, with a tick and a wail till dawn comes round. while the monster shadows glower and creep, what can be better for man than sleep?" "i will tell you a secret," chang replied; "my breast with vision is satisfied, and i see green trees and fluttering wings, and my deathless bird from shanghai sings." then he lit five fire-crackers in a pan. "pop, pop," said the fire-crackers, "cra-cra-crack." he lit a joss stick long and black. then the proud gray joss in the corner stirred; on his wrist appeared a gray small bird, and this was the song of the gray small bird: "where is the princess, loved forever, who made chang first of the kings of men?" and the joss in the corner stirred again; and the carved dog, curled in his arms, awoke, barked forth a smoke-cloud that whirled and broke. it piled in a maze round the ironing-place, and there on the snowy table wide stood a chinese lady of high degree, with a scornful, witching, tea-rose face.... yet she put away all form and pride, and laid her glimmering veil aside with a childlike smile for chang and for me. the walls fell back, night was aflower, the table gleamed in a moonlit bower, while chang, with a countenance carved of stone, ironed and ironed, all alone. and thus she sang to the busy man chang: "have you forgotten.... deep in the ages, long, long ago, i was your sweetheart, there on the sand-- storm-worn beach of the chinese land? we sold our grain in the peacock town built on the edge of the sea-sands brown-- built on the edge of the sea-sands brown.... "when all the world was drinking blood from the skulls of men and bulls and all the world had swords and clubs of stone, we drank our tea in china beneath the sacred spice-trees, and heard the curled waves of the harbor moan. and this gray bird, in love's first spring, with a bright-bronze breast and a bronze-brown wing, captured the world with his carolling. do you remember, ages after, at last the world we were born to own? you were the heir of the yellow throne-- the world was the field of the chinese man and we were the pride of the sons of han? we copied deep books and we carved in jade, and wove blue silks in the mulberry shade...." "i remember, i remember that spring came on forever, that spring came on forever," said the chinese nightingale. my heart was filled with marvel and dream, though i saw the western street-lamps gleam, though dawn was bringing the western day, though chang was a laundryman ironing away.... mingled there with the streets and alleys, the railroad-yard and the clock-tower bright, demon clouds crossed ancient valleys; across wide lotus-ponds of light i marked a giant firefly's flight. and the lady, rosy-red, flourished her fan, her shimmering fan, stretched her hand toward chang, and said: "do you remember, ages after, our palace of heart-red stone? do you remember the little doll-faced children with their lanterns full of moon-fire, that came from all the empire honoring the throne?-- the loveliest fête and carnival our world had ever known? the sages sat about us with their heads bowed in their beards, with proper meditation on the sight. confucius was not born; we lived in those great days confucius later said were lived aright.... and this gray bird, on that day of spring, with a bright bronze breast, and a bronze-brown wing, captured the world with his carolling. late at night his tune was spent. peasants, sages, children, homeward went, and then the bronze bird sang for you and me. we walked alone. our hearts were high and free. i had a silvery name, i had a silvery name, i had a silvery name--do you remember the name you cried beside the tumbling sea?" chang turned not to the lady slim-- he bent to his work, ironing away; but she was arch, and knowing and glowing, and the bird on his shoulder spoke for him. "darling ... darling ... darling ... darling ..." said the chinese nightingale. the great gray joss on a rustic shelf, rakish and shrewd, with his collar awry, sang impolitely, as though by himself, drowning with his bellowing the nightingale's cry: "back through a hundred, hundred years hear the waves as they climb the piers, hear the howl of the silver seas, hear the thunder. hear the gongs of holy china how the waves and tunes combine in a rhythmic clashing wonder, incantation old and fine: 'dragons, dragons, chinese dragons, red fire-crackers, and green fire-crackers, and dragons, dragons, chinese dragons.'" then the lady, rosy-red, turned to her lover chang and said: "dare you forget that turquoise dawn when we stood in our mist-hung velvet lawn, and worked a spell this great joss taught till a god of the dragons was charmed and caught? from the flag high over our palace home he flew to our feet in rainbow-foam-- a king of beauty and tempest and thunder panting to tear our sorrows asunder. a dragon of fair adventure and wonder. we mounted the back of that royal slave with thoughts of desire that were noble and grave. we swam down the shore to the dragon-mountains, we whirled to the peaks and the fiery fountains. to our secret ivory house we were bourne. we looked down the wonderful wing-filled regions where the dragons darted in glimmering legions. right by my breast the nightingale sang; the old rhymes rang in the sunlit mist that we this hour regain-- song-fire for the brain. when my hands and my hair and my feet you kissed, when you cried for your heart's new pain, what was my name in the dragon-mist, in the rings of rainbowed rain?" "sorrow and love, glory and love," said the chinese nightingale. "sorrow and love, glory and love," said the chinese nightingale. and now the joss broke in with his song: "dying ember, bird of chang, soul of chang, do you remember?-- ere you returned to the shining harbor there were pirates by ten thousand descended on the town in vessels mountain-high and red and brown, moon-ships that climbed the storms and cut the skies. on their prows were painted terrible bright eyes. but i was then a wizard and a scholar and a priest; i stood upon the sand; with lifted hand i looked upon them and sunk their vessels with my wizard eyes, and the stately lacquer-gate made safe again. deep, deep below the bay, the sea-weed and the spray, embalmed in amber every pirate lies, embalmed in amber every pirate lies." then this did the noble lady say: "bird, do you dream of our home-coming day when you flew like a courier on before from the dragon-peak to our palace-door, and we drove the steed in your singing path-- the ramping dragon of laughter and wrath: and found our city all aglow, and knighted this joss that decked it so? there were golden fishes in the purple river and silver fishes and rainbow fishes. there were golden junks in the laughing river, and silver junks and rainbow junks: there were golden lilies by the bay and river, and silver lilies and tiger-lilies, and tinkling wind-bells in the gardens of the town by the black-lacquer gate where walked in state the kind king chang and his sweet-heart mate.... with his flag-born dragon and his crown of pearl ... and ... jade, and his nightingale reigning in the mulberry shade, and sailors and soldiers on the sea-sands brown, and priests who bowed them down to your song-- by the city called han, the peacock town, by the city called han, the nightingale town, the nightingale town." then sang the bird, so strangely gay, fluttering, fluttering, ghostly and gray, a vague, unravelling, final tune, like a long unwinding silk cocoon; sang as though for the soul of him who ironed away in that bower dim:-- "i have forgotten your dragons great, merry and mad and friendly and bold. dim is your proud lost palace-gate. i vaguely know there were heroes of old, troubles more than the heart could hold, there were wolves in the woods yet lambs in the fold, nests in the top of the almond tree.... the evergreen tree ... and the mulberry tree ... life and hurry and joy forgotten, years on years i but half-remember ... man is a torch, then ashes soon, may and june, then dead december, dead december, then again june. who shall end my dream's confusion? life is a loom, weaving illusion... i remember, i remember there were ghostly veils and laces... in the shadowy bowery places... with lovers' ardent faces bending to one another, speaking each his part. they infinitely echo in the red cave of my heart. 'sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart.' they said to one another. they spoke, i think, of perils past. they spoke, i think, of peace at last. one thing i remember: spring came on forever, spring came on forever," said the chinese nightingale. second section america watching the war, august, , to april, where is the real non-resistant? (matthew : - ) who can surrender to christ, dividing his best with the stranger, giving to each what he asks, braving the uttermost danger all for the enemy, man? who can surrender till death his words and his works, his house and his lands, his eyes and his heart and his breath? who can surrender to christ? many have yearned toward it daily. yet they surrender to passion, wildly or grimly or gaily; yet they surrender to pride, counting her precious and queenly; yet they surrender to knowledge, preening their feathers serenely. who can surrender to christ? where is the man so transcendent, so heated with love of his kind, so filled with the spirit resplendent that all of the hours of his day his song is thrilling and tender, and all of his thoughts to our white cause of peace surrender, surrender, surrender? here's to the mice! (written with the hope that the socialists might yet dethrone kaiser and czar.) here's to the mice that scare the lions, creeping into their cages. here's to the fairy mice that bite the elephants fat and wise: hidden in the hay-pile while the elephant thunder rages. here's to the scurrying, timid mice through whom the proud cause dies. here's to the seeming accident when all is planned and working, all the flywheels turning, not a vassal shirking. here's to the hidden tunneling thing that brings the mountain's groans. here's to the midnight scamps that gnaw, gnawing away the thrones. when bryan speaks when bryan speaks, the town's a hive. from miles around, the autos drive. the sparrow chirps. the rooster crows. the place is kicking and alive. when bryan speaks, the bunting glows. the raw procession onward flows. the small dogs bark. the children laugh a wind of springtime fancy blows. when bryan speaks, the wigwam shakes. the corporation magnate quakes. the pre-convention plot is smashed. the valiant pleb full-armed awakes. when bryan speaks, the sky is ours, the wheat, the forests, and the flowers. and who is here to say us nay? fled are the ancient tyrant powers. when bryan speaks, then i rejoice. his is the strange composite voice of many million singing souls who make world-brotherhood their choice. written in washington, d.c. february, . to jane addams at the hague two poems, written on the sinking of the lusitania. appearing in the chicago 'herald', may , . i. speak now for peace lady of light, and our best woman, and queen, stand now for peace, (though anger breaks your heart), though naught but smoke and flame and drowning is seen. lady of light, speak, though you speak alone, though your voice may seem as a dove's in this howling flood, it is heard to-night by every senate and throne. though the widening battle of millions and millions of men threatens to-night to sweep the whole of the earth, back of the smoke is the promise of kindness again. ii. tolstoi is plowing yet tolstoi is plowing yet. when the smoke-clouds break, high in the sky shines a field as wide as the world. there he toils for the kingdom of heaven's sake. ah, he is taller than clouds of the little earth. only the congress of planets is over him, and the arching path where new sweet stars have birth. wearing his peasant dress, his head bent low, tolstoi, that angel of peace, is plowing yet; forward, across the field, his horses go. the tale of the tiger tree a fantasy, dedicated to the little poet alice oliver henderson, ten years old. the fantasy shows how tiger-hearts are the cause of war in all ages. it shows how the mammoth forces may be either friends or enemies of the struggle for peace. it shows how the dream of peace is unconquerable and eternal. i peace-of-the-heart, my own for long, whose shining hair the may-winds fan, making it tangled as they can, a mystery still, star-shining yet, through ancient ages known to me and now once more reborn with me:-- this is the tale of the tiger tree a hundred times the height of a man, lord of the race since the world began. this is my city springfield, my home on the breast of the plain. the state house towers to heaven, by an arsenal gray as the rain ... and suddenly all is mist, and i walk in a world apart, in the forest-age when i first knelt down at your feet, o peace-of-the-heart. this is the wonder of twilight: three times as high as the dome tiger-striped trees encircle the town, golden geysers of foam. while giant white parrots sail past in their pride. the roofs now are clouds and storms that they ride. and there with the huntsmen of mound-builder days through jungle and meadow i stride. and the tiger tree leaf is falling around as it fell when the world began: like a monstrous tiger-skin, stretched on the ground, or the cloak of a medicine man. a deep-crumpled gossamer web, fringed with the fangs of a snake. the wind swirls it down from the leperous boughs. it shimmers on clay-hill and lake, with the gleam of great bubbles of blood, or coiled like a rainbow shell.... i feast on the stem of the leaf as i march. i am burning with heaven and hell. ii the gray king died in his hour. then we crowned you, the prophetess wise: peace-of-the-heart we deeply adored for the witchcraft hid in your eyes. gift from the sky, overmastering all, you sent forth your magical parrots to call the plot-hatching prince of the tigers, to your throne by the red-clay wall. thus came that genius insane: spitting and slinking, sneering and vain, he sprawled to your grassy throne, drunk on the leaf, the drug that was cunning and splendor and grief. he had fled from the mammoth by day, he had blasted the mammoth by night, war was his drunkenness, war was his dreaming, war was his love and his play. and he hissed at your heavenly glory while his councillors snarled in delight, asking in irony: "what shall we learn from this whisperer, fragile and white?" and had you not been an enchantress they would not have loitered to mock nor spared your white parrots who walked by their paws with bantering venturesome talk. you made a white fire of the leaf. you sang while the tiger-chiefs hissed. you chanted of "peace to the wonderful world." and they saw you in dazzling mist. and their steps were no longer insane, kindness came down like the rain, they dreamed that like fleet young ponies they feasted on succulent grasses and grain. . . . . . then came the black-mammoth chief: long-haired and shaggy and great, proud and sagacious he marshalled his court: (you had sent him your parrots of state.) his trunk in rebellion upcurled, a curse at the tiger he hurled. huge elephants trumpeted there by his side, and mastodon-chiefs of the world. but higher magic began. for the turbulent vassals of man. you harnessed their fever, you conquered their ire, their hearts turned to flowers through holy desire, for their darling and star you were crowned, and their raging demons were bound. you rode on the back of the yellow-streaked king, his loose neck was wreathed with a mistletoe ring. primordial elephants loomed by your side, and our clay-painted children danced by your path, chanting the death of the kingdoms of wrath. you wrought until night with us all. the fierce brutes fawned at your call, then slipped to their lairs, song-chained. and thus you sang sweetly, and reigned: "immortal is the inner peace, free to beasts and men. beginning in the darkness, the mystery will conquer, and now it comforts every heart that seeks for love again. and now the mammoth bows the knee, we hew down every tiger tree, we send each tiger bound in love and glory to his den, bound in love ... and wisdom ... and glory, ... to his den." iii "beware of the trumpeting swine," came the howl from the northward that night. twice-rebel tigers warning was still if we held not beside them it boded us ill. from the parrots translating the cry, and the apes in the trees came the whine: "beware of the trumpeting swine. beware of the faith of a mammoth." "beware of the faith of a tiger," came the roar from the southward that night. trumpeting mammoths warning us still if we held not beside them it boded us ill. the frail apes wailed to us all, the parrots reëchoed the call: "beware of the faith of a tiger." from the heights of the forest the watchers could see the tiger-cats crunching the leaf of the tree lashing themselves, and scattering foam, killing our huntsmen, hurrying home. the chiefs of the mammoths our mastery spurned, and eastward restlessly fumed and burned. the peacocks squalled out the news of their drilling and told how they trampled, maneuvered, and turned. ten thousand man-hating tigers whirling down from the north, like a flood! ten thousand mammoths oncoming from the south as avengers of blood! our child-queen was mourning, her magic was dead, the roots of the tiger tree reeking with red. iv this is the tale of the tiger tree a hundred times the height of a man, lord of the race since the world began. we marched to the mammoths, we pledged them our steel, and scorning you, sang:-- "we are men, we are men." we mounted their necks, and they stamped a wide reel. we sang: "we are fighting the hell-cats again, we are mound-builder men, we are elephant men." we left you there, lonely, beauty your power, wisdom your watchman, to hold the clay tower. while the black-mammoths boomed-- "you are elephant men, men, men, elephant men." the dawn-winds prophesied battles untold. while the tiger trees roared of the glories of old, of the masterful spirits and hard. the drunken cats came in their joy in the sunrise, a glittering wave. "we are tigers, are tigers," they yowled. "down, down, go the swine to the grave." but we tramp tramp trampled them there, then charged with our sabres and spears. the swish of the sabre, the swish of the sabre, was a marvellous tune in our ears. we yelled "we are men, we are men." as we bled to death in the sun.... then staunched our horrible wounds with the cry that the battle was won.... and at last, when the black-mammoth legion split the night with their song:-- "right is braver than wrong, right is stronger than wrong," the buzzards came taunting: "down from the north tiger-nations are sweeping along." . . . . . then we ate of the ravening leaf as our savage fathers of old. no longer our wounds made us weak, no longer our pulses were cold. though half of my troops were afoot, (for the great who had borne them were slain) we dreamed we were tigers, and leaped and foamed with that vision insane. we cried "we are soldiers of doom, doom, sabres of glory and doom." we wreathed the king of the mammoths in the tiger-leaves' terrible bloom. we flattered the king of the mammoths, loud-rattling sabres and spears. the swish of the sabre, the swish of the sabre, was a marvellous tune in his ears. v this was the end of the battle. the tigers poured by in a tide over us all with their caterwaul call, "we are the tigers," they cried. "we are the sabres," they cried. but we laughed while our blades swept wide, while the dawn-rays stabbed through the gloom. "we are suns on fire" was our yell-- "suns on fire." ... but man-child and mastodon fell, mammoth and elephant fell. the fangs of the devil-cats closed on the world, plunged it to blackness and doom. the desolate red-clay wall echoed the parrots' call:-- "immortal is the inner peace, free to beasts and men. beginning in the darkness, the mystery will conquer, and now it comforts every heart that seeks for love again. and now the mammoth bows the knee, we hew down every tiger tree, we send each tiger bound in love and glory to his den, bound in love ... and wisdom ... and glory, ... to his den." a peacock screamed of his beauty on that broken wall by the trees, chiding his little mate, spreading his fans in the breeze ... and you, with eyes of a bride, knelt on the wall at my side, the deathless song in your mouth ... a million new tigers swept south ... as we laughed at the peacock, and died. this is my vision in springfield: three times as high as the dome, tiger-striped trees encircle the town, golden geysers of foam;-- though giant white parrots sail past, giving voice, though i walk with peace-of-the-heart and rejoice. the merciful hand written to miss alice l. f. fitzgerald, edith cavell memorial nurse, going to the front. your fine white hand is heaven's gift to cure the wide world, stricken sore, bleeding at the breast and head, tearing at its wounds once more. your white hand is a prophecy, a living hope that christ shall come and make the nations merciful, hating the bayonet and drum. each desperate burning brain you soothe, or ghastly broken frame you bind, brings one day nearer our bright goal, the love-alliance of mankind. wellesley. february, . third section america at war with germany, beginning april, our mother pocahontas (note:--pocahontas is buried at gravesend, england.) "pocahontas' body, lovely as a poplar, sweet as a red haw in november or a pawpaw in may--did she wonder? does she remember--in the dust--in the cool tombs?" carl sandburg. i powhatan was conqueror, powhatan was emperor. he was akin to wolf and bee, brother of the hickory tree. son of the red lightning stroke and the lightning-shivered oak. his panther-grace bloomed in the maid who laughed among the winds and played in excellence of savage pride, wooing the forest, open-eyed, in the springtime, in virginia, our mother, pocahontas. her skin was rosy copper-red. and high she held her beauteous head. her step was like a rustling leaf: her heart a nest, untouched of grief. she dreamed of sons like powhatan, and through her blood the lightning ran. love-cries with the birds she sung, birdlike in the grape-vine swung. the forest, arching low and wide gloried in its indian bride. rolfe, that dim adventurer had not come a courtier. john rolfe is not our ancestor. we rise from out the soul of her held in native wonderland, while the sun's rays kissed her hand, in the springtime, in virginia, our mother, pocahontas. ii she heard the forest talking, across the sea came walking, and traced the paths of daniel boone, then westward chased the painted moon. she passed with wild young feet on to kansas wheat, on to the miners' west, the echoing cañons' guest, then the pacific sand, waking, thrilling, the midnight land.... on adams street and jefferson-- flames coming up from the ground! on jackson street and washington-- flames coming up from the ground! and why, until the dawning sun are flames coming up from the ground? because, through drowsy springfield sped this red-skin queen, with feathered head, with winds and stars, that pay her court and leaping beasts, that make her sport; because, gray europe's rags august she tramples in the dust; because we are her fields of corn; because our fires are all reborn from her bosom's deathless embers, flaming as she remembers the springtime and virginia, our mother, pocahontas. iii we here renounce our saxon blood. tomorrow's hopes, an april flood come roaring in. the newest race is born of her resilient grace. we here renounce our teuton pride: our norse and slavic boasts have died: italian dreams are swept away, and celtic feuds are lost today.... she sings of lilacs, maples, wheat, her own soil sings beneath her feet, of springtime and virginia, our mother, pocahontas. concerning emperors i. god send the regicide would that the lying rulers of the world were brought to block for tyrannies abhorred. would that the sword of cromwell and the lord, the sword of joshua and gideon, hewed hip and thigh the hosts of midian. god send that ironside ere tomorrow's sun; let gabriel and michael with him ride. god send the regicide. ii. a colloquial reply: to any newsboy if you lay for iago at the stage door with a brick you have missed the moral of the play. he will have a midnight supper with othello and his wife. they will chirp together and be gay. but the things iago stands for must go down into the dust: lying and suspicion and conspiracy and lust. and i cannot hate the kaiser (i hope you understand.) yet i chase the thing he stands for with a brickbat in my hand. niagara i within the town of buffalo are prosy men with leaden eyes. like ants they worry to and fro, (important men, in buffalo.) but only twenty miles away a deathless glory is at play: niagara, niagara. the women buy their lace and cry:-- "o such a delicate design," and over ostrich feathers sigh, by counters there, in buffalo. the children haunt the trinket shops, they buy false-faces, bells, and tops, forgetting great niagara. within the town of buffalo are stores with garnets, sapphires, pearls, rubies, emeralds aglow,-- opal chains in buffalo, cherished symbols of success. they value not your rainbow dress:-- niagara, niagara. the shaggy meaning of her name this buffalo, this recreant town, sharps and lawyers prune and tame: few pioneers in buffalo; except young lovers flushed and fleet and winds hallooing down the street: "niagara, niagara." the journalists are sick of ink: boy prodigals are lost in wine, by night where white and red lights blink, the eyes of death, in buffalo. and only twenty miles away are starlit rocks and healing spray:-- niagara, niagara. above the town a tiny bird, a shining speck at sleepy dawn, forgets the ant-hill so absurd, this self-important buffalo. descending twenty miles away he bathes his wings at break of day-- niagara, niagara. ii what marching men of buffalo flood the streets in rash crusade? fools-to-free-the-world, they go, primeval hearts from buffalo. red cataracts of france today awake, three thousand miles away an echo of niagara, the cataract niagara. mark twain and joan of arc when yankee soldiers reach the barricade then joan of arc gives each the accolade. for she is there in armor clad, today, all the young poets of the wide world say. which of our freemen did she greet the first, seeing him come against the fires accurst? mark twain, our chief, with neither smile nor jest, leading to war our youngest and our best. the yankee to king arthur's court returns. the sacred flag of joan above him burns. for she has called his soul from out the tomb. and where she stands, there he will stand till doom. . . . . . but i, i can but mourn, and mourn again at bloodshed caused by angels, saints, and men. the bankrupt peace maker i opened the ink-well and smoke filled the room. the smoke formed the giant frog-cat of my doom. his web feet left dreadful slime tracks on the floor. he had hammer and nails that he laid by the door. he sprawled on the table, claw-hands in my hair. he looked through my heart to the mud that was there. like a black-mailer hating his victim he spoke: "when i see all your squirming i laugh till i choke singing of peace. railing at battle. soothing a handful with saccharine prattle. all the millions of earth have voted for fight. you are voting for talk, with hands lily white." he leaped to the floor, then grew seven feet high, beautiful, terrible, scorn in his eye: the devil eternal, apollo grown old, with beard of bright silver and garments of gold. "what will you do to end war for good? will you stand by the book-case, be nailed to the wood?" i stretched out my arms. he drove the nails deep, silently, coolly. the house was asleep, i hung for three years, forbidden to die. i seemed but a shadow the servants passed by. at the end of the time with hot irons he returned. "the quitter sublime" on my bosom he burned. as he seared me he hissed: "you are wearing away. the good angels tell me you leave them today. you want to come down from the nails in the door. the victor must hang there three hundred years more. if any prig-saint would outvote all mankind he must use an immortally resolute mind. think what the saints of benares endure, through infinite birthpangs their courage is sure. self-tortured, self-ruled, they build their powers high, until they are gods, overmaster the sky." then he pulled out the nails. he shouted "come in." to heal me there stepped in a lady of sin. her hand was in mine. we walked in the sun. she said: "now forget them, the saxon and hun. you are dreary and aged and silly and weak. let us smell the sweet groves. let the summertime speak." we walked to the river. we swam there in state. i was a serpent. she was my mate. i forgot in the marsh, as i tumbled about, that trial in my room, where i did not hold out. since i was a serpent, my mate seemed to me as a mermaiden seems to a fisher at sea, or a whisky soaked girl to a whisky soaked king. i woke. she had turned to a ravening thing on the table--a buzzard with leperous head. she tore up my rhymes and my drawings. she said: "i am your own cheap bankrupt soul. will you die for the nations, making them whole? we joy in the swamp and here we are gay. will you bring your fine peace to the nations today?" "this, my song, is made for kerensky" (being a chant of the american soap-box and the russian revolution.) o market square, o slattern place, is glory in your slack disgrace? plump quack doctors sell their pills, gentle grafters sell brass watches, silly anarchists yell their ills. shall we be as weird as these? in the breezes nod and wheeze? heaven's mass is sung, tomorrow's mass is sung in a spirit tongue by wind and dust and birds, the high mass of liberty, while wave the banners red: sung round the soap-box, a mass for soldiers dead. when you leave your faction in the once-loved hall, like a true american tongue-lash them all, stand then on the corner under starry skies and get you a gang of the worn and the wise. the soldiers of the lord may be squeaky when they rally, the soldiers of the lord are a queer little army, but the soldiers of the lord, before the year is through, will gather the whole nation, recruit all creation, to smite the hosts abhorred, and all the heavens renew-- enforcing with the bayonet the thing the ages teach-- free speech! free speech! down with the prussians, and all their works. down with the turks. down with every army that fights against the soap-box, the pericles, socrates, diogenes soap-box, the old elijah, jeremiah, john-the-baptist soap-box, the rousseau, mirabeau, danton soap-box, the karl marx, henry george, woodrow wilson soap-box. we will make the wide earth safe for the soap-box, the everlasting foe of beastliness and tyranny, platform of liberty:-- magna charta liberty, andrew jackson liberty, bleeding kansas liberty, new-born russian liberty:-- battleship of thought, the round world over, loved by the red-hearted, loved by the broken-hearted, fair young amazon or proud tough rover, loved by the lion, loved by the lion, loved by the lion, feared by the fox. the russian revolution is the world revolution. death at the bedstead of every kaiser knocks. the hohenzollern army shall be felled like the ox. the fatal hour is striking in all the doomsday clocks. the while, by freedom's alchemy beauty is born. ring every sleigh-bell, ring every church bell, blow the clear trumpet, and listen for the answer:-- the blast from the sky of the gabriel horn. hail the russian picture around the little box:-- exiles, troops in files, generals in uniform, mujiks in their smocks, and holy maiden soldiers who have cut away their locks. all the peoples and the nations in processions mad and great, are rolling through the russian soul as through a city gate:-- as though it were a street of stars that paves the shadowy deep. and mighty tolstoi leads the van along the stairway steep. but now the people shout: "hail to kerensky, he hurled the tyrants out." and this my song is made for kerensky, prophet of the world-wide intolerable hope, there on the soap-box, seasoned, dauntless, there amid the russian celestial kaleidoscope, flags of liberty, rags and battlesmoke. moscow and chicago! come let us praise battling kerensky, bravo! bravo! comrade kerensky the thunderstorm and rainbow! comrade kerensky, bravo, bravo! august, . fourth section tragedies, comedies, and dreams our guardian angels and their children where a river roars in rapids and doves in maples fret, where peace has decked the pastures our guardian angels met. long they had sought each other in god's mysterious name, had climbed the solemn chaos tides alone, with hope aflame: amid the demon deeps had wound by many a fearful way. as they beheld each other their shout made glad the day. no need of purse delayed them, no hand of friend or kin-- nor menace of the bell and book, nor fear of mortal sin. you did not speak, my girl, at this, our parting hour. long we held each other and watched their deeds of power. they made a curious eden. we saw that it was good. we thought with them in unison. we proudly understood their amaranth eternal, their roses strange and fair, the asphodels they scattered upon the living air. they built a house of clouds with skilled immortal hands. they entered through the silver doors. their wings were wedded brands. i labored up the valley to granite mountains free. you hurried down the river to zidon by the sea. but at their place of meeting they keep a home and shrine. your angel twists a purple flax, then weaves a mantle fine. my angel, her defender upstanding, spreads the light on painted clouds of fancy and mists that touch the height. their sturdy babes speak kindly and fly and run with joy, shepherding the helpless lambs-- a grecian girl and boy. these children visit heaven each year and make of worth all we planned and wrought in youth and all our tears on earth. from books our god has written they sing of high desire. they turn the leaves in gentleness. their wings are folded fire. epitaphs for two players i. edwin booth an old actor at the player's club told me that edwin booth first impersonated hamlet when a barnstormer in california. there were few theatres, but the hotels were provided with crude assembly rooms for strolling players. the youth played in the blear hotel. the rafters gleamed with glories strange. and winds of mourning elsinore howling at chance and fate and change; voices of old europe's dead disturbed the new-built cattle-shed, the street, the high and solemn range. the while the coyote barked afar all shadowy was the battlement. the ranch-boys huddled and grew pale, youths who had come on riot bent. forgot were pranks well-planned to sting. behold there rose a ghostly king, and veils of smoking hell were rent. when edwin booth played hamlet, then the camp-drab's tears could not but flow. then romance lived and breathed and burned. she felt the frail queen-mother's woe, thrilled for ophelia, fond and blind, and hamlet, cruel, yet so kind, and moaned, his proud words hurt her so. a haunted place, though new and harsh! the indian and the chinaman and mexican were fain to learn what had subdued the saxon clan. why did they mumble, brood, and stare when the court-players curtsied fair and the gonzago scene began? and ah, the duel scene at last! they cheered their prince with stamping feet. a death-fight in a palace! yea, with velvet hangings incomplete, a pasteboard throne, a pasteboard crown, and yet a monarch tumbled down, a brave lad fought in splendor meet. was it a palace or a barn? immortal as the gods he flamed. there in his last great hour of rage his foil avenged a mother shamed. in duty stern, in purpose deep he drove that king to his black sleep and died, all godlike and untamed. . . . . . i was not born in that far day. i hear the tale from heads grown white. and then i walk that earlier street, the mining camp at candle-light. i meet him wrapped in musings fine upon some whispering silvery line he yet resolves to speak aright. ii. john bunny, motion picture comedian in which he is remembered in similitude, by reference to yorick, the king's jester, who died when hamlet and ophelia were children. yorick is dead. boy hamlet walks forlorn beneath the battlements of elsinore. where are those oddities and capers now that used to "set the table on a roar"? and do his bauble-bells beyond the clouds ring out, and shake with mirth the planets bright? no doubt he brings the blessed dead good cheer, but silence broods on elsinore tonight. that little elf, ophelia, eight years old, upon her battered doll's staunch bosom weeps. ("o best of men, that wove glad fairy-tales.") with tear-burned face, at last the darling sleeps. hamlet himself could not give cheer or help, though firm and brave, with his boy-face controlled. for every game they started out to play yorick invented, in the days of old. the times are out of joint! o cursed spite! the noble jester yorick comes no more. and hamlet hides his tears in boyish pride by some lone turret-stair of elsinore. mae marsh, motion picture actress in "man's genesis", "the wild girl of the sierras", "the wharf rat", "a girl of the paris streets", etc. i the arts are old, old as the stones from which man carved the sphinx austere. deep are the days the old arts bring: ten thousand years of yesteryear. ii she is madonna in an art as wild and young as her sweet eyes: a frail dew flower from this hot lamp that is today's divine surprise. despite raw lights and gloating mobs she is not seared: a picture still: rare silk the fine director's hand may weave for magic if he will. when ancient films have crumbled like papyrus rolls of egypt's day, let the dust speak: "her pride was high, all but the artist hid away: "kin to the myriad artist clan since time began, whose work is dear." the deep new ages come with her, tomorrow's years of yesteryear. two old crows two old crows sat on a fence rail, two old crows sat on a fence rail, thinking of effect and cause, of weeds and flowers, and nature's laws. one of them muttered, one of them stuttered, one of them stuttered, one of them muttered. each of them thought far more than he uttered. one crow asked the other crow a riddle. one crow asked the other crow a riddle: the muttering crow asked the stuttering crow, "why does a bee have a sword to his fiddle? why does a bee have a sword to his fiddle?" "bee-cause," said the other crow, "bee-cause, b b b b b b b b b b b b b b b b-cause." just then a bee flew close to their rail:-- "buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzz." and those two black crows turned pale, and away those crows did sail. why? b b b b b b b b b b b b b b b b-cause. b b b b b b b b b b b b b b b b-cause. "buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzz." the drunkard's funeral "yes," said the sister with the little pinched face, the busy little sister with the funny little tract:-- "this is the climax, the grand fifth act. there rides the proud, at the finish of his race. there goes the hearse, the mourners cry, the respectable hearse goes slowly by. the wife of the dead has money in her purse, the children are in health, so it might have been worse. that fellow in the coffin led a life most foul. a fierce defender of the red bar-tender, at the church he would rail, at the preacher he would howl. he planted every deviltry to see it grow. he wasted half his income on the lewd and the low. he would trade engender for the red bar-tender, he would homage render to the red bar-tender, and in ultimate surrender to the red bar-tender, he died of the tremens, as crazy as a loon, and his friends were glad, when the end came soon. there goes the hearse, the mourners cry, the respectable hearse goes slowly by. and now, good friends, since you see how it ends, let each nation-mender flay the red bar-tender,-- abhor the transgression of the red bar-tender,-- ruin the profession of the red bar-tender: force him into business where his work does good. let him learn how to plough, let him learn to chop wood, let him learn how to plough, let him learn to chop wood. "the moral, the conclusion, the verdict now you know:-- 'the saloon must go, the saloon must go, the saloon, the saloon, the saloon, must go.'" "you are right, little sister," i said to myself, "you are right, good sister," i said. "though you wear a mussy bonnet on your little gray head, you are right, little sister," i said. the raft the whole world on a raft! a king is here, the record of his grandeur but a smear. is it his deacon-beard, or old bald pate that makes the band upon his whims to wait? loot and mud-honey have his soul defiled. quack, pig, and priest, he drives camp-meetings wild until they shower their pennies like spring rain that he may preach upon the spanish main. what landlord, lawyer, voodoo-man has yet a better native right to make men sweat? the whole world on a raft! a duke is here at sight of whose lank jaw the muses leer. journeyman-printer, lamb with ferret eyes, in life's skullduggery he takes the prize-- yet stands at twilight wrapped in hamlet dreams. into his eyes the mississippi gleams. the sandbar sings in moonlit veils of foam. a candle shines from one lone cabin home. the waves reflect it like a drunken star. a banjo and a hymn are heard afar. no solace on the lazy shore excels the duke's blue castle with its steamer-bells. the floor is running water, and the roof the stars' brocade with cloudy warp and woof. and on past sorghum fields the current swings. to christian jim the mississippi sings. this prankish wave-swept barque has won its place, a ship of jesting for the human race. but do you laugh when jim bows down forlorn his babe, his deaf elizabeth to mourn? and do you laugh, when jim, from huck apart gropes through the rain and night with breaking heart? but now that imp is here and we can smile, jim's child and guardian this long-drawn while. with knife and heavy gun, a hunter keen, he stops for squirrel-meat in islands green. the eternal gamin, sleeping half the day, then stripped and sleek, a river-fish at play. and then well-dressed, ashore, he sees life spilt. the river-bank is one bright crazy-quilt of patch-work dream, of wrath more red than lust, where long-haired feudist hotspurs bite the dust ... this huckleberry finn is but the race, america, still lovely in disgrace, new childhood of the world, that blunders on and wonders at the darkness and the dawn, the poor damned human race, still unimpressed with its damnation, all its gamin breast chorteling at dukes and kings with nigger jim, then plotting for their fall, with jestings grim. behold a republic where a river speaks to men and cries to those that love its ways, answering again when in the heart's extravagance the rascals bend to say "o singing mississippi shine, sing for us today." but who is this in sweeping oxford gown who steers the raft, or ambles up and down, or throws his gown aside, and there in white stands gleaming like a pillar of the night? the lion of high courts, with hoary mane, fierce jester that this boyish court will gain-- mark twain! the bad world's idol: old mark twain! he takes his turn as watchman with the rest, with secret transports to the stars addressed, with nightlong broodings upon cosmic law, with daylong laughter at this world so raw. all praise to emerson and whitman, yet the best they have to say, their sons forget. but who can dodge this genius of the stream, the mississippi valley's laughing dream? he is the artery that finds the sea in this the land of slaves, and boys still free. he is the river, and they one and all sail on his breast, and to each other call. come let us disgrace ourselves, knock the stuffed gods from their shelves, and cinders at the schoolhouse fling. come let us disgrace ourselves, and live on a raft with gray mark twain and huck and jim and the duke and the king. the ghosts of the buffaloes last night at black midnight i woke with a cry, the windows were shaking, there was thunder on high, the floor was a-tremble, the door was a-jar, white fires, crimson fires, shone from afar. i rushed to the door yard. the city was gone. my home was a hut without orchard or lawn. it was mud-smear and logs near a whispering stream, nothing else built by man could i see in my dream ... then ... ghost-kings came headlong, row upon row, gods of the indians, torches aglow. they mounted the bear and the elk and the deer, and eagles gigantic, aged and sere, they rode long-horn cattle, they cried "a-la-la." they lifted the knife, the bow, and the spear, they lifted ghost-torches from dead fires below, the midnight made grand with the cry "a-la-la." the midnight made grand with a red-god charge, a red-god show, a red-god show, "a-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la." with bodies like bronze, and terrible eyes came the rank and the file, with catamount cries, gibbering, yipping, with hollow-skull clacks, riding white bronchos with skeleton backs, scalp-hunters, beaded and spangled and bad, naked and lustful and foaming and mad, flashing primeval demoniac scorn, blood-thirst and pomp amid darkness reborn, power and glory that sleep in the grass while the winds and the snows and the great rains pass. they crossed the gray river, thousands abreast, they rode in infinite lines to the west, tide upon tide of strange fury and foam, spirits and wraiths, the blue was their home, the sky was their goal where the star-flags are furled, and on past those far golden splendors they whirled. they burned to dim meteors, lost in the deep. and i turned in dazed wonder, thinking of sleep. and the wind crept by alone, unkempt, unsatisfied, the wind cried and cried-- muttered of massacres long past, buffaloes in shambles vast ... an owl said: "hark, what is a-wing?" i heard a cricket carolling, i heard a cricket carolling, i heard a cricket carolling. then ... snuffing the lightning that crashed from on high rose royal old buffaloes, row upon row. the lords of the prairie came galloping by. and i cried in my heart "a-la-la, a-la-la, a red-god show, a red-god show, a-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la." buffaloes, buffaloes, thousands abreast, a scourge and amazement, they swept to the west. with black bobbing noses, with red rolling tongues, coughing forth steam from their leather-wrapped lungs, cows with their calves, bulls big and vain, goring the laggards, shaking the mane, stamping flint feet, flashing moon eyes, pompous and owlish, shaggy and wise. like sea-cliffs and caves resounded their ranks with shoulders like waves, and undulant flanks. tide upon tide of strange fury and foam, spirits and wraiths, the blue was their home, the sky was their goal where the star-flags are furled, and on past those far golden splendors they whirled. they burned to dim meteors, lost in the deep, and i turned in dazed wonder, thinking of sleep. i heard a cricket's cymbals play, a scarecrow lightly flapped his rags, and a pan that hung by his shoulder rang, rattled and thumped in a listless way, and now the wind in the chimney sang, the wind in the chimney, the wind in the chimney, the wind in the chimney, seemed to say:-- "dream, boy, dream, if you anywise can. to dream is the work of beast or man. life is the west-going dream-storm's breath, life is a dream, the sigh of the skies, the breath of the stars, that nod on their pillows with their golden hair mussed over their eyes." the locust played on his musical wing, sang to his mate of love's delight. i heard the whippoorwill's soft fret. i heard a cricket carolling, i heard a cricket carolling, i heard a cricket say: "good-night, good-night, good-night, good-night, ... good-night." the broncho that would not be broken a little colt--broncho, loaned to the farm to be broken in time without fury or harm, yet black crows flew past you, shouting alarm, calling "beware," with lugubrious singing ... the butterflies there in the bush were romancing, the smell of the grass caught your soul in a trance, so why be a-fearing the spurs and the traces, o broncho that would not be broken of dancing? you were born with the pride of the lords great and olden who danced, through the ages, in corridors golden. in all the wide farm-place the person most human. you spoke out so plainly with squealing and capering, with whinnying, snorting, contorting and prancing, as you dodged your pursuers, looking askance, with greek-footed figures, and parthenon paces, o broncho that would not be broken of dancing. the grasshoppers cheered. "keep whirling," they said. the insolent sparrows called from the shed "if men will not laugh, make them wish they were dead." but arch were your thoughts, all malice displacing, though the horse-killers came, with snake-whips advancing. you bantered and cantered away your last chance. and they scourged you, with hell in their speech and their faces, o broncho that would not be broken of dancing. "nobody cares for you," rattled the crows, as you dragged the whole reaper, next day, down the rows. the three mules held back, yet you danced on your toes. you pulled like a racer, and kept the mules chasing. you tangled the harness with bright eyes side-glancing, while the drunk driver bled you--a pole for a lance-- and the giant mules bit at you--keeping their places. o broncho that would not be broken of dancing. in that last afternoon your boyish heart broke. the hot wind came down like a sledge-hammer stroke. the blood-sucking flies to a rare feast awoke. and they searched out your wounds, your death-warrant tracing. and the merciful men, their religion enhancing, stopped the red reaper, to give you a chance. then you died on the prairie, and scorned all disgraces, o broncho that would not be broken of dancing. souvenir of great bend, kansas. the prairie battlements (to edgar lee masters, with great respect.) here upon the prairie is our ancestral hall. agate is the dome, cornelian the wall. ghouls are in the cellar, but fays upon the stairs. and here lived old king silver dreams, always at his prayers. here lived grey queen silver dreams, always singing psalms, and haughty grandma silver dreams, throned with folded palms. here played cousin alice. her soul was best of all. and every fairy loved her, in our ancestral hall. alice has a prairie grave. the king and queen lie low, and aged grandma silver dreams, four tombstones in a row. but still in snow and sunshine stands our ancestral hall. agate is the dome, cornelian the wall. and legends walk about, and proverbs, with proud airs. ghouls are in the cellar, but fays upon the stairs. the flower of mending (to eudora, after i had had certain dire adventures.) when dragon-fly would fix his wings, when snail would patch his house, when moths have marred the overcoat of tender mister mouse, the pretty creatures go with haste to the sunlit blue-grass hills where the flower of mending yields the wax and webs to help their ills. the hour the coats are waxed and webbed they fall into a dream, and when they wake the ragged robes are joined without a seam. my heart is but a dragon-fly, my heart is but a mouse, my heart is but a haughty snail in a little stony house. your hand was honey-comb to heal, your voice a web to bind. you were a mending flower to me to cure my heart and mind. alone in the wind, on the prairie i know a seraph who has golden eyes, and hair of gold, and body like the snow. here in the wind i dream her unbound hair is blowing round me, that desire's sweet glow has touched her pale keen face, and willful mien. and though she steps as one in manner born to tread the forests of fair paradise, dark memory's wood she chooses to adorn. here with bowed head, bashful with half-desire she glides into my yesterday's deep dream, all glowing by the misty ferny cliff beside the far forbidden thundering stream. within my dream i shake with the old flood. i fear its going, ere the spring days go. yet pray the glory may have deathless years, and kiss her hair, and sweet throat like the snow. to lady jane romance was always young. you come today just eight years old with marvellous dark hair. younger than dante found you when you turned his heart into the way that found the heavenly stair. perhaps we must be strangers. i confess my soul this hour is dante's, and your care should be for dolls whose painted hands caress your marvellous dark hair. romance, with moonflower face and morning eyes, and lips whose thread of scarlet prophesies the canticles of a coming king unknown, remember, when you join him on his throne, even me, your far off troubadour, and wear for me some trifling rose beneath your veil, dying a royal death, happy and pale, choked by the passion, the wonder and the snare, the glory and despair that still will haunt and own your marvellous dark hair. how i walked alone in the jungles of heaven oh, once i walked in heaven, all alone upon the sacred cliffs above the sky. god and the angels, and the gleaming saints had journeyed out into the stars to die. they had gone forth to win far citizens, bought at great price, bring happiness for all: by such a harvest make a holier town and put new life within old zion's wall. each chose a far-off planet for his home, speaking of love and mercy, truth and right, envied and cursed, thorn-crowned and scourged in time, each tasted death on his appointed night. then resurrection day from sphere to sphere sped on, with all the powers arisen again, while with them came in clouds recruited hosts of sun-born strangers and of earth-born men. and on that day gray prophet saints went down and poured atoning blood upon the deep, till every warrior of old hell flew free and all the torture fires were laid asleep. and hell's lost company i saw return clear-eyed, with plumes of white, the demons bold climbed with the angels now on jacob's stair, and built a better zion than the old. . . . . . and yet i walked alone on azure cliffs a lifetime long, and loved each untrimmed vine: the rotted harps, the swords of rusted gold, the jungles of all heaven then were mine. oh mesas and throne-mountains that i found! oh strange and shaking thoughts that touched me there, ere i beheld the bright returning wings that came to spoil my secret, silent lair! fifth section the poem games an account of the poem games in the summer of in the parlor of mrs. william vaughn moody; and in the following winter in the chicago little theatre, under the auspices of poetry, a magazine of verse; and in mandel hall, the university of chicago, under the auspices of the senior class,--these poem games were presented. miss eleanor dougherty was the dancer throughout.the entire undertaking developed through the generous coöperation and advice of mrs. william vaughn moody. the writer is exceedingly grateful to mrs. moody and all concerned for making place for the idea. now comes the test of its vitality. can it go on in the absence of its initiators? mr. lewellyn jones, of the chicago evening post, announced the affair as a "rhythmic picnic". mr. maurice browne of the chicago little theatre said miss dougherty was at the beginning of the old greek tragic dance. somewhere between lies the accomplishment. in the congo volume, as is indicated in the margins, the meaning of a few of the verses is aided by chanting. in the poem games the english word is still first in importance, the dancer comes second, the chanter third. the marginal directions of king solomon indicate the spirit in which all the pantomime was developed. miss dougherty designed her own costumes, and worked out her own stage business for king solomon, the potatoes' dance, the king of yellow butterflies and aladdin and the jinn (the congo, page ). in the last, "'i am your slave,' said the jinn" was repeated four times at the end of each stanza. the poem game idea was first indorsed in the wellesley kindergarten, by the children. they improvised pantomime and dance for the potatoes' dance, while the writer chanted it, and while professor hamilton c. macdougall of the wellesley musical department followed on the piano the outline of the jingle. later professor macdougall very kindly wrote down his piano rendition. a study of this transcript helps to confirm the idea that when the cadences of a bit of verse are a little exaggerated, they are tunes, yet of a truth they are tunes which can be but vaguely recorded by notation or expressed by an instrument. the author of this book is now against instrumental music in this type of work. it blurs the english. professor macdougall has in various conversations helped the author toward a poem game theory. he agrees that neither the dancing nor the chanting nor any other thing should be allowed to run away with the original intention of the words. the chanting should not be carried to the point where it seeks to rival conventional musical composition. the dancer should be subordinated to the natural rhythms of english speech, and not attempt to incorporate bodily all the precedents of professional dancing. speaking generally, poetic ideas can be conveyed word by word, faster than musical feeling. the repetitions in the poem games are to keep the singing, the dancing and the ideas at one pace. the repetitions may be varied according to the necessities of the individual dancer. dancing is slower than poetry and faster than music in developing the same thoughts. in folk dances and vaudeville, the verse, music, and dancing are on so simple a basis the time elements can be easily combined. likewise the rhythms and the other elements. miss dougherty is particularly illustrative in her pantomime, but there were many verses she looked over and rejected because they could not be rendered without blurring the original intent. possibly every poem in the world has its dancer somewhere waiting, who can dance but that one poem. certainly those poems would be most successful in games, where the tone color is so close to the meaning that any exaggeration of that color by dancing and chanting only makes the story clearer. the writer would like to see some one try dryden's alexander's feast, or swinburne's atalanta in calydon. certainly in those poems the decorative rhythm and the meaning are absolutely one. with no dancing evolutions, the author of this book has chanted john brown and king solomon for the last two years for many audiences. it took but a minute to teach the people the responses. as a rule they had no advance notice they were going to sing. the versifier sang the parts of the king and queen in turn, and found each audience perfectly willing to be the oxen, the sweethearts, the swans, the sons, the shepherds, etc. a year ago the writer had the honor of chanting for the florence fleming noyes school of dancers. in one short evening they made the first section of the congo into an incantation, the king solomon into an extraordinarily graceful series of tableaus, and the potatoes' dance into a veritable whirlwind. later came the more elaborately prepared chicago experiment. in the king of yellow butterflies and the potatoes' dance miss dougherty occupied the entire eye of the audience and interpreted, while the versifier chanted the poems as a semi-invisible orchestra, by the side of the curtain. for aladdin and for king solomon miss dougherty and the writer divided the stage between them, but the author was little more than the orchestra. the main intention was carried out, which was to combine the work of the dancer with the words of the production and the responses of the audience. the present rhymer has no ambitions as a stage manager. the poem game idea, in its rhythmic picnic stage, is recommended to amateurs, its further development to be on their own initiative. informal parties might divide into groups of dancers and groups of chanters. the whole might be worked out in the spirit in which children play king william was king james' son, london bridge, or as we go round the mulberry bush. and the author of this book would certainly welcome the tragic dance, if miss dougherty will gather a company about her and go forward, using any acceptable poems, new or old. swinburne's atalanta in calydon is perhaps the most literal and rhythmic example of the idea we have in english, though it may not be available when tried out. the main revolution necessary for dancing improvisers, who would go a longer way with the poem game idea, is to shake off the isadora duncan and the russian precedents for a while, and abolish the orchestra and piano, replacing all these with the natural meaning and cadences of english speech. the work would come closer to acting, than dancing is now conceived. the king of yellow butterflies (a poem game.) the king of yellow butterflies, the king of yellow butterflies, the king of yellow butterflies, now orders forth his men. he says "the time is almost here when violets bloom again." adown the road the fickle rout goes flashing proud and bold, adown the road the fickle rout goes flashing proud and bold, adown the road the fickle rout goes flashing proud and bold, they shiver by the shallow pools, they shiver by the shallow pools, they shiver by the shallow pools, and whimper of the cold. they drink and drink. a frail pretense! they love to pose and preen. each pool is but a looking glass, where their sweet wings are seen. each pool is but a looking glass, where their sweet wings are seen. each pool is but a looking glass, where their sweet wings are seen. gentlemen adventurers! gypsies every whit! they live on what they steal. their wings by briars are frayed a bit. their loves are light. they have no house. and if it rains today, they'll climb into your cattle-shed, they'll climb into your cattle-shed, they'll climb into your cattle-shed, and hide them in the hay, and hide them in the hay, and hide them in the hay, and hide them in the hay. the potatoes' dance (a poem game.) i "down cellar," said the cricket, "down cellar," said the cricket, "down cellar," said the cricket, "i saw a ball last night, in honor of a lady, in honor of a lady, in honor of a lady, whose wings were pearly-white. the breath of bitter weather, the breath of bitter weather, the breath of bitter weather, had smashed the cellar pane. we entertained a drift of leaves, we entertained a drift of leaves, we entertained a drift of leaves, and then of snow and rain. but we were dressed for winter, but we were dressed for winter, but we were dressed for winter, and loved to hear it blow in honor of the lady, in honor of the lady, in honor of the lady, who makes potatoes grow, our guest the irish lady, the tiny irish lady, the airy irish lady, who makes potatoes grow. ii "potatoes were the waiters, potatoes were the waiters, potatoes were the waiters, potatoes were the band, potatoes were the dancers kicking up the sand, kicking up the sand, kicking up the sand, potatoes were the dancers kicking up the sand. their legs were old burnt matches, their legs were old burnt matches, their legs were old burnt matches, their arms were just the same. they jigged and whirled and scrambled, jigged and whirled and scrambled, jigged and whirled and scrambled, in honor of the dame, the noble irish lady who makes potatoes dance, the witty irish lady, the saucy irish lady, the laughing irish lady who makes potatoes prance. iii "there was just one sweet potato. he was golden brown and slim. the lady loved his dancing, the lady loved his dancing, the lady loved his dancing, she danced all night with him, she danced all night with him. alas, he wasn't irish. so when she flew away, they threw him in the coal-bin, and there he is today, where they cannot hear his sighs and his weeping for the lady, the glorious irish lady, the beauteous irish lady, who gives potatoes eyes." the booker washington trilogy a memorial to booker t. washington i. simon legree a negro sermon. (to be read in your own variety of negro dialect.) legree's big house was white and green. his cotton-fields were the best to be seen. he had strong horses and opulent cattle, and bloodhounds bold, with chains that would rattle. his garret was full of curious things: books of magic, bags of gold, and rabbits' feet on long twine strings. but he went down to the devil. legree he sported a brass-buttoned coat, a snake-skin necktie, a blood-red shirt. legree he had a beard like a goat, and a thick hairy neck, and eyes like dirt. his puffed-out cheeks were fish-belly white, he had great long teeth, and an appetite. he ate raw meat, 'most every meal, and rolled his eyes till the cat would squeal. his fist was an enormous size to mash poor niggers that told him lies: he was surely a witch-man in disguise. but he went down to the devil. he wore hip-boots, and would wade all day to capture his slaves that had fled away. but he went down to the devil. he beat poor uncle tom to death who prayed for legree with his last breath. then uncle tom to eva flew, to the high sanctoriums bright and new; and simon legree stared up beneath, and cracked his heels, and ground his teeth: and went down to the devil. he crossed the yard in the storm and gloom; he went into his grand front room. he said, "i killed him, and i don't care." he kicked a hound, he gave a swear; he tightened his belt, he took a lamp, went down cellar to the webs and damp. there in the middle of the mouldy floor he heaved up a slab, he found a door-- and went down to the devil. his lamp blew out, but his eyes burned bright. simon legree stepped down all night-- down, down to the devil. simon legree he reached the place, he saw one half of the human race, he saw the devil on a wide green throne, gnawing the meat from a big ham-bone, and he said to mister devil: "i see that you have much to eat-- a red ham-bone is surely sweet. i see that you have lion's feet; i see your frame is fat and fine, i see you drink your poison wine-- blood and burning turpentine." and the devil said to simon legree: "i like your style, so wicked and free. come sit and share my throne with me, and let us bark and revel." and there they sit and gnash their teeth, and each one wears a hop-vine wreath. they are matching pennies and shooting craps, they are playing poker and taking naps. and old legree is fat and fine: he eats the fire, he drinks the wine-- blood and burning turpentine-- down, down with the devil; down, down with the devil; down, down with the devil. ii. john brown (to be sung by a leader and chorus, the leader singing the body of the poem, while the chorus interrupts with the question.) i've been to palestine. what did you see in palestine? i saw the ark of noah-- it was made of pitch and pine. i saw old father noah asleep beneath his vine. i saw shem, ham and japhet standing in a line. i saw the tower of babel in the gorgeous sunrise shine-- by a weeping willow tree beside the dead sea. i've been to palestine. what did you see in palestine? i saw abominations and gadarene swine. i saw the sinful canaanites upon the shewbread dine, and spoil the temple vessels and drink the temple wine. i saw lot's wife, a pillar of salt standing in the brine-- by a weeping willow tree beside the dead sea. i've been to palestine. what did you see in palestine? cedars on mount lebanon, gold in ophir's mine, and a wicked generation seeking for a sign and baal's howling worshippers their god with leaves entwine. and ... i saw the war-horse ramping and shake his forelock fine-- by a weeping willow tree beside the dead sea. i've been to palestine. what did you see in palestine? old john brown. old john brown. i saw his gracious wife dressed in a homespun gown. i saw his seven sons before his feet bow down. and he marched with his seven sons, his wagons and goods and guns, to his campfire by the sea, by the waves of galilee. i've been to palestine. what did you see in palestine? i saw the harp and psalt'ry played for old john brown. i heard the ram's horn blow, blow for old john brown. i saw the bulls of bashan-- they cheered for old john brown. i saw the big behemoth-- he cheered for old john brown. i saw the big leviathan-- he cheered for old john brown. i saw the angel gabriel great power to him assign. i saw him fight the canaanites and set god's israel free. i saw him when the war was done in his rustic chair recline-- by his campfire by the sea, by the waves of galilee. i've been to palestine. what did you see in palestine? old john brown. old john brown. and there he sits to judge the world. his hunting-dogs at his feet are curled. his eyes half-closed, but john brown sees the ends of the earth, the day of doom. and his shot-gun lies across his knees-- old john brown, old john brown. iii. king solomon and the queen of sheba (a poem game.) "and when the queen of sheba heard of the fame of solomon, ... she came to prove him with hard questions." <the men's leader rises as he sees the queen unveiling and approaching a position that gives her half of the stage.> men's leader: the queen of sheba came to see king solomon. <he bows three times.> i was king solomon, i was king solomon, i was king solomon. <she bows three times.> women's leader: i was the queen, i was the queen, i was the queen. both leaders: we will be king and queen, <they stand together stretching their hands over the land.> reigning on mountains green, happy and free for ten thousand years. <they stagger forward as though carrying a yoke together.> both leaders: king solomon he had four hundred oxen. congregation: we were the oxen. <here king and queen pause at the footlights.> both leaders: you shall feel goads no more. <they walk backward, throwing off the yoke and rejoicing.> walk dreadful roads no more, free from your loads for ten thousand years. <the men's leader goes forward, the women's leader dances round him.> both leaders: king solomon he had four hundred sweethearts. <here he pauses at the footlights.> congregation: we were the sweethearts. <he walks backward. both clap their hands to the measure.> both leaders: you shall dance round again, you shall dance round again, cymbals shall sound again, cymbals shall sound again, <the queen appears to gather wildflowers.> wildflowers be found for ten thousand years, wildflowers be found for ten thousand years. <he continues to command the congregation, the woman to dance. he goes forward to the footlights.> both leaders: and every sweetheart had four hundred swans. congregation: we were the swans. <the king walks backward.> both leaders: you shall spread wings again, you shall spread wings again, <here a special dance, by the queen: swans flying in circles.> fly in soft rings again, fly in soft rings again, swim by cool springs for ten thousand years, swim by cool springs, for ten thousand years. <the refrain "king solomon" may be intoned by the men's leader whenever it is needed to enable the women's leader to get to her starting point. all the refrains may be likewise used.> men's leader: king solomon, king solomon. women's leader: the queen of sheba asked him like a lady, <they bow to each other--then give a pantomime indicating a great rose garden.> bowing most politely: "what makes the roses bloom over the mossy tomb, driving away the gloom ten thousand years?" men's leader: king solomon made answer to the lady, <they bow and confer. the queen reserved, but taking cognizance. the king wooing with ornate gestures of respect, and courtly animation.> bowing most politely: "they bloom forever thinking of your beauty, your step so queenly and your eyes so lovely. these keep the roses fair, young and without a care, making so sweet the air, ten thousand years." <the two, with a manner almost a cake walk, go forward.> both leaders: king solomon he had four hundred sons. <on this line, king and queen pause before the footlights.> congregation: we were the sons. <pantomime of crowning the audience.> both leaders: crowned by the throngs again, <on this line they walk backward, playing great imaginary harps.> you shall make songs again, singing along for ten thousand years. <they go forward in a pony gallop, then stand pawing.> both leaders: he gave each son four hundred prancing ponies. congregation: we were the ponies. <they nod their heads, starting to walk backward.> both leaders: you shall eat hay again, <a pony dance by both, in circles.> in forests play again, rampage and neigh for ten thousand years. men's leader: king solomon he asked the queen of sheba, <they bow to each other, standing so that each one commands half of the stage.> bowing most politely: "what makes the oak-tree grow hardy in sun and snow, never by wind brought low ten thousand years?" women's leader: the queen of sheba answered like a lady, <they bow to each other, again, with pantomime indicating a forest.> bowing most politely: "it blooms forever thinking of your wisdom, your brave heart and the way you rule your kingdom. these keep the oak secure, weaving its leafy lure, dreaming by fountains pure ten thousand years." <they go to the footlights with a sailor's lurch and hitch.> both leaders: the queen of sheba had four hundred sailors. <the king and queen pause.> congregation: we were the sailors. both leaders: you shall bring spice and ore <they walk backward with slow long-armed gestures indicating the entire horizon line.> over the ocean's floor, shipmates once more, for ten thousand years. women's leader: the queen of sheba asked him like a lady, <they bow to each other, the queen indicating the depths of the sea.> bowing most politely: "why is the sea so deep, what secret does it keep while tides a-roaring leap ten thousand years?" men's leader: king solomon made answer to the lady, <they bow to each other, then confer; the queen reserved, but taking cognizance, the king wooing with ornate gestures of respect and courtly admiration.> bowing most politely: "my love for you is like the stormy ocean-- too deep to understand, bending to your command, bringing your ships to land ten thousand years." king solomon, king solomon. <they go to the footlights with the greatest possible strut.> both leaders: king solomon he had four hundred chieftains. congregation: we were the chieftains. <the leaders stand with arms proudly folded.> both leaders: you shall be proud again, <they walk backward haughtily, laughing on the last lines.> dazzle the crowd again, laughing aloud for ten thousand years. <from here on the whole production to be much more solemn, elevated, religious.> <the leaders go forward to the footlights carrying imaginary torches.> both leaders: king solomon he had four hundred shepherds. <the man and woman pause at the footlights.> congregation: we were the shepherds. <they wander over the stage as though looking for lost lambs, with torches held high.> both leaders: you shall have torches bright, watching the folds by night, guarding the lambs aright, ten thousand years. men's leader: king solomon he asked the queen of sheba, <the king kneels, and indicates the entire sky with one long slow gesture.> bowing most politely: "why are the stars so high, there in the velvet sky, rolling in rivers by, ten thousand years?" women's leader: the queen of sheba answered like a lady, <the queen kneels opposite the king, and gives the same gesture as she answers.> bowing most politely: "they're singing of your kingdom to the angels, they guide your chariot with their lamps and candles, therefore they burn so far-- so you can drive your car up where the prophets are, ten thousand years." men's leader: king solomon, king solomon. both leaders: king solomon he kept the sabbath holy. <the two stand, commanding the audience.> and spoke with tongues in prophet words so mighty <the man and woman stamp and whirl with great noise and solemnity.> we stamped and whirled and wept and shouted:-- congregation rises and joins the song: .... "glory." we were his people. <on these two lines, man and woman stamp and whirl again, gravely, magnificently.> both leaders: you shall be wild and gay, green trees shall deck your way, <on these two lines they kneel, commanding the audience.> sunday be every day, ten thousand years. <now they rise and bow to each other and the audience, maintaining a certain intention of benediction.> king solomon, king solomon. how samson bore away the gates of gaza (a negro sermon.) once, in a night as black as ink, she drove him out when he would not drink. round the house there were men in wait asleep in rows by the gaza gate. but the holy spirit was in this man. like a gentle wind he crept and ran. ("it is midnight," said the big town clock.) he lifted the gates up, post and lock. the hole in the wall was high and wide when he bore away old gaza's pride into the deep of the night:-- the bold jack johnson israelite,-- samson-- the judge, the nazarite. the air was black, like the smoke of a dragon. samson's heart was as big as a wagon. he sang like a shining golden fountain. he sweated up to the top of the mountain. he threw down the gates with a noise like judgment. and the quails all ran with the big arousement. but he wept--"i must not love tough queens, and spend on them my hard earned means. i told that girl i would drink no more. therefore she drove me from her door. oh sorrow! sorrow! i cannot hide. oh lord look down from your chariot side. you made me judge, and i am not wise. i am weak as a sheep for all my size." let samson be coming into your mind. the moon shone out, the stars were gay. he saw the foxes run and play. he rent his garments, he rolled around in deep repentance on the ground. then he felt a honey in his soul. grace abounding made him whole. then he saw the lord in a chariot blue. the gorgeous stallions whinnied and flew. the iron wheels hummed an old hymn-tune and crunched in thunder over the moon. and samson shouted to the sky: "my lord, my lord is riding high." like a steed, he pawed the gates with his hoof. he rattled the gates like rocks on the roof, and danced in the night on the mountain-top, danced in the deep of the night: the judge, the holy nazarite, whom ropes and chains could never bind. let samson be coming into your mind. whirling his arms, like a top he sped. his long black hair flew round his head like an outstretched net of silky cord, like a wheel of the chariot of the lord. let samson be coming into your mind. samson saw the sun anew. he left the gates in the grass and dew. he went to a county-seat a-nigh. found a harlot proud and high: philistine that no man could tame-- delilah was her lady-name. oh sorrow, sorrow, she was too wise. she cut off his hair, she put out his eyes. let samson be coming into your mind. ---------------------------------------------- | the following pages contain advertisements | | of other books by the same author | | which appeared in the copy. | ---------------------------------------------- by the same author a handy guide for beggars new edition. cloth, mo, $ . "the handy guide for beggars" is an introduction to all vachel lindsay's work. it gives his first adventures afoot. he walked through florida, georgia, north carolina, tennessee, and kentucky, in the spring of . he walked through new jersey, pennsylvania, and on to hiram, ohio, in the spring of . he carried on these trips his poems: "the tree of laughing bells", "the heroes of time", etc. he recited them in exchange for food and lodging. he left copies for those who appeared interested. the book is a record of these journeys, and of many pleasing discoveries about american democracy. this book serves to introduce the next, "adventures while preaching the gospel of beauty". in the spring and summer of , mr. lindsay walked from springfield, illinois, west to colorado, and into new mexico. he was much more experienced in the road. he carried "rhymes to be traded for bread", "the village improvement parade", etc. as is indicated in the title, he wrestled with a theory of american aesthetics. "christmas, ", the third book in the series, appeared, applying the "gospel of beauty to the photoplay". the ideas of art and democracy that develop in the first two books are used as the basic principles in "the art of the moving picture". those who desire a close view of the lindsay idea will do well to read the three works in the order named. further particulars in the pages following. the congo and other poems with a preface by harriet monroe, editor of the 'poetry magazine'. cloth, mo, $ . ; leather, $ . in the readings which vachel lindsay has given for colleges, universities, etc., throughout the country, he has won the approbation of the critics and of his audiences in general for the new verse-form which he is employing, as well as the manner of his chanting and singing, which is peculiarly his own. he carries in memory all the poems in his books, and recites the program made out for him; the wonderful effect of sound produced by his lines, their relation to the idea which the author seeks to convey, and their marvelous lyrical quality are quite beyond the ordinary, and suggest new possibilities and new meanings in poetry. it is his main object to give his already established friends a deeper sense of the musical intention of his pieces. the book contains the much discussed "war poem", "abraham lincoln walks at midnight"; it contains among its familiar pieces: "the santa fe trail", "the firemen's ball", "the dirge for a righteous kitten", "the griffin's egg", "the spice tree", "blanche sweet", "mary pickford", "the soul of the city", etc. mr. lindsay received the levinson prize for the best poem contributed to 'poetry', a magazine of verse, (chicago) for . "we do not know a young man of any more promise than mr. vachel lindsay for the task which he seems to have set himself."--'the dial'. general william booth enters into heaven and other poems price, $ . ; leather, $ . this book contains among other verses: "on reading omar khayyam during an anti-saloon campaign in illinois"; "the wizard wind"; "the eagle forgotten", a memorial to john p. altgeld; "the knight in disguise", a memorial to o. henry; "the rose and the lotus"; "michaelangelo"; "titian"; "what the hyena said"; "what grandpa mouse said"; "a net to snare the moonlight"; "springfield magical"; "the proud farmer"; "the illinois village"; "the building of springfield". -------- comments on the title poem: "this poem, at once so glorious, so touching and poignant in its conception and expression ... is perhaps the most remarkable poem of a decade--one that defies imitation."--'review of reviews'. "a sweeping and penetrating vision that works with a naive charm.... no american poet of to-day is more a people's poet."--'boston transcript'. "one could hardly overpraise 'general booth'."--'new york times'. "something new in verse, spontaneous, passionate, unmindful of conventions in form and theme."--'the living age'. adventures while preaching the gospel of beauty price, $ . this is a series of happening afoot while reciting at back-doors in the west, and includes some experiences while harvesting in kansas. it includes several proclamations which apply the gospel of beauty to agricultural conditions. there are, among other rhymed interludes: "the shield of faith", "the flute of the lonely", "the rose of midnight", "kansas", "the kallyope yell". something to read vachel lindsay took a walk from his home in springfield, ill., over the prairies to new mexico. he was in kansas in wheat-harvest time and he worked as a farmhand, and he tells all about that. he tells about his walks and the people he met in a little book, "adventures while preaching the gospel of beauty". for the conditions of his tramps were that he should keep away from cities, money, baggage, and pay his way by reciting his own poems. and he did it. people liked his pieces, and tramp farmhands with rough necks and rougher hands left off singing smutty limericks and took to "atalanta in calydon" apparently because they preferred it. of motor cars, which gave him a lift, he says: "i still maintain that the auto is a carnal institution, to be shunned by the truly spiritual, but there are times when i, for one, get tired of being spiritual." his story of the "five little children eating mush" (that was one night in colorado, and he recited to them while they ate supper) has more beauty and tenderness and jolly tears than all the expensive sob stuff theatrical managers ever dreamed of. mr. lindsay doesn't need to write verse to be a poet. his prose is poetry--poetry straight from the soil, of america that is, and of a nobler america that is to be. you cannot afford--both for your entertainment and for the real idea that this young man has (of which we have said nothing)--to miss this book.--editorial from 'collier's weekly'. the art of the moving picture price, $ . an effort to apply the gospel of beauty to a new art. the first section has an outline which is proposed as a basis for photoplay criticism in america; chapters on: "the photoplay of action", "the intimate photoplay", "the picture of fairy splendor", "the picture of crowd splendor", "the picture of patriotic splendor", "the picture of religious splendor", "sculpture in motion", "painting in motion", "furniture", "trappings and inventions in motion", "architecture in motion", "thirty differences between the photoplays and the stage", "hieroglyphics". the second section is avowedly more discursive, being more personal speculations and afterthoughts, not brought forward so dogmatically; chapters on: "the orchestra conversation and the censorship", "the substitute for the saloon", "california and america", "progress and endowment", "architects as crusaders", "on coming forth by day", "the prophet wizard", "the acceptable year of the lord". for late reviews of mr. lindsay and his contemporaries read: 'the new republic': articles by randolph s. bourne, december , , on the "adventures while preaching"; and francis hackett, december , , on "the art of the moving picture". 'the dial': unsigned article by lucien carey, october , , on "the congo", etc. 'the yale review': article by h. m. luquiens, july, , on "the art of the moving picture". general articles on the poetry situation 'the century magazine': "america's golden age in poetry", march, . 'harper's monthly magazine': "the easy chair", william dean howells, september, . 'the craftsman': "has america a national poetry?" amy lowell, july, . [end of original text.] biographical note: nicholas vachel lindsay ( - ): (vachel is pronounced vay-chul, that is, it rhymes with 'rachel'). "the eagle that is forgotten" and "the congo" are two of his best-known poems, and appear in his first two volumes of verse, "general william booth enters into heaven" ( ) and "the congo" ( ). as a sidenote, he became close friends with the poet sara teasdale and his third volume of verse, "the chinese nightingale" ( ), is dedicated to her. in turn, she wrote a memorial verse for him after he committed suicide in . ---- from an anthology of verse by jessie b. rittenhouse ( , ): "lindsay, vachel. born november , . educated at hiram college, ohio. he took up the study of art and studied at the art institute, chicago, - and at the new york school of art, - . for a time after his technical study, he lectured upon art in its practical relation to the community, and returning to his home in springfield, illinois, issued what one might term his manifesto in the shape of "the village magazine", divided about equally between prose articles, pertaining to beautifying his native city, and poems, illustrated by his own drawings. soon after this, mr. lindsay, taking as scrip for the journey, "rhymes to be traded for bread", made a pilgrimage on foot through several western states going as far afield as new mexico. the story of this journey is given in his volume, "adventures while preaching the gospel of beauty". mr. lindsay first attracted attention in poetry by "general william booth enters into heaven", a poem which became the title of his first volume, in . his second volume was "the congo", published in . he is attempting to restore to poetry its early appeal as a spoken art, and his later work differs greatly from the selections contained in this anthology." the great war in verse and prose selected and edited by j. e. wetherell, b.a. with an introduction by hon. h. j. cody, d.d., ll.d. minister of education for the province of ontario [illustration] recommended for use in schools printed by order of the legislative assembly of ontario toronto printed and published by a. t. wilgress, printer to the king's most excellent majesty additional copies of this book may be obtained from the department of education, parliament buildings, toronto, for twenty cents each. copyright, canada, , by the minister of education for ontario contents page "for all we have and are" kipling, rudyard instructions to the british soldier kitchener, lord pro patria seaman, sir owen statement in house of lords kitchener, lord between midnight and morning seaman, sir owen vigil, the newbolt, sir henry hour, the fagan, james bernard off heligoland middleton, j. e. call to arms, a asquith, rt. hon. h. h. australia to england strong, archibald extract from speech churchill, rt. hon. winston what of the fight? burton, claude e. c. h. man of the marne, the carman, bliss telegram from king albert to king george india to england nizamat jung "a scrap of paper" lloyd george, rt. hon. david tribute, the begbie, harold from speech at the guildhall kitchener, lord kaiser, the holland, norah from debate on the address asquith, rt. hon. h. h. canadian, the middleton, j. e. to belgium in exile seaman, sir owen chant of love for england, a cone, helen gray "canadians--canadians--that's all!" peat, private harold r. from "a canadian twilight" trotter, bernard freeman we were men of the furrow stead, robert j. c. devon men haselden, percy chalk and flint "punch" grave in flanders, a scott, frederick george into battle grenfell, julian christ in flanders l. w. blind man and his son, the cammaerts, emile extract from "the war and the soul" campbell, rev. r. j. guards came through, the doyle, sir arthur conan red poppies in the corn galbraith, w. campbell extract from lecture "how we stand now" murray, gilbert lusitania begbie, harold white ships and the red, the kilmer, joyce from speech at the guildhall borden, rt. hon. sir robert red cross nurse, the carman, bliss finley, john seaman, sir owen edith cavell oxenham, john soldier, the brooke, rupert from "the meaning of war" bergson, henri louis to our dead gosse, edmund dead, the brooke, rupert in a belgian garden call, f. o. "that have no doubts" "klaxon" on the rue du bois scott, frederick george from "fear god and take your own part" roosevelt, theodore to the memory of field-marshal earl kitchener seaman, sir owen kitchener of khartoum stead, robert j. c. kitchener's march burr, amelia josephine crown of empire, the scott, frederick george "i have a rendezvous with death" seeger, alan in memoriam cone, helen gray guns of verdun chalmers, patrick r. verdun lloyd george, rt. hon. david for the fallen binyon, laurence in flanders fields mccrae, john anxious dead, the mccrae, john from speech on becoming premier lloyd george, rt. hon. david subalterns huxley, mildred searchlights, the noyes, alfred the sea is his vernède, r. e. volunteer asquith, herbert from message to congress wilson, woodrow from "vimy ridge" gordon, alfred silent toast, the scott, frederick george prospice sullivan, alan outer guard, the oxenham, john small craft fox-smith, c. extract from speech in toronto balfour, rt. hon. arthur j. spires of oxford, the letts, w. m. extract from speech in ottawa viviani, monsieur name of france, the van dyke, henry extract from speech in montreal joffre, marshal for the men at the front oxenham, john what has britain done? hodgins, rev. f. b. extract from speech on third anniversary of declaration of war lloyd george, rt. hon. david what has england done? owens, vilda sauvage in the morning "klaxon" order to the canadian army corps currie, sir arthur w. soul of a nation, the seaman, sir owen living line, the begbie, harold historic order, an haig, field-marshal sir douglas guns in sussex, the doyle, sir arthur conan to a soldier in hospital letts, w. m. speech delivered before august offensive, currie, sir arthur w. air-men, the holland, norah extracts from speech taft, wm. howard message to the navy king george sky signs "klaxon" order to the canadians after the capture of mons currie, sir arthur w. tribute huxley, mildred on the navy churchill, rt. hon. winston debt unpayable, the bourdillon, f. w. speech in paris king george britain's day pershing, general j. j. gifts from the dead lulham, p. habberton woman's toll, the duffin, ruth pilgrims service, robert w. epitaphs for the slain edmonds, j. m. extract from official report haig, field-marshal sir douglas speech at opening of paris conference poincaré, raymond national anthem the selections contained in this book make up a sequence which records the history of the great war from the stirring days of august, , to the opening of the peace conference in january, . these selections of verse and prose are arranged, not necessarily in chronological order, but still with a view to indicate approximately the historic succession of great events and the varying moods of those authors and speakers who have been the voices of the allied nations during the fifty-two months of warfare. although this anthology has been prepared for the use of schools, the plan of selection and arrangement has made it impracticable to grade the poems and extracts to suit the capacities of pupils of different ages. the judgment of the teacher must determine what is suitable for one grade and what for another. many of the poems and some of the prose extracts will be found too difficult for young pupils. due acknowledgments have been made throughout the book to the authors and publishers who have generously made it possible to bring together so valuable a collection of the literature of the war. the meed of gratitude due to all the writers represented here can never be adequately paid. special mention is made of nizamat jung, native judge of the high court of hyderabad, who has given expression to the wonderful loyalty of the races of teeming india, which have poured out treasure and blood without stint in defence of their emperor-king. _a sufficient number of copies of this book should be kept in all school libraries; and it is suggested that the poems and prose extracts should be used in the reading classes, as often as is expedient, instead of the authorized readers._ introduction the boys and girls of this generation have had the opportunity and responsibility of living through great times. in days to come they will look back with a feeling akin to awe on the hours when, in sir owen seaman's words, they "saw the powers of darkness put to flight" and "saw the morning break." the future of our country will be determined by the youth of to-day. problems of the greatest complexity and perplexity await solution, and can be solved only by honesty, intelligence, sympathy, breadth of outlook, sacrificial service, and the fear of god. the teachers and pupils now in our schools are in the midst of a great crisis, and will need greatness of soul that they may rightly face it. that they will respond nobly to the challenge of the age, i have not the shadow of a doubt. never was there a more timely occasion for the teaching of an ardent and enlightened patriotism. those who understand the issues at stake in the great war, the genius of the world-wide british commonwealth, the national consciousness of our own fair canada, the lessons taught us by the mighty struggle, will be well-instructed citizens of this dominion, equipped by knowledge and by spirit to serve their country, their empire, and the world. the selections of verse and prose in this book set forth the varying and successive phases of the war, and seek to remind, to inform, and to inspire. the teachers will use them as vehicles of moral and patriotic instruction. the pupils will keep them forever in their hearts and minds. surely if we wish to introduce any good element into the life of a nation, it can best be introduced through its schools and colleges. it is well to recall the issues that have been decided; for in no struggle have greater hung in the balance. the crime perpetrated against the belgians, aggravated by its accompanying treachery and brutality and immediately followed by unparalleled sanguinary atrocity, revealed as by a lurid flash the nature and the greatness of the menace to which christian civilization was exposed. prussian militarism, in this belated, almost incredible but all too terrible, outbreak of pagan barbarism, threatened to overthrow all the best elements in international life. ( ) the very idea of a commonwealth of europe, the growing sense of solidarity, the recognition of general interests, the existence of international institutions such as the hague tribunal--were seen to be doomed, if germany should come forth a victor. ( ) the law of international good faith,--the absolutely indispensable foundation for any international fabric,--would be abolished, if a single criminal state could defy it with impunity, and could profitably disregard treaties, oaths, geneva conventions, hague declarations, if these interfered with its own selfish advantage. ( ) the fate of the smaller states of europe, with their own special contributions to civilization, would be sealed, if the arrogant _kultur_ of germany were forced upon a subjugated world. ( ) the principle of nationality, vital to a stable and organic modern state, would be crushed or remain as a source of constant unrest in austro-hungary, in the balkan peninsula, and in other disturbed parts of europe. ( ) democracy, with all it implies of self-government, freedom from external compulsion, peaceful development, and civic progress, was recognized as having come to deathgrips with its ancient foe--militaristic autocracy. ( ) the future development of all the free states of the world, the entente powers and the neutrals, was threatened by the german blow for world-power. the very existence of the british empire as a free, prosperous, and progressive commonwealth, was imperilled. the freedom of our own dominion was assailed. ( ) behind all political and material interests, profound moral issues were at stake. the struggle was against the "armed doctrine,"--that diabolical perversion of all sound political thinking,--that the essence of the state is might, that the state is above all moral restraints, that war is its normal and noblest activity, and that war may be waged with pitiless ferocity and scientific frightfulness. all the forces that opposed freedom, self-government, and progress gathered around the despotisms of central europe. in they made their bid for world dominion. never before had so much been at stake; perhaps never again will such issues be put to the test. thank god, the judgment has been given; the righteous government of the world has been vindicated; right has triumphed over might. gradually the real nature of the struggle was recognized by the free peoples of the world. their sons felt they were summoned to a new crusade. they went forth as champions of democracy against autocracy, of freedom against tyranny, of mercy against ruthlessness, of justice against iniquity, of decency against shamefulness, of good faith against perfidy, of right against might, of peace against war, of humane and christian civilization against savage and pagan barbarism. all the world was presently forced to give a moral and political judgment on the issues. our own glorious british empire, with its traditions of justice, honour, and liberty, soon became the soul and centre of the allied resistance. by her fleet, by her armies, by her aircraft, by her financing, by her supplies, by her indomitable spirit--she endured and smote the foe. we pay grateful tribute to the achievements of all our allies in the common cause; but we do not forget britain's mighty burden. among the british armies, no troops have won higher distinction than the canadian corps, under their great leader, sir arthur currie. they were ranked among the most formidable fighting units on the western front, and as an offensive spear-head of shock troops they were unsurpassed. they fought in almost every critical engagement of the war. they "saved the day" at the second battle of ypres, in face of the hideous emission of poison gas; they fought in the long-drawn agony of the somme; they won vimy ridge, hill , and passchendaele in ; they were in the thickest of the battle in the last "hundred days", as they fought triumphantly at amiens, arras, cambrai, valenciennes, and mons. the last blow struck before the armistice was signed, was struck by the canadians, who entered mons early on the morning of the eleventh of november. the course of the war for the british armies on the western front was _from mons_, where the "old contemptibles" were flung into the furnace of the fight in august, , _to mons_, won by our men from overseas in november, . it was "a long, long way", a way stained by blood and sweat, but at last the grim journey ended. canada has made a worthy contribution to world-freedom and world-brotherhood. canada is dearer to us than ever, because it has been purchased anew at a great cost of precious blood. those who have fallen are worthy of everlasting remembrance. they will be commemorated by public monuments, by tablets of bronze, or brass or marble in public buildings, by "storied windows richly dight". they deserve this. but, before god, they deserve at our hands a better monument--even the monument of a purer, nobler canada, more intelligent, more united, more sober, more kindly, more god-fearing. dying for canada, they have recreated canada. let us be worthy of those whose deaths have kept us free. through the experiences of these recent years, we have learned the possibilities of heroism latent in every man. we need not hesitate to make high demands on our citizens for worthy ends. we have regained a right sense of the relative value of things, and we know that the first things are those which are ideal, spiritual, eternal. we know that persons are of infinitely more value than things; that the development and enrichment of personality mark the only true advance in civilization; and that the basis of national progress is the health, efficiency, and spiritual well-being of the people. we have realized the power of organized effort. we shall not forget the bonds of sympathy which common sorrows have created. we have gained a wider outlook on the world and a truer conception of the meaning of empire. we understand more clearly the national problems that lie before us in this new era. a better canada will not come of itself. it must be planned for and striven for. but it will come, if there is kindled in the souls of our citizens the same flame of sacrifice and service which burned so brightly in the hearts of canada's citizen-soldiers of the great war. h. j. cody department of education, toronto, april , the great war in verse and prose "for all we have and are" for all we have and are, for all our children's fate, stand up and meet the war. the hun is at the gate! our world has passed away in wantonness o'erthrown. there is nothing left to-day but steel and fire and stone. though all we knew depart, the old commandments stand: "in courage keep your heart, in strength lift up your hand." once more we hear the word that sickened earth of old: "no law except the sword unsheathed and uncontrolled," once more it knits mankind, once more the nations go to meet and break and bind a crazed and driven foe. comfort, content, delight-- the ages' slow-bought gain-- they shrivelled in a night. only ourselves remain to face the naked days in silent fortitude, through perils and dismays renewed and re-renewed. though all we made depart, the old commandments stand: "in patience keep your heart, in strength lift up your hand." no easy hopes or lies shall bring us to our goal, but iron sacrifice of body, will, and soul. there is but one task for all-- for each one life to give. who stands if freedom fall? who dies if england live? rudyard kipling _by permission of the author_ lord kitchener's instructions to the british soldier (_august, _) you are ordered abroad as a soldier of the king to help our french comrades against the invasion of a common enemy. you have to perform a task which will need your courage, your energy, your patience. remember that the honour of the british army depends on your individual conduct. it will be your duty, not only to set an example of discipline and perfect steadiness under fire, but also to maintain the most friendly relations with those whom you are helping in this struggle. the operations in which you are engaged will, for the most part, take place in a friendly country, and you can do your own country no better service than in showing yourself in france and belgium in the true character of a british soldier. be invariably courteous, considerate, and kind. never do anything likely to injure or destroy property, and always look upon looting as a disgraceful act. you are sure to meet with a welcome and to be trusted; your conduct must justify that welcome and that trust. your duty cannot be done unless your health is sound. so keep constantly on your guard against any excesses. in this new experience you may find temptations both in wine and women. you must entirely resist both temptations, and, while treating all women with perfect courtesy, you should avoid any intimacy. do your duty bravely. fear god. honour the king. kitchener, _field-marshal_ pro patria england, in this great fight to which you go because, where honour calls you, go you must, be glad, whatever comes, at least to know you have your quarrel just. peace was your care; before the nations' bar her cause you pleaded and her ends you sought; but not for her sake, being what you are, could you be bribed or bought. others may spurn the pledge of land to land, may with the brute sword stain a gallant past; but by the seal to which _you_ set your hand, thank god, you still stand fast! forth, then, to front that peril of the deep with smiling lips and in your eyes the light, steadfast and confident, of those who keep their storied scutcheon bright. and we, whose burden is to watch and wait-- high-hearted ever, strong in faith and prayer, we ask what offering we may consecrate, what humble service share? to steel our souls against the lust of ease; to find our welfare in the general good; to hold together, merging all degrees in one wide brotherhood;-- to teach that he who saves himself is lost; to bear in silence though our hearts may bleed; to spend ourselves, and never count the cost, for others' greater need;-- to go our quiet ways, subdued and sane; to hush all vulgar clamour of the street; with level calm to face alike the strain of triumph or defeat;-- this be our part, for so we serve you best, so best confirm their prowess and their pride, your warrior sons, to whom in this high test our fortunes we confide. sir owen seaman _reprinted by permission of london "punch"_ statement by lord kitchener (_house of lords, august , _) my lords, as this is the first time i have had the honour of addressing your lordships, i must ask for the indulgence of the house. in the first place, i desire to make a personal statement. noble lords on both sides of the house doubtless know that while associating myself in the fullest degree for the prosecution of the war with my colleagues in his majesty's government, my position on this bench does not in any way imply that i belong to any political party, for, as a soldier, i have no politics. another point is that my occupation of the post of secretary of state for war is a temporary one. the terms of my service are the same as those under which some of the finest portions of our manhood, now so willingly stepping forward to join the colours, are engaging--that is to say, for the war, or, if it lasts longer than three years, then for three years. it has been asked why this latter limit has been fixed. it is because that should this disastrous war be prolonged--and no one can foretell with any certainty its duration--then after three years' war there will be others fresh and fully prepared to take our places and see this matter through. the very serious conflict in which we are now engaged on the continent has been none of our seeking. it will undoubtedly strain the resources of our empire and entail considerable sacrifices on our people. these will be willingly borne for our honour and for the preservation of our position in the world; and they will be shared by our dominions beyond the seas, now sending contingents and assistance of every kind to help the mother country in this struggle. if i am unable, owing to military considerations for the best interests of the allied armies in the field, to speak with much detail on the present situation of our army on the continent, i am sure your lordships will pardon me for the necessary restraint which is imposed upon me. the expeditionary force has taken the field on the french north-west frontier, and advanced to the neighbourhood of mons in belgium. our troops have already been for thirty-six hours in contact with a superior force of german invaders. during that time they have maintained the traditions of british soldiers, and have behaved with the utmost gallantry. between midnight and morning you that have faith to look with fearless eyes beyond the tragedy of a world at strife, and trust that out of night and death shall rise the dawn of ampler life; rejoice, whatever anguish rend your heart, that god has given you, for a priceless dower, to live in these great times and have your part in freedom's crowning hour; that you may tell your sons who see the light high in the heavens, their heritage to take:-- "i saw the powers of darkness put to flight! i saw the morning break!" sir owen seaman _by permission of the author_ the vigil (this poem was first published before , but during the great war it was very widely quoted, the refrain voicing the spirit of england.) england! where the sacred flame burns before the inmost shrine, where the lips that love thy name consecrate their hopes and thine, where the banners of thy dead weave their shadows overhead, watch beside thine arms to-night, pray that god defend the right. think that when to-morrow comes war shall claim command of all, thou must hear the roll of drums, thou must hear the trumpet's call. now before they silence ruth, commune with the voice of truth; england! on thy knees to-night pray that god defend the right. hast thou counted up the cost, what to foeman, what to friend? glory sought is honour lost, how should this be knighthood's end? know'st thou what is hatred's meed? what the surest gain of greed? england! wilt thou dare to-night pray that god defend the right? single-hearted, unafraid, hither all thy heroes came, on this altar's steps were laid gordon's life and outram's fame. england! if thy will be yet by their great example set, here beside thine arms to-night pray that god defend the right. so shalt thou when morning comes rise to conquer or to fall, joyful hear the rolling drums, joyful hear the trumpets call. then let memory tell thy heart; "_england! what thou wert, thou art!_" gird thee with thine ancient might, forth! and god defend the right! sir henry newbolt _by permission of the author_ the hour we've shut the gates by dover straits, and north, where the tides run free, cheek by jowl, our watchdogs prowl, gray hulks in a grayer sea. and the prayer that england prays to-night-- o lord of our destiny!-- as the foam of our plunging prows, is white; we have stood for peace, and we war for right. god give us victory! now slack, now strung, from the mainmast flung, the flag throbs fast in the breeze; strained o'er the foam, like the hearts at home that beat for their sons on the seas. for mothers and wives are praying to-night-- o lord of our destiny!-- but we've no time, for our lips are tight, our fists are clenched, and we're stripped to fight. god give us victory! the west winds blow in the face of the foe-- old drake is beating his drum-- they drank to "the day", for "the hour" we pray; the day and the hour have come. the sea-strewn empire prays to-night-- o lord of our destiny!-- thou did'st give the seas into britain's might, for the freedom of thy seas we smite. god give us victory! james bernard fagan _by permission of the author_ off heligoland (_august , _) ghostly ships in a ghostly sea, (here's to drake in the spanish main!) hark to the turbines, running free, oil-cups full and the orders plain. plunging into the misty night, surging into the rolling brine, never a word, and never a light, --this for england, that love of mine! look! a gleam on the starboard bow, (here's to the _fighting téméraire_!) quartermaster, be ready now, two points over, and keep her there. ghostly ships--let the foemen grieve. yon's the admiral tight and trim, and one more--with an empty sleeve-- standing a little aft of him! slender, young, in a coat of blue, (here's to the _agamemnon's_ pride!) out of the mists that long he knew, out of the _victory_, where he died, here to the battle-front he came. see, he smiles in his gallant way! ghostly ships in a ghostly game, roaring guns on a ghostly day! there in his white silk smalls he stands, (here's to nelson, with three times three!) coming out of the misty lands far, far over the misty sea. now the foe is a crippled wreck, limping out of the deadly fight. smiling yond on the quarter-deck stands the spirit, all silver-bright. j. e. middleton _from "sea dogs and men at arms"-- g. p. putnam's sons, new york. by permission of the author_ a call to arms (_at the guildhall, london, september , _) the issue has passed out of the domain of argument into another field. but let me ask you, and through you the world outside, what would have been our condition to-day, if through timidity, or through a perverted calculation of self-interest, or through a paralysis of the sense of honour and duty, we had been base enough to be false to our word and faithless to our friends? our eyes would have been turned at this moment, with those of the whole civilized world, to belgium, a small state which has lived for more than seventy years under a several and collective guarantee to which we, in common with prussia and austria, were parties. we should have seen, at the instance and by the action of two of those guaranteeing powers, her neutrality violated, her independence strangled, her territory made use of as affording the easiest and most convenient road to a war of unprovoked aggression against france. we, the british people, should at this moment be standing by, with folded arms and with such countenance as we could command, while this small and unprotected state, in defence of her vital liberties, made a heroic stand against overweening and overwhelming force. we should have been admiring as detached spectators the siege of liège, the steady and manful resistance of a small army, the occupation of brussels with all its splendid traditions and memories, the gradual forcing back of the patriotic defenders of their fatherland to the ramparts of antwerp, countless outrages suffered by them, buccaneering levies exacted from the unoffending civil population, and, finally, the greatest crime committed against civilization and culture since the thirty years' war, the sack of louvain, with its buildings, its pictures, its unique library, its unrivalled associations, a shameless holocaust of irreparable treasures, lit up by blind barbarian vengeance. what account could we, the government and the people of this country, have been able to render to the tribunal of our national conscience and sense of honour, if, in defiance of our plighted and solemn obligations, we had endured, and had not done our best to prevent, yes, to avenge, these intolerable wrongs? for my part, i say that sooner than be a silent witness, which means in effect a willing accomplice, to this tragic triumph of force over law, and of brutality over freedom, i would see this country of ours blotted out of the pages of history. . . . . . . . . . . is there any one in this hall, or in this united kingdom, or in the vast empire of which we here stand in the capital and centre, who blames us or repents our decision? if not, as i believe there is not, we must steel ourselves to the task, and, in the spirit which animated our forefathers in their struggle against the dominion of napoleon, we must, and we shall, persevere to the end. it would be a criminal mistake to underestimate either the magnitude, the fighting quality, or the staying power of the forces which are arrayed against us; but it would be equally foolish and equally indefensible to belittle our own resources whether for resistance or for attack. belgium has shown us by memorable and glorious example what can be done by a relatively small state when its citizens are animated and fired by the spirit of patriotism. . . . . . . . . . . our self-governing dominions throughout the empire, without any solicitation on our part, demonstrated with a spontaneousness and unanimity unparalleled in history their determination to affirm their brotherhood with us, and to make our cause their own. from canada, from australia, from new zealand, from south africa, and from newfoundland, the children of the empire assert, not as an obligation, but as a privilege, their right and their willingness to contribute money, material, and, what is better than all, the strength and sinews, the fortunes and lives of their best manhood. india, too, with not less alacrity, has claimed her share in the common task. every class and creed, british and native, princes and people, hindus and mohammedans, vie with one another in a noble and emulous rivalry. two divisions of our magnificent indian army are already on their way. we welcome with appreciation and affection their proffered aid, and, in an empire which knows no distinction of race or class, where all alike, as subjects of the king-emperor, are joint and equal custodians of our common interest and fortunes, we here hail with profound and heartfelt gratitude their association side by side and shoulder to shoulder with our home and dominion troops, under the flag which is a symbol to all of a unity that the world in arms cannot dissever or dissolve. . . . . . . . . . . never had a people more or richer sources of encouragement and inspiration. let us realize, first of all, that we are fighting as a united empire, in a cause worthy of the highest traditions of our race. let us keep in mind the patient and indomitable seamen who never relax for a moment, night or day, their stern vigil on the lonely sea. let us keep in mind our gallant troops, who to-day, after a fortnight's continuous fighting under conditions which would try the mettle of the best army that ever took the field, maintain not only an undefeated but an unbroken front. finally, let us recall the memories of the great men and the great deeds of the past, commemorated, some of them, in the monuments which we see around us on these walls, not forgetting the dying message of the younger pitt--his last public utterance, made at the table of your predecessor, my lord mayor, in this very hall: "england has saved herself by her exertions and will, as i trust, save europe by her example." the england of those days gave a noble answer to his appeal and did not sheathe the sword until, after nearly twenty years of fighting, the freedom of europe was secured. let us go and do likewise. rt. hon. h. h. asquith australia to england (_august, _) by all the deeds to thy dear glory done, by all the life blood spilt to serve thy need, by all the fettered lives thy touch hath freed, by all thy dreams in us anew begun; by all the guerdon english sire to son hath given of highest vision, kingliest deed, by all thine agony, of god decreed for trial and strength, our fate with thine is one. still dwells thy spirit in our hearts and lips, honour and life we hold from none but thee, and if we live thy pensioners no more but seek a nation's might of men and ships, 'tis but that when the world is black with war thy sons may stand beside thee strong and free. archibald t. strong _by permission of the author_ extract from speech of rt. hon. winston churchill (_september , _) i was reading in the newspapers the other day that the german emperor made a speech to some of his regiments in which he urged them to concentrate their attention upon what he was pleased to call "french's contemptible little army". well, they are concentrating their attention upon it, and that army, which has been fighting with such extraordinary prowess, which has revived in a fortnight of adverse actions the ancient fame and glory of our arms upon the continent, and which to-night, after a long, protracted, harassed, unbroken, and undaunted rearguard action--the hardest trial to which troops can be exposed--is advancing in spite of the loss of one fifth of its numbers, and driving its enemies before it--that army must be reinforced and backed and supported and increased and enlarged in numbers and in powers by every means and every method that every one of us can employ. what of the fight? what of the fight? with no vain boast we meet the foeman on the field, but each man's soul is as an host, to fight, to die, but not to yield. the glory of our splendid past shines on us as a quenchless sun, that each and all may write at last the simple tale of duty done. what of the fight? or well or ill, whatever chance our hearts are sure; our fathers' strength is with us still through good or evil to endure. our spirit, though the storm may lower, burns brighter under darkening skies, knowing that at the appointed hour the glory of the dawn shall rise. claude e. c. h. burton ("touchstone") _by permission of the author_ the man of the marne (_september, _) the gray battalions were driving down like snow from the north on paris town. dread and panic were in the air, the fate of empires hung by a hair. with the world in the balance, what shall decide? how stem the sweep of the conquering tide? god of justice, be not far in this our hour of holy war! in one man's valour, where all were men, the strength of a people was gathered then. "my right is weakened, my left is thin, my centre is almost driven in,"-- the soul of a patriot spoke through the hush,-- "i shall advance!" said general foch. forth from paris to meet the storm they rushed like bees in an angry swarm. by motor and lorry and truck they came swift as the wind and fierce as flame. papa joffre knew the trick of stinging hot and hard and quick. not for ambition and not for pride, for france they fought, for france they died, striking the blow of the marne that hurled the barbarians back and saved the world. the german against that hope forlorn broke his drive like a crumpled horn. their right was weakened, their left was thin, their centre was almost driven in, when the tide of battle turned with a rush; for france was there--and ferdinand foch. not since garibaldi's stroke freed his land from the austrian yoke, and italy after a thousand years walked in beauty among her peers; not since nelson followed the star of freedom to triumph at trafalgar on the tossing floor of the western seas; no, not since miltiades fronted the persian hosts and won against the tyrant at marathon, has a greater defender of liberty stood and struck for the cause, than he whose right was weakened, whose left was thin, whose centre was almost driven in, but whose iron courage no fate could crush, nor hinder. "i shall advance!" said foch. we who are left to carry the fray for civilization on to-day, the war of the angels for goodly right against the devil of brutish might,-- the war for manhood, mercy, and love, and peace with honour all price above,-- what shall we answer, how prepare for destiny's challenge, who goes there? and pass with the willing and worthy to give life, that freedom and faith may live? when promise and patience are wearing thin, when endurance is almost driven in, when our angels stand in a waiting hush, remember the marne, and ferdinand foch! bliss carman _by permission of the author_ copy of telegram from king albert to king george after the battle of the marne (_september , _) his majesty the king, london i desire to congratulate you most heartily on the splendid action of the british troops in the battle of the marne. in the name of the whole belgian nation i express to you our deepest admiration for the stubborn courage of the officers and soldiers of your army. god will surely help our armies to avenge the atrocities committed on peaceful citizens and against a country whose only crime has been that she refused to be false to her engagements. albert india to england o england! in thine hour of need, when faith's reward and valour's meed is death or glory, when faith indites with biting brand, clasped in each warrior's stiffening hand, a nation's story; though weak our hands, which fain would clasp the warrior's sword with warrior's grasp on victory's field; yet turn, o mighty mother! turn unto the million hearts that burn to be thy shield. thine equal justice, mercy, grace, have made a distant alien race a part of thee. 'twas thine to bid their souls rejoice when first they heard the living voice of liberty. unmindful of their ancient name, and lost to honour--glory--fame, and sunk in strife, thou foundst them, whom thy touch hath made men, and to whom thy breath conveyed a nobler life. they, whom thy love hath guarded long; they, whom thy care hath rendered strong in love and faith, whose heartstrings round thy heart entwine. they are, they ever will be, thine in life--in death. nizamat jung (_native judge of the high court of hyderabad_) "a scrap of paper" (_at the queen's hall, london, september , _) there is no man in this room who has always regarded the prospect of our being engaged in a great war with greater reluctance, with greater repugnance, than i have done throughout the whole of my political life. there is no man more convinced that we could not have avoided this war without national dishonour. i am fully alive to the fact that every nation which has ever engaged in any war has always invoked the sacred name of honour. many a crime has been committed in its name. there are some crimes being committed now. all the same, national honour is a reality, and any nation that disregards it is doomed. why is our honour as a country involved in this war? it is because we are bound by honourable obligations to defend the independence, the liberty, the integrity of a small neighbour. she could not have compelled us. she was weak. but the man who declines to discharge his duty because his creditor is too poor to enforce it is a blackguard. . . . . . . . . . . what is a treaty, says the german chancellor, but a scrap of paper? have you any five-pound notes about you? have you any of those neat little treasury one-pound notes? if you have, burn them. they are only scraps of paper. what are they made of? rags! what are they worth? the whole credit of the british empire! scraps of paper! i have been dealing with scraps of paper in the last few weeks. we suddenly found the commerce of the world coming to a standstill. the machine had stopped. why? the machinery of commerce was moved by bills of exchange. i have seen some of them; wretched, crinkled, scrawled over, blotted, frowzy; and yet those scraps of paper moved great ships, laden with thousands of tons of precious cargo, from one end of the world to the other. the motive power behind them was the honour of commercial men. . . . . . . . . . . this is the story of the little nations. the world owes much to little nations and to little men. this theory of bigness--you must have a big empire and a big nation and a big man--well, long legs have their advantage in a retreat. frederick the great chose his warriors for their height, and that tradition has become a policy in germany. germany applies that ideal to nations. she will only allow six-foot-two nations to stand in the ranks; but all the world owes much to the little five-foot-five nations. the greatest art of the world was the work of little nations. the most enduring literature of the world came from little nations. the greatest literature of england came from her when she was a nation of the size of belgium fighting a great empire. the heroic deeds that thrill humanity through generations were the deeds of little nations fighting for their freedom. ah, yes, and the salvation of mankind came through a little nation. god has chosen little nations as the vessels by which he carries the choicest wines to the lips of humanity, to rejoice their hearts, to exalt their vision, to stimulate and to strengthen their faith; and if we had stood by when two little nations were being crushed and broken by the brutal hands of barbarism, our shame would have rung down through the everlasting ages. . . . . . . . . . . the prussian junker is the road-hog of europe. small nationalities in his way are flung to the roadside, bleeding and broken; women and children crushed under the wheel of his cruel car; britain ordered out of his way. all i can say is this: if the old british spirit is alive in british hearts, that bully will be torn from his seat. were he to win it would be the greatest catastrophe that has befallen democracy since the days of the holy alliance and its ascendency. they think we cannot beat them. it will not be easy. it will be a long job. it will be a terrible war. but in the end we shall march through terror to triumph. we shall need all our qualities--every quality that britain and its people possess--prudence in council, daring in action, tenacity in purpose, courage in defeat, moderation in victory, in all things faith, and we shall win. . . . . . . . . . . it is a great opportunity. it only comes once in many centuries to the children of men. for most generations sacrifice comes in drab weariness of spirit to men. it has come to-day to you, it has come to-day to us all, in the form of the glow and thrill of a great movement for liberty, that impels millions throughout europe to the same noble end. it is a great war for the emancipation of europe from the thraldom of a military caste, which has cast its shadow upon two generations of men, and which has now plunged the world into a welter of bloodshed. some have already given their lives. there are some who have given more than their own lives. they have given the lives of those who are dear to them. i honour their courage, and may god be their comfort and their strength. but their reward is at hand. those who have fallen have had consecrated deaths. they have taken their part in the making of a new europe, a new world. i can see the sign of it coming in the glare of the battle-field. the people will gain more by this struggle in all lands than they comprehend at the present time. but that is not all. there is something infinitely greater and more enduring which is emerging already out of this great conflict; a new patriotism, richer, nobler, more exalted than the old one. i can see a new recognition amongst all classes, high and low, shedding themselves of selfishness--a new recognition that the honour of a country does not depend merely on the maintenance of its glory in the stricken field, but in protecting its homes from distress as well. it is a new patriotism. it is bringing a new outlook for all classes. a great flood of luxury and of sloth which had submerged the land is receding, and a new britain is appearing. we can see for the first time the fundamental things that matter in life, and that have been obscured from our vision by the tropical growth of prosperity. may i tell you, in a simple parable, what i think this war is doing for us? i know a valley in north wales, between the mountains and the sea, a beautiful valley, snug, comfortable, sheltered by the mountains from all the bitter blasts. it was very enervating, and i remember how the boys were in the habit of climbing the hills above the village to have a glimpse of the great mountains in the distance and to be stimulated and freshened by the breeze which came from the hilltops, and by the great spectacle of that great range. we have been living in a sheltered valley for generations. we have been too comfortable, too indulgent; many, perhaps, too selfish. and the stern hand of fate has scourged us to an elevation where we can see the great everlasting things that matter for a nation, the great peaks of honour we had forgotten, duty and patriotism, and, clad in glittering white, the great pinnacle of sacrifice pointing like a rugged finger to heaven. we shall descend into the valleys again; but as long as the men and women of this generation last they will carry in their hearts the image of these great mountain peaks, whose foundations are unshaken, though europe rock and sway in the convulsions of a great war. rt. hon. david lloyd george the tribute not by the valour of belgium, nor the lightning sabre of france, not by the thunder of britain's fleet, and the bear's unchecked advance, not by these fears, lord kaiser, tho' they shatter a tyrant's lust, is your heart most darkly troubled, and your soul brought down to the dust. but by the great affirming of the lands we have knit as one; by the love, by the passionate loyal love, of each separate freeborn son. canada cries, "we are coming!" and australasia, "we come!" and you scowl that no boer is rising at the beat of your german drum. and the sons of ind bear witness--"we have grumbled, but now no more; we have shared your plentiful righteous peace, we will share your righteous war. trust us to guard your honour, one with yours is our breath; you have dealt us an even justice, we are yours to the gates of death." here in these rain-swept islands where we fought for the things of peace, where we quarrelled and stormed in factions, at a stroke all factions cease; and there in the vast dominions, more free than your prussian lords, the women are shouting for england and the men are drawing their swords. harold begbie _by permission of the author_ extract from speech of lord kitchener at the guildhall (_november , _) the british empire is now fighting for its existence. i want every citizen to understand this cardinal fact, for only from a clear conception of the vast importance of the issue at stake can come the great national, moral impulse without which governments, war ministers, and even navies and armies can do but little. we have enormous advantages in our resources of men and material, and in that wonderful spirit of ours which has never understood the meaning of defeat. all these are great assets, but they must be used judiciously and effectively. i have no complaint whatever to make about the response to my appeals for men--and i may mention that the progress in the military training of those who have already enlisted is most remarkable; the country may well be proud of them--but i shall want more men, and still more, till the enemy is crushed. armies cannot be called together as with a magician's wand, and in the process of formation there may have been discomfort and inconveniences and, in some cases, even downright suffering. i cannot promise that these conditions will wholly cease, but i can give you every assurance that they have already greatly diminished, and that everything which administrative energy can do to bring them to an end will assuredly be done. the men who come forward must remember that they are enduring for their country's sake just as their comrades are in the shell-torn trenches. . . . . . . . . . . although, of course, our thoughts are constantly directed toward the troops at the front and the great task they have in hand, it is well to remember that the enemy will have to reckon with the force of the great dominion, the vanguard of which we have already welcomed in the very fine body of men forming the contingents from canada and newfoundland; while from australia, new zealand, and other parts, are coming in quick succession soldiers to fight for the imperial cause. and besides all these, there are training in this country over a million and a quarter of men eagerly waiting for the call to bear their part in the great struggle, and as each and every soldier takes his place in the field, he will stand forward to do his duty, and in doing that duty will sustain the credit of the british army, which, i submit, has never stood higher than it does to-day. the kaiser "i am the lord of war", he said, and bared his blade. "dominion shall be mine alone." east, south, west, north, his clamorous bugles blared, his battle lines were thrown. then lo! the leopards of england woke from sleep, roaring their challenge forth across the sea, and france's voice was heard in thunders deep, calling on liberty. and belgium sprang, alert, to meet the foe, and from her mountains serbia sent her bands, and the great bear of russia, growling low, turned from his northern lands. far over land and sea the summons swept, and canada, among her fields of grain, threw down the sickle, caught the sword, and leapt, shouting, across the main. australia, hasting from the southward, came; africa, india, sprang into the fight. "lo, kaiser! here our answer to thy claim; now god shall show the right." then he who drew the blade looked forth, and saw that ring of steel and fire about his throne, and knew himself at last, with trembling awe, the lord of death alone. norah holland _from "spun-yarn and spindrift"-- by permission of the author and j. m. dent & sons, ltd., toronto_ extract from debate on the address (_british house of commons, november , _) the empire is on its trial. the experience of these three months not only encourages us to believe, but inspires us with the confident hope that the longer the trial lasts, and the more severe it becomes, the more clearly shall we emerge from it the champions of a just cause, and we shall have achieved, not only for ourselves--for our direct and selfish interests are small--but for europe and for civilization, and for the great principle of small nationalities, and for liberty and for justice, one of their most enduring victories. rt. hon. h. h. asquith the canadian i never saw the cliffs of snow, the channel billows tipped with cream, the restless, eddying tides that flow about the island of my dream. i never saw the english downs upon an april day, the quiet, old cathedral towns, the hedgerows white with may. and still the name of england, which tyrants laugh to scorn, can thrill my soul. it is to me a very bugle-horn. a thousand leagues from plymouth shore, in broader lands i saw the light. i never heard the cannon roar, or saw a mark of england's might; save that my people lived in peace, bronzed in the harvest sun, and thought that tyranny would cease, that battle-days were done. and still the flag of england streamed on a friendly breeze, and twice two hundred ships of war went surging through the seas. i heard polonius declaim about the new, the golden age, when force would be the mark of shame, and men would curb their murderous rage. "beat out your swords to pruning-hooks", he shouted to the folk. but i--i read my history books, and marvelled as he spoke. for it was glorious england, the mother of the free, who loosed that foolish tongue, but sent her admirals to sea. and liberty and love were ours, home, and a brood of lusty sons, the long, north sunlight and the flow'rs, how could we think about the guns, the searchlights on a wintry cloud, the seamen stern and bold, since we were hurrying with the crowd to rake the hills for gold? but it was glorious england who scanned the threatening morn. to me the very name of her is like a bugle-horn. j. e. middleton _from "sea dogs and men at arms"-- g. p. putnam's sons, new york. by permission of the author_ to belgium in exile (_may , _) land of the desolate, mother of tears, weeping your beauty marred and torn, your children tossed upon the spears, your altars rent, your hearths forlorn, where spring has no renewing spell, and love no language save a long farewell! ah, precious tears, and each a pearl, whose price--for so in god we trust who saw them fall in that blind swirl of ravening flame and reeking dust-- the spoiler with his life shall pay, when justice at the last demands her day. o tried and proved, whose record stands lettered in blood too deep to fade, take courage! never in our hands shall the avenging sword be stayed till you are healed of all your pain, and come with honour to your own again. sir owen seaman _reprinted by permission of london "punch"_ a chant of love for england (this "chant of love", by a distinguished american poet, is a reply to ernst lissauer's notorious "chant of hate for england".) a song of hate is a song of hell; some there be that sing it well. let them sing it loud and long, we lift our hearts in a loftier song: we lift our hearts to heaven above, singing the glory of her we love,-- _england!_ glory of thought and glory of deed, glory of hampden and runnymede; glory of ships that sought far goals, glory of swords and glory of souls! glory of songs mounting as birds, glory immortal of magical words; glory of milton, glory of nelson, tragical glory of gordon and scott; glory transcendent that perishes not,-- hers is the story, hers be the glory, _england!_ shatter her beauteous breast ye may; the spirit of england none can slay! dash the bomb on the dome of paul's-- deem ye the fame of the admiral falls? pry the stone from the chancel floor,-- dream ye that shakespeare shall live no more? where is the giant shot that kills wordsworth walking the old green hills? trample the red rose on the ground,-- keats is beauty while earth spins round! bind her, grind her, burn her with fire, cast her ashes into the sea,-- she shall escape, she shall aspire, she shall arise to make men free: she shall arise in a sacred scorn, lighting the lives that are yet unborn; spirit supernal, splendour eternal, england! helen gray cone _from "a chant of love for england, and other poems"-- by permission of the author and j. m. dent & sons, ltd., toronto_ "canadians--canadians--that's all!" (_april , _) the night of april twenty-second was probably the most momentous time of the six days and nights of fighting. then the germans concentrated on the yser canal, over which there was but one bridge, a murderous barrage fire which would have effectively hindered the bringing up of reinforcements or guns, even had we had any in reserve. during the early stages of the battle, the enemy had succeeded to a considerable degree in turning the canadian left wing. there was a large open gap at this point, where the french colonial troops had stood until the gas came over. toward this sector the germans rushed rank after rank of infantry, backed by guns and heavy artillery. to the far distant left were our british comrades. they were completely blocked by the german advance. they were like rats in a trap and could not move. at the start of the battle, the canadian lines ran from the village of langemarck over to st. julien, a distance of approximately three to four miles. from st. julien to the sector where the imperial british had joined the turcos was a distance of probably two miles. these two miles had to be covered, and covered quickly. we had to save the british extreme right wing, and we had to close the gap. there was no question about it. it was our job. on the night of april the twenty-second we commenced to put this into effect. we were still holding our original position with the handful of men who were in reserves, all of whom had been included in the original grand total of twelve thousand. we had to spread out across the gap of two miles and link up the british right wing. doing this was no easy task. our company was out first and we were told to get into field-skirmishing order. we lined up in the pitchy darkness at five paces apart, but no sooner had we reached this than a whispered order passed from man to man: "another pace, lads, just another pace". this order came again and yet again. before we were through and ready for the command to advance, we were at least twice five paces each man from his nearest comrade. then it was that our captain told us bluntly that we were obviously outnumbered by the germans, ten to one. then he told us that, practically speaking, we had scarcely the ghost of a chance, but that a bluff might succeed. he told us to "swing the lead over them". this we did by yelling, hooting, shouting, clamouring, until it seemed, and the enemy believed, that we were ten to their one. the ruse succeeded. at daybreak, when we rested, we found that we had driven the enemy back almost to his original position. all night long we had been fighting with our backs to our comrades who were in the front trenches. the enemy had got behind us and we had had to face about in what served for trenches. by dawn we had him back again in his original position, and we were facing in the old direction. by dawn we had almost, though not quite, forced a junction with the british right. the night of april the twenty-second is one that i can never forget. it was frightful, yes. yet there was a grandeur in the appalling intensity of living, in the appalling intensity of death as it surrounded us. the german shells rose and burst behind us. they made the yser canal a stream of molten glory. shells fell in the city, and split the darkness of the heavens in the early night hours. later, the moon rose in the splendour of springtime. straight behind the tower of the great cathedral it rose and shone down on a bloody earth. suddenly the grand old cloth hall burst into flames. the spikes of fire rose and fell and rose again. showers of sparks went upward. a pall of smoke would form and cloud the moon, waver, break, and pass. there was the mutter and rumble and roar of great guns.... it was glorious. it was terrible. it was inspiring. through an inferno of destruction and death ... we lived because we must. perhaps our greatest reward came when on april twenty-sixth the english troops reached us. we had been completely cut off by the enemy barrage from all communication with other sectors of the line. still, through the wounded gone back, word of our stand had drifted out. the english boys fought and force-marched and fought again their terrible way through the barrage to our aid, and when they arrived, weary and worn and torn, cutting their bloody way to us, they cheered themselves hoarse; cheered as they marched along, cheered and gripped our hands as they got within touch of us. yell after yell went upward, and stirring words woke the echoes. the boys of the old country paid their greatest tribute to us of the new as they cried: "canadians--canadians--that's all!" harold r. peat _from "private peat"--copyright, . used by special permission of the publishers, the bobbs-merrill company_ from "a canadian twilight" oh, to have died that day at langemarck! to have perished nobly in a noble cause! . . . . . . . . . . for in the years to come it shall be told how these laid down their lives, not for their homes, their orchards, fields and cities: "they were driven to slaughter by no tyrant's lust for power; of their free manhood's choice they crossed the sea to save a stricken people from its foe. they died for justice--justice owes them this: that what they died for be not overthrown." [a]bernard freeman trotter _from "a canadian twilight and other poems of war and peace"--by permission of mcclelland & stewart, ltd., publishers, toronto_ footnote: [a] bernard freeman trotter, second lieut. eleventh leicesters, was killed in action in france, may , . we were men of the furrow we were men of the furrow, men of the hammer and spade; men of the plain and the forest, children of commerce and trade; men of the day and the distance; men of the mothering earth; laying the lines of a nation nurturing fair from the birth. taking our freedom for granted, we, who had ever been free; speaking the tongue of our fathers, confident, composite, we; welcoming all in our borders, laying our wealth at their feet, querying not of their motives, holding their honour complete. little thought we of the war-cloud, little of drilling and drill; we were for peace with our neighbours--peace (and a pocket to fill); only one neighbour we counted, only one neighbour we knew; him--though we watched him--we trusted; trusted, and felt he was true. proud of our flag and traditions; proud, but not boastfully so; dreaming our dreams and our visions, planning the way we would go; saying, "this task for to-morrow; life shall be clay in our hands; we shall be first of the nations, fattest and fairest of lands". then in the quivering heaven gathered the threatening wrath; we looked--and went on with our labours; heard, and replied with a laugh; surely the world was for business; (list to the hammer and spade); leave the war-lords to their lusting--on with our traffic and trade! then, in a flash, it was on us; blazed, and it dazzled our eyes; then for a moment we faltered, suddenly sick with surprise; next, by the blood that was in us, and a manhood not wholly undone, we were stripping the cloth for the khaki and dropping the spade for the gun. what of the men of the furrow, men of the hammer and spade, men without heart for the soldier, loathing his life and his trade? what? let the enemy answer; he scoffed at our fighters, and then the flower of his finest battalions went down to our peace-loving men. well may the world read a lesson, well may it learn, and be wise; not to the strong is the battle; not to the swift is the prize; loud is the boast of the despot, clanking his nation in arms; _but beware of a peace-loving people when they sweep from their forests and farms!_ robert j. c. stead _from "kitchener and other poems"-- by permission of the musson book company, limited, toronto_ devon men from bideford to appledore the meadows lie aglow with kingcup and buttercup that flout the summer snow; and crooked-back and silver-head shall mow the grass to-day, and lasses turn and toss it till it ripen into hay; for gone are all the careless youth did reap the land of yore, the lithe men and long men, the brown men and strong men, the men that hie from bideford and ruddy appledore. from bideford and appledore they swept the sea of old with cross-bow and falconet to tap the spaniard's gold; they sped away with dauntless drake to traffic on the main, to trick the drowsy galleon and loot the treasure train; for fearless were the gallant hands that pulled the sweeping oar, the strong men, the free men, the bold men, the seamen, the men that sailed from bideford and ruddy appledore. from bideford and appledore in craft of subtle gray are strong hearts and steady hearts to keep the sea to-day; so well may fare the garden where the cider-apples bloom and summer weaves her colour-threads upon a golden loom; for ready are the tawny hands that guard the devon shore, the cool men, the bluff men, the keen men, the tough men, the men that hie from bideford and ruddy appledore! percy haselden _reprinted by special permission of london "punch"_ chalk and flint comes there now a mighty rally from the weald and from the coast, down from cliff and up from valley, spirits of an ancient host; castle gray and village mellow, coastguard's track and shepherd's fold, crumbling church and cracked martello echo to this chant of old-- chant of knight and chant of bowman: _kent and sussex feared no foeman in the valiant days of old_! screaming gull and lark a-singing, bubbling brook and booming sea, church and cattle bells a-ringing swell the ghostly melody; "chalk and flint, sirs, lie beneath ye, mingling with our dust below! chalk and flint, sirs, they bequeath ye this our chant of long ago!" chant of knight and chant of bowman, chant of squire and chant of yeoman: _kent and sussex feared no foeman in the days of long ago_! hills that heed not time or weather, sussex down and kentish lane, roads that wind through marsh and heather feel the mail-shod feet again; chalk and flint their dead are giving-- spectres grim and spectres bold-- marching on to cheer the living with their battle-chant of old-- chant of knight and chant of bowman, chant of squire and chant of yeoman: _witness norman! witness roman! kent and sussex feared no foeman in the valiant days of old!_ _reprinted by special permission of london "punch"_ a grave in flanders all night the tall trees overhead are whispering to the stars; their roots are wrapped about the dead and hide the hideous scars. the tide of war goes rolling by, the legions sweep along; and daily in the summer sky the birds will sing their song. no place is this for human tears, the time for tears is done; transfigured in these awful years, the two worlds blend in one. this boy had visions while in life of stars on distant skies; so death came in the midst of strife a sudden, glad surprise. he found the songs for which he yearned, hopes that had mocked desire; his heart is resting now which burned with such consuming fire. so down the ringing road we pass, and leave him where he fell, the guardian trees, the waving grass, the birds will love him well. frederick george scott _from "in the battle silences"--by permission of the author and the musson book company, limited, toronto_ into battle (_may, _) the naked earth is warm with spring, and with green grass and bursting trees leans to the sun's gaze glorying, and quivers in the sunny breeze; and life is colour and warmth and light, and a striving evermore for these; and he is dead who will not fight; and who dies fighting has increase. the fighting man shall from the sun take warmth, and life from the glowing earth; speed with the light-foot winds to run, and with the trees to newer birth; and find, when fighting shall be done, great rest, and fulness after dearth. all the bright company of heaven hold him in their high comradeship, the dog-star and the sisters seven, orion's belt and sworded hip. the woodland trees that stand together, they stand to him each one a friend; they gently speak in the windy weather; they guide to valley and ridges' end. the kestrel hovering by day, and the little owls that call by night, bid him be swift and keen as they, as keen of ear, as swift of sight. the blackbird sings to him, "brother, brother, if this be the last song you shall sing, sing well, for you may not sing another; brother, sing". in dreary doubtful waiting hours before the brazen frenzy starts, the horses show him nobler powers; o patient eyes, courageous hearts! and when the burning moment breaks, and all things else are out of mind, and only joy-of-battle takes him by the throat, and makes him blind, through joy and blindness, he shall know, not caring much to know, that still nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so that it be not the destined will: the thundering line of battle stands, and in the air death moans and sings; but day shall clasp him with strong hands, and night shall fold him in soft wings. [b]julian grenfell _by permission of lord desborough, k.c.v.o._ footnote: [b] captain the hon. julian h. f. grenfell, d.s.o., was wounded in the trenches in front of ypres on may and died in hospital on may , . christ in flanders we had forgotten you, or very nearly-- you did not seem to touch us very nearly-- of course we thought about you now and then; especially in any time of trouble-- we knew that you were good in time of trouble-- but we are very ordinary men. and there were always other things to think of-- there's lots of things a man has got to think of-- his work, his home, his pleasure, and his wife; and so we only thought of you on sunday-- sometimes, perhaps, not even on a sunday-- because there's always lots to fill one's life. and, all the while, in street or lane or byway-- in country lane, in city street, or byway-- you walked among us, and we did not see. your feet were bleeding as you walked our pavements-- how _did_ we miss your footprints on our pavements?-- can there be other folk as blind as we? _now_ we remember; over here in flanders-- (it isn't strange to think of you in flanders)-- this hideous warfare seems to make things clear. we never thought about you much in england-- but now that we are far away from england-- we have no doubts, we know that you are here. you helped us pass the jest along the trenches-- where, in cold blood, we waited in the trenches-- you touched its ribaldry and made it fine. you stood beside us in our pain and weakness-- we're glad to think you understand our weakness-- somehow it seems to help us not to whine. we think about you kneeling in the garden-- ah! god! the agony of that dread garden-- we know you prayed for us upon the cross. if anything could make us glad to bear it-- 'twould be the knowledge that you willed to bear it-- pain--death--the uttermost of human loss. though we forgot you--you will not forget us-- we feel so sure that you will not forget us-- but stay with us until this dream is past. and so we ask for courage, strength, and pardon-- especially, i think, we ask for pardon-- and that you'll stand beside us to the last. l. w. _by permission of "the spectator"_ the blind man and his son (_ _) "the distant boom of angry guns no longer fills my ear. oh! whither have we fled, my son? tell me, that i may hear." "father, we are in england!" "no more i hear the stormy wind amid the rigging roar. i feel beneath my tottering feet the firm ground of the shore. is this the end of all our woes? shall we not suffer more?" "father, we are in england!" "i hear the sound of kindly speech, but do not understand; i feel i've wandered very far, far from the fatherland; how comes it that these tones are not those of an unknown land?" "father, we are in england!" "i feel in all the air around freedom's sweet breath respire. i feel celestial fingers creep along my quivering lyre; the birds, the trees, the babbling streams speak to me of our home, why does my grief less bitter grow and rest so dear become?" "father, we are in england!" "bend down upon thy knees, my son, and take into thy hand, thy wounded hand, and mine, somewhat of the earth of this good land, that dreaming of our home, we two may kiss the soil of england!" emile cammaerts _from "war poems and other translations"--by lord curzon. by permission of john lane, the bodley head, london_ extract from "the war and the soul" i do not for one moment believe that the world is less christian than it was before the war, or less intent on spiritual things. the exact contrary is the case as far as my experience goes. i have more than once stated that, if any man wants to be cured of religious pessimism, or any other kind of pessimism, he had better go to the front. if i had been an unbeliever before i went there, i should speedily have been cured. there one sees things every day, almost every hour, to make one marvel at the greatness of the human soul. you will see hell wide open, it is true, but you will see heaven likewise. such heroism, patience, self-devotion, cheerfulness under affliction, readiness to fling life away to save a comrade or a position--surely these mean more, and are worth more, than the immediate object of their exercise. . . . . . . . . . . as humanity has been constituted up to the present, war has been the means, more than any other agency, of bringing out on the grand scale that truth of sacrifice without which flesh can never be made to serve the ends of spirit, and the kingdom of the soul be won. this could be realized without war if only the race as a whole could be lifted to the requisite level. it often has been realized without war in individual cases, but never for long on the wider basis of the communal life. . . . . . . . . . . what men are learning on the battle-fields of europe of the glory of sacrifice and its mystical potencies is drawing them back to god by way of the cross of christ; our vulgar, blatant, worldly, commercial, pleasure-loving age is seeing meanings in that cross it never saw before, and getting rid of many delusions in the process. we are being saved as by fire. let us recover the simplicities of life, and we recover faith. we are re-learning the old, old lesson that man cannot live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of god. we are realizing almost with the surprise of a new discovery, that not what we have but what we are, is the secret of blessedness or wretchedness, that there is nothing to mourn over but the evil in our own hearts, and that death, however sad and dreadful in its accompaniments, is but the prelude to vaster ventures of the soul and unimaginable joys. nothing can be killed that is worthy to be kept alive or essential to our highest well-being here or hereafter. rev. r. j. campbell _by permission of chapman & hall, ltd., publishers, london, england_ the guards came through men of the st up by the chalk pit wood, weak with our wounds and our thirst, wanting our sleep and our food, after a day and a night-- god, shall we ever forget! beaten and broke in the fight, but sticking it--sticking it yet. trying to hold the line, fainting and spent and done, always the thud and the whine, always the yell of the hun! northumberland, lancaster, york, durham and somerset, fighting alone, worn to the bone, but sticking it--sticking it yet. never a message of hope! never a word of cheer! fronting hill 's shell-swept slope, with the dull dead plain in our rear. always the whine of the shell, always the roar of its burst, always the tortures of hell, as waiting and wincing we cursed our luck and the guns and the boche, when our corporal shouted "stand to!" and i heard someone cry, "clear the front for the guards!" and the guards came through. our throats they were parched and hot, but lord, if you'd heard the cheers! irish and welsh and scot, coldstream and grenadiers. two brigades, if you please, dressing as straight as a hem, we--we were down on our knees, praying for us and for them! praying with tear-wet cheek, praying with outstretched hand, lord, i could speak for a week, but how could you understand! how should _your_ cheeks be wet, such feelin's don't come to _you_. but when can me or my mates forget, when the guards came through! "five yards left extend!" it passed from rank to rank. line after line with never a bend, and a touch of the london swank. a trifle of swank and dash, cool as a home parade, twinkle and glitter and flash, flinching never a shade, with the shrapnel right in their face doing their hyde park stunt, keeping their swing at an easy pace, arms at the trail, eyes front! man, it was great to see! man, it was fine to do! it's a cot and a hospital ward for me, but i'll tell 'em in blighty, wherever i be, how the guards came through. sir arthur conan doyle _by permission of the author_ red poppies in the corn i've seen them in the morning light, when white mists drifted by: i've seen them in the dusk o' night glow 'gainst the starry sky. the slender waving blossoms red, mid yellow fields forlorn: a glory on the scene they shed, red poppies in the corn. i've seen them, too, those blossoms red, show 'gainst the trench lines' screen, a crimson stream that waved and spread thro' all the brown and green: i've seen them dyed a deeper hue than ever nature gave, shell-torn from slopes on which they grew, to cover many a grave. bright blossoms fair by nature set along the dusty ways, you cheered us, in the battle's fret, thro' long and weary days: you gave us hope: if fate be kind, we'll see that longed-for morn, when home again we march and find red poppies in the corn. w. campbell galbraith _by permission of the author_ extract from lecture "how we stand now" for my own part i am more proud of great britain than ever in my life before, and that largely because, in spite of this froth or scum that sometimes floats on the surface, she is fundamentally true to her great traditions, and treads steadily underfoot those elements which, if they had control, would depose us from being a nation of "white men", of rulers, of gentlemen, and bring us to the level of the enemy whom we denounce, or of the "lesser breeds without the law". probably many of us have learned only through this war how much we loved our country. that love depends, of course, not mainly on pride, but on old habit and familiarity, on neighbourliness, and memories of childhood. yet, mingling with that love for our old country, i do feel a profound pride. i am proud of the response to the empire's call--a response absolutely unexampled in history, five million men and more gathering from the ends of the earth; subjects of the british empire coming to offer life and limb for the empire, not because they were subjects, but because they were free and willing to come. i am proud of our soldiers and our sailors, our invincible sailors! i am proud of our men in the workshop and the factory; proud of our men, and almost more proud of our women--working one and all, day after day, with constant overtime, and practically no holidays, for the most part demanding no trade safeguards, and insisting on no conditions, but giving freely to the common cause all that they have to give. i am proud of our political leaders and civil administrators, proud of their resource, their devotion, their unshaken coolness, their magnanimity in the face of intrigue and detraction, their magnificent interpretation of the nation's will. a few days ago i was in france in the fire-zone. i had been at a field dressing-station, which had just evacuated its wounded and dead, and was expecting more; and, as evening was falling, full of the uncanny strain of the whole place and slightly deafened with the shells, i saw a body of men in full kit plodding their way up the communication trenches to take their place in the firing trench. i was just going back myself, well out of the range of the guns, to a comfortable tea and a peaceful evening; and there, in trench after trench, along all the hundred miles of our front, day after day, night after night, were men moving heavily up to the firing-line, to pay their regular toll of so many killed and so many wounded, while the war drags on its weary length. i suddenly wondered in my heart whether we or our cause or our country is worth that sacrifice; and, with my mind full of its awfulness, i answered clearly, yes. because, while i am proud of all the things i have mentioned about great britain, i am most proud of the clean hands with which we came into this contest; proud of the cause for which with clear vision we unsheathed our sword, and which we mean to maintain unshaken to the bitter or the triumphant end. gilbert murray _by permission of the author_ lusitania (_may , _) who that can strike a blow now will refrain? who with the right to go now will remain? never was blood so spilt under god's vault, shame and eternal guilt now if you halt. who that has prayed for peace now will forgive? who can have any ease now while they live? into their land we'll break, onward we'll thrust, yea, for our children's sake beat them to dust. "wait, in a little time," (mark how they live)! "men will forget this crime, soon will forgive; england will heed our plea: when the war ends we shall shake hands and be traders and friends." look, on a crimson tide drifts the great host, mother and babe collide, ghost upon ghost: see how they make, those tears, pillars of spray, never in all god's years dying away. who that can strike a blow now will refrain? who with the right to go now will remain? ah, to be young again! ah, to be strong! one, one with england's men marching along! rise like a fire and go fierce to this strife, on, give them blow for blow, life against life: theirs to be infamous dust of the sod, yours to be glorious victors of god. harold begbie _by permission of the author_ the white ships and the red (_may , _) with drooping sail and pennant that never a wind may reach, they float in sunless waters beside a sunless beach. their mighty masts and funnels are white as driven snow, and with a pallid radiance their ghostly bulwarks glow. here is a spanish galleon that once with gold was gay, here is a roman trireme whose hues outshone the day. but tyrian dyes have faded, and prows that once were bright with rainbow stains wear only death's livid, dreadful white. white as the ice that clove her that unforgotten day, among her pallid sisters the grim _titanic_ lay. and through the leagues above her she looked, aghast, and said: "what is this living ship that comes where every ship is dead?" the ghostly vessels trembled from ruined stern to prow; what was this thing of terror that broke their vigil now? down through the startled ocean a mighty vessel came, not white, as all dead ships must be, but red, like living flame. the pale green waves about her were swiftly, strangely dyed, by the great scarlet stream that flowed from out her wounded side. and all her decks were scarlet and all her shattered crew. she sank among the white ghost ships and stained them through and through. the grim _titanic_ greeted her-- "and who art thou?" she said; "why dost thou join our ghostly fleet arrayed in living red? we are the ships of sorrow who spend the weary night, until the dawn of judgment day, obscure and still and white". "nay", said the scarlet visitor, "though i sink through the sea a ruined thing that was a ship, i sink not as did ye. for ye met with your destiny by storm or rock or fight, so through the lagging centuries ye wear your robes of white. "but never crashing iceberg nor honest shot of foe, nor hidden reef has sent me the way that i must go. my wound that stains the waters, my blood that is like flame, bear witness to a loathly deed, a deed without a name. "i went not forth to battle, i carried friendly men, the children played about my decks, the women sang--and then-- and then--the sun blushed scarlet and heaven hid its face, the world that god created became a shameful place! "my wrong cries out for vengeance, the blow that sent me here was aimed in hell. my dying scream has reached jehovah's ear. not all the seven oceans shall wash away the stain; upon a brow that wears a crown i am the brand of cain". when god's great voice assembles the fleet on judgment day, the ghosts of ruined ships will rise in sea and strait and bay. though they have lain for ages beneath the changeless flood, they shall be white as silver, but one--shall be like blood. [c]joyce kilmer _by permission of george e. doran company_ footnote: [c] killed in action, august , extract from speech at the guildhall, london, england (_july , _) in the dominions beyond the seas the same ideals have led inevitably to the establishment of self-governing institutions. that principle, which in the eyes of the short-sighted seemed destined to drive the far-flung nations of our empire asunder, has but united them by ties stronger than could be dreamed of under any system of autocratic government. australia, new zealand, south africa, canada--all these great free nations possessing full rights of self-government, enjoying parliamentary institutions, living by the voice of the people--why have they joined in this conflict, and why are their citizens from the remotest corners of the earth fighting under a common banner and making common cause with the men of these islands in the greatest war the world has ever known? and why are the descendants in canada of those who fought under wolfe, and of those who fought under montcalm, when contending for the northern half of the american continent, why are they now standing together in the empire's battle line? to speak of later events, why do we find beyond the channel, in france or in belgium, the grandson of a durham and the grandson of a papineau standing side by side in this struggle? when the historian of the future comes to analyse the events of this war, he will realize that some great overmastering impulse contributed mainly to this wonderful result. one such impulse is to be found in the love of liberty, the ideals of democracy, and the spirit of unity founded thereon, which make the whole empire one in aim and purpose. but there was also the intense conviction that this war was forced upon our empire; for in honour we could not stand aside and see trampled in the dust a weak and unoffending people whose independence and liberties we had guaranteed. beyond and above all this we realized the supreme truth that the issue forced upon us by this conflict transcends even the destinies of our own empire and involves the future of civilization and of the world. rt. hon. sir robert borden the red cross nurse against the dark destroyer their loyal legions moved, to stand by our defenders with succour tried and proved. to stay the hosts of horror with neither sword nor shield, to hold the line of mercy the red cross took the field. bliss carman i go wherever men may dare, i go wherever woman's care and love can live, wherever strength and skill can bring surcease to human suffering, or solace give. john finley and yonder where the battle's waves broke yesterday o'erhead, where now the swift and shallow graves cover our english dead, think how your sisters play their part, who serve as in a holy shrine, tender of hand and brave of heart, under the red cross sign. sir owen seaman edith cavell (_october , _) dead? who? not you--for whom the assassin's hand but opened wide the door to larger life and immortality! you are not dead!-- you live forever in our hearts and minds, a perfect woman, brave, and sweet, and true, passed, in the gracious fulness of your time, to nobler work for him you served so well. and you still work among us as before,-- and more.-- no sister-nurse in all the world to-day but bears upon her heart and face the impress of your soul's high martyrdom; and we pay each the homage due to you. all nursing-hands are gentler still--for you! all nursing-feet are swifter still--for you! all nursing-hearts are braver still--for you! and all our souls more loftily attuned by our sweet memory of you. but dead--ay, dead, in grimmest truth, the soul of that poor land that gave you victim to its savage spleen. dead to all sense of right,-- dead to all sense of shame,-- dead to mere decency,-- and dead--dead--dead to god and his fair christ. the pity!--oh, the pity!--that a land which once bore men should fall so low! _punishment?_ what punishment could fit so foul a crime? no punishment devisable of man were adequate. as thou forgavest, we can do no less. god saw it all. in his just balances it lies, the crowning weight of their vast infamies. in his own time, in his own way, for this--and all--we wait his reckoning-day. john oxenham _by permission of the author_ the soldier if i should die, think only this of me: that there's some corner of a foreign field that is for ever england. there shall be in that rich earth a richer dust concealed; 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 the rivers, blest by suns of home. and think, this heart, all evil shed away, a pulse in the eternal mind, no less gives somewhere back the thoughts by england given; her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; and laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, in hearts at peace, under an english heaven. [d]rupert brooke _from "collected poems of rupert brooke". reprinted by permission of mcclelland & stewart, ltd., publishers, toronto, and of the executor of the author, and sidgwick & jackson, ltd., london, england_ footnote: [d] rupert brooke died from sunstroke on his way to the dardanelles, april , , and was buried in the island of scyros. extract from "the meaning of war" the moral energy of nations, as of individuals, is only sustained by an ideal higher than themselves, and stronger than themselves, to which they cling firmly when they feel their courage waver. where is the ideal of the germany of to-day? the time when her philosophers proclaimed the inviolability of right, the eminent dignity of the person, the duty of mutual respect among nations, is no more. germany, militarized by prussia, has cast aside those noble ideas, ideas she received for the most part from the france of the eighteenth century and of the revolution. she has made for herself a new soul, or rather she has meekly accepted the soul bismarck has given her. to him has been attributed the famous maxim "might is right". but in truth bismarck never pronounced it, for he had well guarded himself against a distinction of right from might. right was simply in his view what is willed by the strongest, what is consigned by the conqueror in the law he imposes on the conquered. in that is summed up his whole morality. germany to-day knows no other. she, too, worships brute force. and because she believes herself the strongest, she is altogether absorbed in self-adoration. her energy comes from her pride. her moral force is only the confidence which her material force inspires in her. and this means that in this respect she is living on reserves without means of replenishment. even before england had commenced to blockade her coasts, she had blockaded herself morally, in isolating herself from every ideal capable of giving her new life. so she will see her forces waste and her courage at the same time. but the energy of our soldiers is drawn from something which does not waste, from an ideal of justice and freedom. time has no hold on us. to the force which feeds only on its own brutality we are opposing that which seeks outside and above itself a principle of life and renovation. whilst the one is gradually spending itself, the other is continually re-making itself. the one is already wavering, the other abides unshaken. have no fear, our force will slay theirs. henri louis bergson _by permission of the publishers, t. fisher unwin, ltd., london, england_ to our dead the flame of summer droops and fades and closes, while autumn thins the embers of the copse, and evermore the violent life of roses grows keener as the roseate foliage drops: o strong young hearts within whose veins was leaping love like a fount, hate like a dart shot high, my heart o'er yours, its dolorous vigil keeping, is pierced with sorrow, while in joy you die! your ashes o'er the flats of france are scattered, but hold a fire more hot than flesh of ours; the stainless flag that flutters, frayed and tattered, shall wave and wave like spring's immortal flowers. you die, but in your death life glows intenser; you shall not know the shame of growing old: in endless joy you swing the holy censer, and blow the trumpet tho' your lips are cold. life was to us a mist of intimations, death is a flash that shows us where we trod; you, falling nobly for the righteous nations, reveal the unknown, the unhoped-for face of god. after long toil your labours shall not perish; through grateful generations yet to come your ardent gesture, dying, love shall cherish, and like a beacon you shall guide us home. edmund gosse _by permission of the author_ the dead blow out, you bugles, over the rich dead! there's none of these so lonely and poor of old, but, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. these laid the world away; poured out the red sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, that men call age; and those who would have been, their sons, they gave, their immortality. blow, bugles, blow! they brought us, for our dearth, holiness, lacked so long, and love, and pain. honour has come back, as a king, to earth, and paid his subjects with a royal wage; and nobleness walks in our ways again; and we have come into our heritage. rupert brooke _from "collected poems of rupert brooke". reprinted by permission of mcclelland & stewart, ltd., publishers, toronto, and of the executor of the author, and sidgwick & jackson, ltd., london, england_ in a belgian garden once in a belgian garden, (ah, many months ago!) i saw, like pale madonnas, the tall, white lilies blow. great poplars swayed and trembled afar against the sky, and green with flags and rushes, the river wandered by. amid the waving wheat-fields glowed poppies blazing red, and showering strange wild music a lark rose overhead. . . . . . . the lark has ceased his singing, the wheat is trodden low, and in the blood-stained garden no more the lilies blow. and where green poplars trembled stand shattered trunks instead, and lines of small white crosses keep guard above the dead. for here brave lads and noble, from lands beyond the deep, beneath the small white crosses have laid them down to sleep. they laid them down with gladness upon the alien plain, that this same belgian garden might bud and bloom again. f. o. call _by permission of the author_ ". . . . . that have no doubts" --_rudyard kipling_ _the last resort of kings are we, but the voice of peoples too_-- ask the guns of valmy ridge-- lost at the beresina bridge, when the russian guns were roaring death and the guard was charging through. _ultima ratio regis, we--but he who has may hold,_ se curantes dei curant, hear the gunners that strain and pant, as when before the rising gale the great armada rolled. _guns of fifty--sixty tons that roared at jutland fight,_ clatter and clang of hoisting shell; see the flame where the salvo fell amidst the flash of german guns against the wall of white. _the sons of english carronade or spanish culverin--_ the danish windows shivered and broke when over the sea the children spoke, and groaning turrets rocked again as we went out and in. _we have no passions to call our own, we work for serf or lord,_ load us well and sponge us clean-- be your woman a slave or queen-- and we will clear the road for you who hold us by the sword. _we come into our own again and wake to life anew--_ put your paper and pens away, for the whole of the world is ours to-day, and it's we who'll do the talking now to smooth the way for you. _howitzer gun or seventy-five, the game is ours to play,_ and hills may quiver and mountains shake, but the line in front shall bend or break. what is it to us if the world is mad? for we are the kings to-day. klaxon _by permission of wm. blackwood & sons, edinburgh_ on the rue du bois (_written at sailly, france, _) o pallid christ within this broken shrine, not those torn hands and not that heart of thine have given the nations blood to drink like wine. through weary years and 'neath the changing skies men turned their back on those appealing eyes and scorned as vain thine awful sacrifice. kings with their armies, children in their play, have passed unheeding down this shell-ploughed way: the great world knew not where its true strength lay. in pomp and luxury, in lust of gold, in selfish ease, in pleasures manifold, "evil is good, good evil", we were told. yet here, where nightly the great flare-lights gleam, and murder stalks triumphant in their beam, the world has wakened from its empty dream. at last, o christ, in this strange, darkened land, where ruined homes lie round on every hand, life's deeper truths men come to understand. for lonely graves along the countryside, where sleep those brave hearts who for others died, tell of life's union with the crucified. and new light kindles in the mourner's eyes, like day-dawn breaking through the rifted skies, for life is born through life's self-sacrifice. frederick george scott _from "in the battle silences"--by permission of the author and the musson book company, limited, toronto_ extract from "fear god and take your own part" (_february, _) the english navy was mobilized with a rapidity and efficiency as great as that of the german army. it has driven every warship except an occasional submarine, and every merchant ship of germany off the seas, and has kept the ocean as a highway of life not only for england, but for france, and largely also for russia. in all history there has been no such gigantic and successful naval feat accomplished as that which the seamen and shipwrights of england have to their credit during the last eighteen months. it was not originally expected that england would have much to do on the continent; and although her wisest sons emphatically desired that she should be ready to do more, yet this desire represented only a recognition of the duty owed by england to herself. to her allies she has more than kept the promise she has made. she has given russia the financial assistance that none but she could give; her money effort has been unparalleled in all previous history. eighteen months ago no frenchman would have expected that in the event of war england would do more than put a couple of hundred thousand men in france. she has already put in a million, and is training and arming more than double that number. her soldiers have done their duty fearlessly and well; they have won high honour on the fields of horror and glory; they have shown the same gallantry and stubborn valour that have been so evident in the armies of france and russia. her women are working with all the steadfast courage and self-sacrifice that the women of france have shown. her men from every class have thronged into the army. her fisher folk, and her seafarers generally, have come forward in such numbers that her fleet is nearly double as strong as it was at the outset of the war. her mines and war factories have steadily enlarged their output, and it is now enormous, although many of the factories had literally to build from the ground up, and the very plant itself had to be created. coal, food, guns, munitions, are being supplied with sustained energy. from across the sea the free commonwealths of canada, australia, new zealand, and south africa, and the indian empire, have responded with splendid loyalty, and have sent their sons from the ends of the earth to do battle for liberty and civilization. of canada i can speak from personal knowledge. canada has faced the time that tries men's souls, and with gallant heroism she has risen level to the time's need. mighty days have come to her, and she has been equal to the mighty days. greatness comes only through labour and courage, through the iron willingness to face sorrow and death, the tears of women and the blood of men, if only thereby it is possible to serve a lofty ideal. canada has won that honourable place among the nations of the past and the present which can only come to the people whose sons are willing and able to dare and do and die at need. the spirit shown by her sister-commonwealths is the same. high of heart and undaunted of soul the men and women of the british islands and of the whole british empire now front the crisis that is upon them. theodore roosevelt _from "fear god and take your own part"--copyright, . by permission of george ii. doran company_ to the memory of field-marshal earl kitchener born, june th, died on service, june th, soldier of england, you who served her well and in that service, silent and apart, achieved a name that never lost its spell over your country's heart;-- who saw your work accomplished ere at length shadows of evening fell, and creeping time had bent your stature or resolved the strength that kept its manhood prime;-- great was your life, and great the end you made, as through the plunging seas that whelmed your head your spirit passed, unconquered, unafraid, to join the gallant dead. but not by death that spell could pass away that fixed our gaze upon the far-off goal, who, by your magic, stand in arms to-day a nation one and whole, now doubly pledged to bring your vision true of darkness vanquished and the dawn set free in that full triumph which your faith foreknew but might not live to see. sir owen seaman _reprinted by permission of london "punch"_ kitchener of khartoum weep, waves of england! nobler clay was ne'er to nobler grave consigned; the wild waves weep with us to-day who mourn a nation's master mind. we hoped an honoured age for him, and ashes laid with england's great; and rapturous music, and the dim deep hush that veils our tomb of state. but this is better. let him sleep where sleep the men who made us free, for england's heart is in the deep, and england's glory is the sea. one only vow above his bier, one only oath beside his bed: we swear our flag shall shield him here until the sea gives up its dead! leap, waves of england! boastful be, and fling defiance in the blast, for earth is envious of the sea which shelters england's dead at last. robert j. c. stead _from "kitchener and other poems"--by permission of the musson book company, limited, toronto_ kitchener's march not the muffled drum for him nor the wailing of the fife-- trumpets blaring to the charge were the music of his life. let the music of his death be the feet of marching men, let his heart a thousandfold take the field again. of his patience, of his calm, of his quiet faithfulness, england, build your hero's cairn! he was worthy of no less. stone by stone, in silence laid, singly, surely, let it grow. he whose living was to serve would have had it so. there's a body drifting down for the mighty sea to keep. there's a spirit cannot die while one heart is left to leap in the land he gave his all, steel alike to praise and hate. he has saved the life he spent-- death has struck too late. not the muffled drums for him nor the wailing of the fife-- trumpets blaring to the charge were the music of his life. let the music of his death be the feet of marching men! let his heart a thousandfold take the field again! amelia josephine burr _from "life and living"--copyright, . by permission of the publishers, george h. doran company_ the crown of empire o england of our fathers and england of our sons, along the dark horizon line the day-dawn glory runs, for empire has been ours of old and empire ours shall be-- his grip is on the world to-day whose grip is on the sea. o england of our fathers and england of our sons, above the roar of battling hosts, the thunder of the guns, a mother's voice was calling us, we heard it over-sea, the blood which thou didst give us is the blood we spill for thee. o england of our fathers and england of our sons, along the dark horizon-line the day-dawn glory runs, for golden peace is drawing near, her paths are on the sea,-- he grips the hearts of all mankind who stands for liberty. frederick george scott _from "in the battle silences"--by permission of the author and the musson book company, limited, toronto_ i have a rendezvous with death i have a rendezvous with death at some disputed barricade; when spring comes back with rustling shade and apple blossoms fill the air-- i have a rendezvous with death when spring brings back blue days and fair. it may be he shall take my hand and lead me into his dark land, and close my eyes and quench my breath-- it may be i shall pass him still. i have a rendezvous with death on some scarred slope of battered hill, when spring comes round again this year and the first meadow flowers appear. god knows 'twere better to be deep pillowed on silk and scented down, where love throbs out in blissful sleep, pulse nigh to pulse and breath to breath, where hushed awakenings are dear-- but i've a rendezvous with death, at midnight in some flaming town, when spring trips north again this year, and i to my pledged word am true, i shall not fail that rendezvous. [e]alan seeger _from "poems by alan seeger"--copyright, , by charles scribner's sons. by permission of the publishers_ footnote: [e] killed in action at belloy-en-santerre, july, in memoriam let pride with grief go hand in hand: they join the hallowed hosts who died in battle for their lovely land: with light about their brows they ride. young hearts and hot, grey heads and wise, good knights of all the years foregone, faith in their england in their eyes, still ride they on, still ride they on! by altars old their banners fade beneath dear spires; their names are set in minster aisle, in yew-tree shade: their memories fight for england yet. let pride with grief go hand in hand, sad love with patience side by side; in battle for their lovely land not vainly england's sons have died! and well may pride this hour befit; for not since england's days began more fiery clear the word was writ: who dies for england dies for man! helen gray cone _from "the post of honour"--by permission of j. m. dent & sons, ltd., toronto_ guns of verdun guns of verdun point to metz from the plated parapets; guns of metz grin back again o'er the fields of fair lorraine. guns of metz are long and gray, growling through a summer day; guns of verdun, gray and long, boom an echo of their song. guns of metz to verdun roar, "sisters, you shall foot the score;" guns of verdun say to metz, "fear not, for we pay our debts." guns of metz they grumble, "when?" guns of verdun answer then, "sisters, when to guard lorraine gunners lay you east again!" patrick r. chalmers _by permission of the author_ verdun (_spoken in the vault of the citadel of verdun, september, _) i wish to tell you how glad i am that you asked me to sit at table with your officers in the heart of verdun's citadel. i am glad to see around me those who have come back from battle, those who will be fighting to-morrow, and those who, with you, general, are sentries on these impregnable walls. the name of verdun alone will be enough to rouse imperishable memories throughout the centuries to come. there is not one of the great feats of arms which make the history of france which better shows the high qualities of the army and the people of france; and that bravery and devotion to country, to which the world has ever paid homage, have been strengthened by a sang-froid and tenacity which yield nothing to british phlegm. the memory of the victorious resistance of verdun will be immortal because verdun saved not only france, but the whole of the great cause which is common to ourselves and humanity. the evil-working force of the enemy has broken itself against the heights around this old citadel as an angry sea breaks upon a granite rock. these heights have conquered the storm which threatened the world. i am deeply moved when i tread this sacred soil, and i do not speak for myself alone. i bring you a tribute of the admiration of my country, of the great empire which i represent here. they bow with me before your sacrifice and before your glory. once again, for the defence of the great causes with which its very future is bound up, mankind turns to france. "À la france! aux hommes tombés sous verdun!" rt. hon. david lloyd george for the fallen with proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, england mourns for her dead across the sea. flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, fallen in the cause of the free. solemn the drums thrill: death august and royal sings sorrow up into immortal spheres. there is music in the midst of desolation and a glory that shines upon our tears. they went with songs to the battle, they were young, straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. they were staunch to the end against odds uncounted, they fell with their faces to the foe. they shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old: age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. at the going down of the sun and in the morning we will remember them. they mingle not with their laughing comrades again; they sit no more at familiar tables of home; they have no lot in our labour of the day-time; they sleep beyond england's foam. but where our desires are and our hopes profound, felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, to the innermost heart of their own land they are known as the stars are known to the night. as the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, moving in marches upon the heavenly plain; as the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, to the end, to the end, they remain. laurence binyon _by permission of the author and "the times", london_ in flanders fields in flanders fields the poppies blow between the crosses, row on row, that mark our place; and in the sky the larks, still bravely singing, fly scarce heard amid the guns below. we are the dead. short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved, and now we lie in flanders fields. take up our quarrel with the foe: to you from failing hands we throw the torch; be yours to hold it high. if ye break faith with us who die we shall not sleep, though poppies grow in flanders fields. [f]john mccrae _reprinted by special permission of london "punch"_ footnote: [f] lieutenant-colonel john mccrae died of pneumonia in france, january, . the anxious dead o guns, fall silent till the dead men hear above their heads the legions pressing on: (these fought their fight in time of bitter fear, and died not knowing how the day had gone.) o flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see the coming dawn that streaks the sky afar; then let your mighty chorus witness be to them, and cæsar, that we still make war. tell them, o guns, that we have heard their call, that we have sworn, and will not turn aside, that we will onward till we win or fall, that we will keep the faith for which they died. bid them be patient, and some day, anon, they shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep; shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn, and in content may turn them to their sleep. john mccrae _by permission of "the spectator"_ extract from speech of rt. hon. david lloyd george on becoming premier (_december , _) . . . . . . . . . . i should like to say one word about the lesson of the fighting on the western front--not about the military strategy, but about the significance of the whole of that great struggle, one of the greatest struggles ever waged in the history of the world. it is full of encouragement and of hope. just look at it! an absolutely new army! the old had done its duty and spent itself in the achievement of that great task. this is a new army. but a year ago it was ore in the earth of britain, yea, and of ireland. it became iron. it has passed through a fiery furnace, and the enemy knows that it is now fine steel. an absolutely new army, new men, new officers taken from schools, from colleges, from counting-houses, never trained to war, never thought of war, many of them perhaps never handled a weapon of war, generals never given the opportunity of handling great masses of men. some of us had seen the manoeuvres. a division which is now set to attack a small village is more than our generals ever had the opportunity of handling before the war. compared with the great manoeuvres on the continent, they were toy manoeuvres. and yet this new army, new men, new officers, generals new to this kind of work, they have faced the greatest army in the world, the greatest army the world has ever seen, the best equipped and the best trained, and they have beaten them, beaten them, beaten them! battle after battle, day after day, week after week! from the strongest entrenchments ever devised by human skill they have driven them out by valour, by valour which is incredible when you read the story of it. subalterns (_a song of oxford_) they had so much to lose; their radiant laughter shook my old walls--how short a time ago. i hold the echoes of their song hereafter among the precious things i used to know. their cup of life was full to overflowing, all earth had laid its tribute at their feet. what harvest might we hope from such a sowing? what noonday from a dawning so complete? and i--i watched them working, dreaming, playing, saw their young bodies fit the mind's desire, felt them reach outward, upward, still obeying the passionate dictates of their hidden fire. yet here and there some graybeard breathed derision, "too much of luxury, too soft an age! your careless galahads will see no vision, your knights will make no mark on honour's page." no mark?--go ask the broken fields in flanders, ask the great dead who watched in ancient troy, ask the old moon as round the world she wanders what of the men who were my hope and joy! they are but fragments of imperial splendour, handfuls of might amid a mighty host, yet i, who saw them go with proud surrender, may surely claim to love them first and most. they who had all, gave all. their half-writ story lies in the empty halls they knew so well, but they, the knights of god, shall see his glory, and find the grail ev'n in the fire of hell. mildred huxley _by permission of the author_ the searchlights (_political morality differs from individual morality, because there is no power above the state.--general von bernhardi_) shadow by shadow, stripped for fight the lean black cruisers search the sea. night-long their level shafts of light revolve, and find no enemy. only they know each leaping wave may hide the lightning, and their grave. and in the land they guard so well is there no silent watch to keep? an age is dying, and the bell rings midnight on a vaster deep. but over all its waves, once more, the searchlights move, from shore to shore. and captains that we thought were dead, and dreamers that we thought were dumb, and voices that we thought were fled, arise, and call us, and we come: and "search in thine own soul", they cry; "for there, too, lurks thine enemy". search for the foe in thine own soul, the sloth, the intellectual pride; the trivial jest that veils the goal for which our fathers lived and died; the lawless dreams, the cynic art, that rend thy nobler self apart. not far, not far into the night, these level swords of light can pierce; yet for her faith does england fight, her faith in this our universe, believing truth and justice draw from founts of everlasting law: the law that rules the stars, our stay, our compass through the world's wide sea, the one sure light, the one sure way, the one firm base of liberty; the one firm road that men have trod through chaos to the throne of god. therefore a power above the state, the unconquerable power returns. the fire, the fire that made her great once more upon her altar burns. once more, redeemed, and healed and whole, she moves to the eternal goal. alfred noyes _reprinted by permission from the "lord of misrule", by alfred noyes. copyright, , by frederick a. stokes company_ the sea is his the sea is his: he made it, black gulf and sunlit shoal, from battered bight to where the long leagues of atlantic roll: small strait and ceaseless ocean he bade each one to be: the sea is his: he made it-- and england keeps it free. by pain and stress and striving beyond the nations' ken, by vigils stern when others slept, by many lives of men; through nights of storm, through dawnings blacker than midnights be-- this sea that god created, england has kept it free. count me the splendid captains who sailed with courage high to chart the perilous ways unknown-- tell me where these men lie! to light a path for ships to come they moored at dead man's quay; the sea is god's--he made it, and these men made it free. oh, little land of england, oh, mother of hearts too brave, men say this trust shall pass from thee who guardest nelson's grave. aye, but these braggarts yet shall learn, who'd hold the world in fee, the sea is god's--and england, england shall keep it free. [g]r. e. vernÈde _from "war poems", by r. e. vernède. by permission of the publishers, wm. heinemann, london_ footnote: [g] died of wounds, april, volunteer here lies a clerk who half his life had spent toiling at ledgers in a city gray, thinking that so his days would drift away with no lance broken in life's tournament: yet ever 'twixt the books and his bright eyes the gleaming eagles of the legions came, and horsemen, charging under phantom skies, went thundering past beneath the oriflamme. and now those waiting dreams are satisfied; from twilight into spacious dawn he went; his lance is broken; but he lies content with that high hour, in which he lived and died. and falling thus he wants no recompense, who found his battle in the last resort; nor needs he any hearse to bear him hence, who goes to join the men of agincourt. herbert asquith _by permission of rt. hon. h. h. asquith_ extract from president wilson's message to congress (_april , _) we are now about to accept the gage of battle with this natural foe to liberty, and shall, if necessary, spend the whole force of the nation to check and nullify its pretensions and powers. we are glad, now that we see the facts with no veil of false pretence about them, to fight thus for the ultimate peace of the world and for the liberation of its peoples, the german people included; for the rights of nations great and small, and the privilege of men everywhere to choose their way of life and of obedience. the world must be made safe for democracy. its peace must be planted upon the trusted foundations of political liberty. we have no selfish ends to serve. we desire no conquest, no dominion. we seek no indemnities for ourselves, no material compensation for the sacrifices we shall freely make. we are but one of the champions of the rights of mankind. we shall be satisfied when those have been made as secure as the faith and freedom of the nation can make them. just because we fight without rancour and without selfish objects, seeking nothing for ourselves but what we shall wish to share with all free peoples, we shall, i feel confident, conduct our operations as belligerents without passion and ourselves observe with proud punctilio the principles of right and of fair play we profess to be fighting for.... we enter this war only where we are clearly forced into it because there are no other means of defending our rights. it will be all the easier for us to conduct ourselves as belligerents in a high spirit of right and fairness because we act without animus, not in enmity toward a people or with the desire to bring any injury or disadvantage upon them, but only in armed opposition to an irresponsible government which has thrown aside all considerations of humanity and of right and is running amuck.... there are, it may be, many months of fiery trial and sacrifice ahead of us. it is a fearful thing to lead this great, peaceful people into war, into the most terrible and disastrous of all wars, civilization itself seeming to be in the balance. but right is more precious than peace, and we shall fight for the things which we have always carried nearest to our hearts--for democracy, for the right of those who submit to authority to have a voice in their own governments, for the rights and liberties of small nations, for a universal dominion of right by such a concert of free peoples as shall bring peace and safety to all nations and make the world itself at last free. to such a task we can dedicate our lives and our fortunes, everything that we are and everything that we have, with the pride of those who know that the day has come when america is privileged to spend her blood and her might for the principles that gave her birth and happiness and the peace which she has treasured. god helping her, she can do no other. from "vimy ridge" (_april, _) . . . . . . . . . . england, our mother, we, thy sons, are young; our exultation this day cannot be bounded as thine: but thou wilt pardon us, thou wilt forgive us if we cry, "now see! see now, our mother, these are they that clung once to thy breasts, and are they not well sung?" . . . . . . . . . . aye, not since france herself first stood at bay, to conquer or to die on marne's green banks, driving at last across its crimsoned flood the flower of germany in shattered ranks, has there been crowded in a single day more breathless glory for heroic lay. england, our mother, once our boasting hear! and in thy streets let flags and banners fly! to drums and bugles let the people march while vimy ridge is shouted to the sky! . . . . . . . . . . thereafter of our pride let naught be said, saving on stone, inscribed with but one line: canada--vimy ridge-- our hearts the tablets of a secret shrine: though henceforth we shall lift a higher head because of vimy and its glorious dead. alfred gordon _from "vimy ridge and new poems"-- by permission of the author and of j. m. dent & sons, ltd., toronto_ the silent toast (_vimy ridge, april, _) they stand with reverent faces, and their merriment give o'er, as they drink the toast to the unseen host, who have fought and gone before. it is only a passing moment in the midst of the feast and song, but it grips the breath, as the wind of death in a vision sweeps along. no more they see the banquet and the brilliant lights around: but they charge again on the hideous plain when the shell-bursts rip the ground. or they creep at night, like panthers, through the waste of no man's land, their hearts afire with a wild desire and death on every hand. and out of the roar and tumult, or the black night loud with rain, some face comes back on the fiery track and looks in their eyes again. and the love that is passing woman's, and the bonds that are forged by death, now grip the soul with a strange control and speak what no man saith. the vision dies off in the stillness, once more the tables shine, but the eyes of all in the banquet hall are lit with a light divine. frederick george scott _by permission of the author and the musson book company, limited, toronto_ prospice the ancient and the lovely land is sown with death; across the plain ungarnered now the orchards stand, the maxim nestles in the grain, the shrapnel spreads a stinging flail where pallid nuns the cloister trod, the airship spills her leaden hail; but--after all the battles--god. athwart the vineyard's ordered banks, silent the red rent forms recline, and from their stark and speechless ranks there flows a richer, ruddier wine; while down the lane and through the wall the victors writhe upon the sod, nor heed the onward bugle call; but--after all the bugles--god. by night the blazing cities flare like mushroom torches in the sky; the rocking ramparts tremble ere the sullen cannon boom reply. and shattered is the temple spire, the vestment trampled on the clod, and every altar black with fire; but--after all the altars--god. and all the prizes we have won are buried in a deadly dust; the things we set our hearts upon beneath the stricken earth are thrust; again the savage greets the sun, again his feet, with fury shod, across a world in anguish run; but--after all the anguish--god. the grim campaign, the gun, the sword, the quick volcano from the sea, the honour that reveres the word, the sacrifice, the agony-- these be our heritage and pride, till the last despot kiss the rod, and, with man's freedom purified, we mark--behind our triumph--god. alan sullivan _by permission of the author_ the outer guard bold watchers of the deeps, guards of the greater ways, how shall our swelling hearts express our heights and depths of thankfulness for these safe-guarded days! grim is your vigil there, black day and blacker night,-- watching for life, while knavish death lurks all around, above, beneath, waiting his chance to smite. your hearts are stouter than the worst that death can do. our thoughts for you!--our prayers for you! there's one aloft that cares for you, and he will see you through. don't think we e'er forget the debt we owe to you! never a night but we pray for you! never a day but we say for you,-- "god bless the gallant lads in blue! with mighty strength their hearts renew! bless every ship and every crew! give every man his rightful due! and bring them all safe through!" john oxenham _by permission of the author_ small craft when drake sailed out from devon to break king philip's pride, he had great ships at his bidding and little ones beside; _revenge_ was there, and _lion_, and others known to fame, and likewise he had small craft, which hadn't any name. small craft--small craft, to harry and to flout 'em! small craft--small craft, you cannot do without 'em! their deeds are unrecorded, their names are never seen, but we know that there were small craft, because there must have been. when nelson was blockading for three long years and more, with many a bluff first-rater and oaken seventy-four to share the fun and fighting, the good chance and the bad, oh, he had also small craft, because he must have had. upon the skirts of battle, from sluys to trafalgar, we know that there were small craft, because there always are; yacht, sweeper, sloop, and drifter, to-day as yesterday, the big ships fight the battles, but the small craft clear the way. they scout before the squadrons when mighty fleets engage; they glean war's dreadful harvest when the fight has ceased to rage; too great they count no hazard, no task beyond their power, and merchantmen bless small craft a hundred times an hour. in admirals' dispatches their names are seldom heard; they justify their being by more than written word; in battle, toil, and tempest, and dangers manifold the doughty deeds of small craft will never all be told. scant ease, and scantier leisure--they take no heed of these, for men lie hard in small craft when storm is on the seas; a long watch and a weary, from dawn to set of sun-- the men who serve in small craft, their work is never done. and if, as chance may have it, some bitter day they lie out-classed, out-gunned, out-numbered, with naught to do but die, when the last gun's out of action, good-bye to ship and crew, but men die hard in small craft, as they will always do. oh, death comes once to each man, and the game it pays for all, and duty is but duty in great ship and in small, and it will not vex their slumbers or make less sweet their rest, though there's never a big black headline for small craft going west. great ships and mighty captains--to these their meed of praise for patience, skill, and daring, and loud victorious days; to every man his portion, as is both right and fair, but oh! forget not small craft, for they have done their share. small craft--small craft, from scapa flow to dover, small craft--small craft, all the wide world over, at risk of war and shipwreck, torpedo, mine, and shell, all honour be to small craft, for oh, they've earned it well! c. fox-smith _reprinted by special permission of london "punch"_ extract from speech of rt. hon. a. j. balfour in toronto (_may, _) i come into canada to a great free country, composed not only of friends, but of countrymen. we think the same thoughts, we live in the same civilization, we belong to the same empire, and if anything could have cemented more closely the bonds of empire, if anything could have made us feel that we were indeed of one flesh and one blood, with one common history behind us, if anything could have cemented these feelings, it is the consciousness that now for two years and a half we have been engaged in this great struggle, in which, i thank god, all north america is now at one. we have been engaged in this great struggle through these two years and a half, fighting together, when necessary making all our sacrifices in common, working together toward a common and victorious end, which i doubt not will crown our efforts. may i, as a countryman of yours, though not a citizen of toronto, may i say how profoundly the whole empire feels the magnitude of the effort you have made, and how we value it for itself and for an example to all posterity, an evidence to the whole world of what the british empire really means, not only for the whole of that civilized body of nations of which we form no inconsiderable part. these are proud thoughts; they will some day be proud memories. we are associated together in a struggle never equalled yet in the history of the world, and i rejoice to think that in that struggle on which posterity will look back as the greatest effort made for freedom and civilization, the british empire in every one of its constituent parts, and surely not least in this great dominion, in this proud province, and in this city not least, has shown what the unity of the empire really means, and how vain were the anticipations of those who thought that we were constituted but a fair-weather empire, to be dissolved into thin atoms at the first storm that should burst upon it. we have, on the contrary, shown that the more storms beat on the fabric of our empire the more firmly it held together, and were so far from shaking it in any single part. events that have recently occurred, that are occurring, and that will occur in the future, will join every part of it together for ever in memories which will remain with us, the actors in this great drama, until we die, and which we shall be able to hand to our children and our grandchildren as long as civilization exists. the spires of oxford (_seen from the train_) i saw the spires of oxford as i was passing by, the gray spires of oxford against a pearl-gray sky. my heart was with the oxford men who went abroad to die. the years go fast in oxford, the golden years and gay, the hoary colleges look down on careless boys at play. but when the bugle sounded war they put their games away. they left the peaceful river, the cricket-field, the quad, the shaven lawns of oxford to seek a bloody sod-- they gave their merry youth away for country and for god. god rest you, happy gentlemen, who laid your good lives down, who took the khaki and the gun instead of cap and gown. god bring you to a fairer place than even oxford town. w. m. letts _by permission of the author from "spires of oxford"-- e. p. dutton & co., new york_ extract from speech of monsieur viviani in ottawa (_may , _) it must not be forgotten that in the month of february, , at ypres, in the north of france, near the belgian frontier, in a country devastated by floods, after the terrific assault of the german soldiers by means of asphyxiating gases--germany, the country that has caused science to swerve from its true ends, and, instead of pouring its benefits upon mankind, has visited humanity with manifold evils and crimes--that same germany had to meet your canadian soldiers. on that terrific day, your sons, rising in their might, saved the situation. and throughout many battles, throughout numerous and recent victories, the soldiers of canada stood up heroically against the foe. even at this moment, we have before our eyes your boys, so alert, so athletic, so brave, the first to storm, victoriously carrying their flag to those heights of vimy which were reputed to be impregnable. hail to all these soldiers; let us bow our heads reverently before those who fight, those who suffer, and those who have laid down their lives for their country. they had a clear perception of what their action meant; when they left this country they were well aware that it was not only great britain that they were called upon to defend, that it was not only france that they were going to protect against the attacks of invaders:--their clear vision upturned toward heaven, detected the higher object; they were well aware that it was the sacred cause of humanity, of democracy, and of justice, that they were defending. the name of france give us a name to fill the mind with the shining thoughts that lead mankind, the glory of learning, the glory of art,-- a name that tells of a splendid part in the long, long toil and the strenuous fight of the human race to win its way from the feudal darkness into the day of freedom, brotherhood, equal right,-- a name like a star, a name of light. i give you _france_! give us a name to stir the blood with a warmer glow and a swifter flood,-- a name like the sound of a trumpet, clear, and silver-sweet, and iron-strong, that calls three million men to their feet, ready to march, and steady to meet the foes who threaten that name with wrong,-- a name that rings like a battle-song. i give you _france_! give us a name to move the heart with the strength that noble griefs impart, a name that speaks of the blood outpoured to save mankind from the sway of the sword,-- a name that calls on the world to share in the burden of sacrificial strife where the cause at stake is the world's free life and the rule of the people everywhere,-- a name like a vow, a name like a prayer. i give you _france_! henry van dyke _from "the red flower"--copyright charles scribner's sons, new york. by permission of the author_ extract from a speech of marshal joffre in montreal (_may , _) i thank you, with all my heart, for the warmth of the reception you have given me, and i can assure you that the acclamations with which you have greeted me will be heard in france. i know the services rendered by canada in france. your soldiers have fought beside our soldiers, and many have died in the fight we are waging. they have always shown indomitable courage, and in them canada has done her duty. . . . . . . . . . . your canadian soldiers have won the admiration of france. i have seen your men in action, they are courageous; they are indomitable and marvellous; they despise death; and their bravery is only equalled by that of the soldiers of france. i thank you for the demonstration you have given me, and i am happy that i have been able, during my stay on this continent, to come up to this great city of montreal for a few hours, to meet a people who show us so warmly that we in france have a place in their affections. all i can say is, and i say it with all my heart, "vive le canada!" for the men at the front lord god of hosts, whose mighty hand dominion holds on sea and land, in peace and war thy will we see shaping the larger liberty. nations may rise and nations fall, thy changeless purpose rules them all. when death flies swift on wave or field, be thou a sure defence and shield! console and succour those who fall, and help and hearten each and all! o, hear a people's prayers for those who fearless face their country's foes! for those who weak and broken lie, in weariness and agony-- great healer, to their beds of pain come, touch, and make them whole again! o, hear a people's prayers, and bless thy servants in their hour of stress! for those to whom the call shall come we pray thy tender welcome home. the toil, the bitterness, all past, we trust them to thy love at last. o, hear a people's prayers for all who, nobly striving, nobly fall! to every stricken heart and home, o, come! in tenderest pity, come! to anxious souls who wait in fear, be thou most wonderfully near! and hear a people's prayers, for faith to quicken life and conquer death! for those who minister and heal, and spend themselves, their skill, their zeal-- renew their hearts with christ-like faith, and guard them from disease and death. and in thine own good time, lord, send thy peace on earth till time shall end! john oxenham _by permission of the author_ what has britain done? what has britain done? kept the faith and fought the fight for the everlasting right: chivalrously couched her lance in defence of belgium, france-- this has britain done. what has britain done? given every seventh son, met the challenge of the hun: placed her men on every field, proud to die, too proud to yield-- this has britain done. what has britain done? answers every far-flung breeze blown across the seven seas: "watch and ward secure she keeps, with vigilance that never sleeps"-- this has britain done. what has britain done? on every front, her flag unfurled, fought a world-war round the world: then, when all is said and done, ask her allies, ask the hun, "what has britain done?" what has britain done? for her slain britannia weeps-- she might boast who silence keeps. but, when all is done and said, call the roll and count her dead, and know what she has done. rev. f. b. hodgins _by permission of the author_ extract from speech of rt. hon. david lloyd george (_delivered at queen's hall on the third anniversary of the declaration of war, august , _) while the army is fighting so valiantly, let the nation behind it be patient, be strong, and, above all, united. the strain is great on nations and on individuals, and when men get over-strained tempers get ragged, and small grievances are exaggerated, and small misunderstandings and mistakes swell into mountains. long wars, like long voyages and long journeys, are very trying to the temper, and wise men keep watch on it and make allowances for it. there are some who are more concerned about ending the war than about winning it; and plans which lead to victory, if they prolong the conflict, have their disapproval, and the people who are responsible for such plans have their condemnation. let us keep our eye steadily on the winning of the war. may i say let us keep both eyes? some have a cast in their eye, and while one eye is fixed truly on victory, the other is wandering around to other issues or staring stonily at some pet or partisan project of their own. beware of becoming cross-eyed! keep both eyes on victory. look neither to the right nor to the left. that is the way we shall win. if any one promotes national distrust or disunion at this hour, he is helping the enemy and hurting his native land. and it makes no difference whether he is for or against the war. as a matter of fact, the hurt is deeper if he is for the war, because whatever the pure pacifist says is discounted, and, as far as the war is concerned, discredited. let there be one thought in every head. if you sow distrust, discontent, disunion in the nation we shall reap defeat. if, on the other hand, we sow the seeds of patience, confidence, and unity, we shall garner in victory and its fruits. the last ridges of a climb are always the most trying to the nerves and to the heart, but the real test of great endurance and courage is the last few hundreds or scores of feet in a climb upwards. the climber who turns back when he is almost there never becomes a great mountaineer, and the nation that turns back and falters before it reaches its purpose never becomes a great people. you have all had experience in climbing, no doubt--perhaps in wales. any mountaineer can start; any sort of mountaineer can go part of the way; and very often the poorer the mountaineer, the greater is his ardour when he does start; but fatigue and danger wear out all but the stoutest hearts, and even the most stout-hearted sometimes fail when they come to the last slippery precipice. but if they do turn back and afterwards look up and see how near they had got to the top, how they curse the faint-heartedness which bade them give up when they were so near the goal! what has england done? (this is the reply of an american poet to a question often heard in the united states.) strange, that in this great hour, when righteousness has won her war upon hypocrisy, that some there be who, lost in littleness, and mindful of an ancient grudge, can ask: "now, what has england done to win this war?" we think we see her smile that english smile, and shrug a lazy shoulder and--just smile. it were so little worth her while to pause in her stupendous task to make reply. what has she done? when with her great, gray ships, lithe, lean destroyers, grim, invincible, she swept the prowling prussian from the seas; and, heedless of the slinking submarine, the hidden mine, the hun-made treacheries, her transports plied the waters ceaselessly! you ask what she has done? have you forgot that 'neath the burning suns of palestine she fought and bled, nor wearied of the fight till from that land where walked the nazarene she drove the foul and pestilential turk? ah, what has england done? no need to ask! upon the fields of flanders and of france a million crosses mark a million graves; upon each cross a well-loved english name. and, ah, her women! on that peaceful isle, where in the hawthorn hedges thrushes sang, and meadow-larks made gay the scented air, now blackened chimneys rear their grimy heads, smoke-belching, and the frightened birds have fled before the thunder of the whirring wheels. behind unlovely walls, amid the din, seven times a million noble women toil-- with tender, unaccustomed fingers toil, nor dream that they have played a hero's part. great-hearted england, we have fought the fight together, and our mingled blood has flowed. full well we know that underneath that mask of cool indifference there beats a heart, grim as your own gaunt ships when duty calls, yet warm and gentle as your summer skies: a nation's heart that beats throughout a land where kings may be beloved, and monarchy can teach republics how they may be free. ah! what has england done? when came the call, she counted not the cost, but gave her all! vilda sauvage owens _by permission of the author_ in the morning back from battle, torn and rent, listing bridge and stanchions bent by the angry sea. by thy guiding mercy sent, fruitful was the road we went-- back from battle we. if thou hadst not been, o lord, behind our feeble arm, if thy hand had not been there to slam the lyddite home, when against us men uprose and sought to work us harm, we had gone to death, o lord, in spouting rings of foam. heaving sea and cloudy sky saw the battle flashing by, as thy foemen ran. by thy grace, that made them fly, we have seen two hundred die since the fight began. if our cause had not been thine, for thy eternal right, if the foe in place of us had fought for thee, o lord! if thou hadst not guided us and drawn us there to fight we never should have closed with them--thy seas are dark and broad. through the iron rain they fled, bearing home the tale of dead, flying from thy sword. after-hatch to fo'c's'le head, we have turned their decks to red, by thy help, o lord! it was not by our feeble sword that they were overthrown, but thy right hand that dashed them down, the servants of the proud; it was not arm of ours that saved, but thine, o lord, alone, when down the line the guns began, and sang thy praise aloud. sixty miles of running fight, finished at the dawning light, off the zuider zee. thou that helped throughout the night weary hand and aching sight, praise, o lord, to thee. klaxon _by permission of wm. blackwood & sons, edinburgh_ order to the canadian army corps (_march , _) looking back with pride on the unbroken record of your glorious achievements, asking you to realize that to-day the fate of the british empire hangs in the balance, i place my trust in the canadian corps, knowing that where canadians are engaged, there can be no giving way. under the orders of your devoted officers in the coming battle, you will advance, or fall where you stand, facing the enemy. to those who fall, i say: "you will not die, but step into immortality. your mothers will not lament your fate, but will be proud to have borne such sons. your names will be revered for ever by your grateful country, and god will take you unto himself." canadians, in this fateful hour, i command you and i trust you to fight as you have ever fought, with all your strength, with all your determination, with all your tranquil courage. on many a hard-fought field of battle you have overcome this enemy, and with god's help you shall achieve victory once more. (sgd.) a. w. currie, lieut.-gen. commanding canadian corps the soul of a nation (_march , _) the little things of which we lately chattered-- the dearth of taxis or the dawn of spring; themes we discussed as though they really mattered, like rationed meat or raiders on the wing;-- how thin it seems to-day, this vacant prattle, drowned by the thunder rolling in the west, voice of the great arbitrament of battle that puts our temper to the final test. thither our eyes are turned, our hearts are straining, where those we love, whose courage laughs at fear, amid the storm of steel around them raining go to their death for all we hold most dear. new born of this supremest hour of trial, in quiet confidence shall be our strength, fixed on a faith that will not take denial nor doubt that we have found our soul at length. o england, staunch of nerve and strong of sinew, best when you face the odds and stand at bay, now show a watching world what stuff is in you; now make your soldiers proud of you to-day! sir owen seaman _reprinted by permission of london "punch"_ the living line (_march, _) as long as faith and freedom last, and earth goes round the sun, this stands--the british line held fast and so the fight was won. the greatest fight that ever yet brought all the world to dearth; a fight of two great nations set to battle for the earth. and one was there with blood aflame to make the earth his tool; and one was there in freedom's name that mercy still should rule. it was a line, a living line of britain's gallant youth that fought the prussian one to nine and saved the world for ruth. that bleeding line, that falling fence, that stubborn ebbing wave, that string of suffering human sense, shuddered, but never gave. a living line of human flesh, it quivered like a brain; swarm after swarm came on afresh and crashed, but crashed in vain. outnumbered by the mightiest foe that ever sought to put the world in chains, they met the blow and fought him foot by foot. they fought his masses, falling back, they poured their blood like wine, and never once the vast attack smashed through that living line. it held, it held, while all the world looked on with strangled breath; it held; again, again it hurl'd man's memory to death. bleeding and sleepless, dazed and spent, and bending like a bow, backward the lads of britain went, their faces to the blow. and day went by, and night came in, and when the moon was gone murder burst out with fiercer din, and still the fight went on. day after day, night after night, outnumbered nine to one, in agony that none may write those young men held the hun. and this is their abiding praise no future shall undo: not once in all those staggering days the avalanche broke thro'. retreat, retreat, yea, still retreat, but fighting one to nine, just knowing there was no defeat if they but held the line. ah, never yet did men more true or souls more finely wrought from cressy down to waterloo fight as these young men fought; on whose great hearts the fate of all mankind was poised that hour which saw the prussian war god fall and christ restored to pow'r. the world shall tell how they stood fast, and how the fight was won, as long as faith and freedom last and earth goes round the sun. harold begbie _by permission of the author_ an historic order (_field-marshal sir douglas haig, april , _) three weeks ago to-day the enemy began his terrific attacks against us on a fifty-mile front. his objects were to separate us from the french, to take the channel ports, and to destroy the british army. in spite of throwing already one hundred and six divisions into the battle, and enduring the most reckless sacrifice of human life, he has yet made little progress toward his goals. we owe this to the determined fighting and self-sacrifice of our troops. words fail me to express the admiration which i feel for the splendid resistance offered by all ranks of our army under the most trying circumstances. many among us now are tired. to those i would say that victory will belong to the side which holds out the longest. the french army is moving rapidly and in great force to our support. there is no other course open to us but to fight it out. every position must be held to the last man. there must be no retirement. with our backs to the wall, and believing in the justice of our cause, each one of us must fight to the end. the safety of our homes and the freedom of mankind depend alike upon the conduct of each one of us at this critical moment. the guns in sussex light green of grass and richer green of bush slope upwards to the darkest green of fir; how still! how deathly still! and yet the hush shivers and trembles with some subtle stir, some far-off throbbing, like a muffled drum, beaten in broken rhythm oversea, to play the last funereal march of some who die to-day that europe may be free. the deep-blue heaven, curving from the green, spans with its shimmering arch the flowery zone; in all god's earth there is no gentler scene, and yet i hear that awesome monotone; above the circling midge's piping thrill, and the long droning of the questing bee, above all sultry summer sounds it still mutters its ceaseless menaces to me. and as i listen all the garden fair darkens to plains of misery and death, and looking past the roses i see there those sordid furrows, with the rising breath of all things foul and black. my heart is hot within me as i view it, and i cry, "better the misery of these men's lot than all the peace that comes to such as i!" and strange that in the pauses of the sound i hear the children's laughter as they roam, and then their mother calls, and all around rise up the gentle murmurs of a home. but still i gaze afar, and at the sight my whole soul softens to its heartfelt prayer: "spirit of justice, thou for whom they fight, ah, turn in mercy, to our lads out there! "the froward peoples have deserved thy wrath, and on them is the judgment as of old. but if they wandered from the hallowed path, yet is their retribution manifold. behold all europe writhing on the rack, the sins of fathers grinding down the sons, how long, o lord!" he sends no answer back, but still i hear the mutter of the guns. sir arthur conan doyle _by permission of the author_ to a soldier in hospital courage came to you with your boyhood's grace of ardent life and limb. each day new dangers steeled you to the test, to ride, to climb, to swim. your hot blood taught you carelessness of death with every breath. so when you went to play another game you could not but be brave: an empire's team, a rougher football field, the end--perhaps your grave. what matter? on the winning of a goal you staked your soul. yes, you wore courage as you wore your youth with carelessness and joy. but in what spartan school of discipline did you get patience, boy? how did you learn to bear this long-drawn pain and not complain? restless with throbbing hopes, with thwarted aims, impulsive as a colt, how do you lie here month by weary month helpless and not revolt? what joy can these monotonous days afford here in a ward? yet you are merry as the birds in spring, or feign the gaiety, lest those who dress and tend your wound each day should guess the agony. lest they should suffer--this the only fear you let draw near. graybeard philosophy has sought in books and argument this truth, that man is greater than his pain, but you have learnt it in your youth. you know the wisdom taught by calvary at twenty-three. death would have found you brave, but braver still you face each lagging day, a merry stoic, patient, chivalrous, divinely kind and gay. you bear your knowledge lightly, graduate of unkind fate. careless philosopher, the first to laugh, the latest to complain, unmindful that you teach, you taught me this in your long fight with pain: since god made man so good--here stands my creed-- god's good indeed. w. m. letts _by permission of the author from "hallow e'en and other verses"-- john murray, london_ speech delivered by lieut.-gen. sir a. w. currie in london before august offensive, just before the canadian entrance into the great offensive of august, , general sir arthur w. currie, during a short visit to london, delivered the following message from the canadian army corps under his command: the situation is a serious one, and it is better for all peoples to know the fact. germany has struck four mighty blows with success on each occasion, and it is just a question of how many of these blows we can stand. personally, i think that the factor that can be turned in our favour is this: if we stop and fight the boche, we will kill a sufficient number to make him silly, while america develops enough strength to turn the man power in our favour. the british soldier realizes that he is a better man than the boche, and he believes that the german army can be beaten. our men do not regard the boche as a superman; and, remembering the crimes they have committed, we shall never take such delight in killing them as when we next meet them. germany is simply a mad dog that must be killed, a cancerous growth that must be removed. i suppose that i am the proudest man in the british isles to-night, but i am not the happiest. i am the proudest man because i command the finest fighting force in all the allied armies. an officer of canadian birth, who has spent the whole of his military career with the british army, and married an english wife, told me the other day that he was proud to be a canadian, for everywhere he went men spoke of the deeds of the canadian army corps. when the women with their children and the old men were fleeing before enemy forces on the western front on a not very distant occasion, and learned that the troops meeting them were canadians, they turned round and went back home. on another occasion, when visiting a british headquarters, i saw a brigadier sitting by the roadside, tired, and dirty, and wan. he called out, "who's that coming along?" when the reply was, "general currie", he said, "are the canadians coming down here?" told that they were, he threw his hat in the air and declared, "then we are all right now". when we came to england first, we were not regarded as the finest fighting soldiers. we had many things said about us unjustly; and suggestions were put about that it was improbable we should ever become good soldiers. everywhere to-day, at general headquarters and all other places, it is recognized that canadian soldiers are fit to take their place beside the veteran soldiers of the british army, with whom we are proud to serve. i know that it has been said that canadians and other overseas troops are placed in the hottest parts of the war area. the greatest fighting of the war has been this year, and we have not taken any particular part in it. the boche has not attacked the canadian front. he knows that he has never yet met the troops from canada without suffering severely. the turn of the canadian corps must come. the temper of the canadian soldier is that there is no position he is asked to take that he will not take; and i know that the boche will not take any part of our line, except over the dead bodies of your canadian fellow-citizens. that is why i am not the happiest man in the british isles to-night. the canadian corps is going to die. it is simply a question of who can stand killing the longer. i have never seen the corps in finer fighting fettle than it is to-day. the canadians are now more efficient than ever; and we could not be in that position unless we were backed up by general sir richard turner and his staff in england. there is a feeling of co-operation now that never existed before; and the better the liaison we have between france, england, and canada, the better it is for the fighting forces. and so we stand in a great cause, on the eve of great events. we have to preserve the british empire. it would be a terrible calamity if anything should happen that would make the peoples of the british empire hesitate at such a juncture. the british empire must be saved. the air men (this poem was written before , but it so well portrays the conditions which prevailed in the last year of the great war that it is here reproduced.) we brought great ships to birth, we builded towns and towers-- lords of the sea and earth, soon shall the sky be ours. soon shall our navies drift like swallows down the wind, shall wheel and swoop and lift, leaving the clouds behind. the stars our keels shall know. the eagle, as it flies, shall scream to see us go swift moving through the skies. high o'er the mountain-steep our wingèd fleets shall sail. the serried squadrons sweep, white-pinioned down the gale. we are the lords of the land, we built us towns and towers. the sea has felt our hand-- soon shall the sky be ours. norah holland _from "spun-yarn and spindrift"--by permission of the author and of j. m. dent & sons, ltd., toronto_ extracts from speech (_september, _) canada's war record is made, though not completed. nothing she can do in the future will detract from her great past in this world struggle. she has shown herself a true daughter of great britain. she has spared neither sons nor treasure to help her alma mater to save the world. . . . . . . . . . . well done, canadians, you are a great people, and you may proudly stand among the nations who are saving the world. william howard taft king george's message to the navy (_november , _) the navy to the right hon. sir eric geddes, g.b.e., k.c.b., m.p., first lord of the admiralty now that the last and most formidable of our enemies has acknowledged the triumph of the allied arms on behalf of right and justice, i wish to express my praise and thankfulness to the officers, men, and women of the royal navy and marines, with their comrades of the fleet auxiliaries and mercantile marine, who for more than four years have kept open the sea, protected our shores, and given us safety. ever since that fateful fourth of august, , i have remained steadfast in my confidence that, whether fortune frowned or smiled, the royal navy would once more prove the sure shield of the british empire in the hour of trial. never in its history has the royal navy, with god's help, done greater things for us, nor better sustained its old glories and the chivalry of the seas. with full and grateful hearts the peoples of the british empire salute the white, the red, and the blue ensigns, and those who have given their lives for the flag. i am proud to have served in the navy. i am prouder still to be its head on this memorable day. george r.i. sky signs when all the guns are sponged and cleaned, and fuses go to store, when all the wireless stations cry--"come home, you ships of war"-- "come home again and leave patrol, no matter where you be". we'll see the lights of england shine, flashing again on the steaming line, as out of the dark the long gray hulls come rolling in from sea. the long-forgotten lights will shine, and gild the clouds ahead, over the dark horizon-line, across the dreaming dead that went to sea with the dark behind and the spin of a coin before. mark the gleam of orfordness, showing a road we used to guess, from the shetland isles to dover cliffs--the shaded lane of war. up the channel with gleaming ports will homing squadrons go, and see the english coast alight with headlands all aglow with thirty thousand candle-power flung up from far gris-nez. portland bill and the needles' light, tompions back in the guns to-night-- for english lights are meeting french across the soldiers' way. when we come back to england then, with all the warring done, and paint and polish come up the side to rule on tube and gun, we'll know before the anchor's down, the tidings won't be new. lizard along to the isle of wight, every lamp was burning bright, northern lights or trinity house--we had the news from you! klaxon _by permission of wm. blackwood & sons, edinburgh_ order to the canadians after the capture of mons (_november, _) some of you have already commenced, while others are about to march on the rhine, liberating belgium in your advance. in a few days you will enter germany and hold certain parts, in order to secure the fulfilment of the terms of the armistice preliminary to the peace treaty. the rulers of germany, humiliated and demoralized, have fled. that unscrupulous nation, who in set at naught every treaty and violated every moral obligation, who has since perpetrated the most ferocious atrocities on land as well as on sea, is beaten, famished, and at our mercy. justice has come. retribution commences. during four long years, conscious of the righteousness of your cause, you have fought many battles and endured cruel hardships, and now your mighty efforts are rewarded. your fallen comrades are avenged. you have demonstrated on the battle-field your superior courage and unfaltering energy. by the will of god you have won, won, won, marching triumphantly through belgium. you will be received everywhere as liberators, but the kindness and generosity of the population must not cause any relaxation of your discipline or alertness. your task is not yet completed, and you must remain what you are--a close-knitted army in grim, deadly earnest. german agents scattered throughout the country must not be able to report to their german masters any weakness or evidence of disintegration of your fighting power. it is essential that on the march and at the halt discipline must be of the highest standard. every possible protection should be taken at all times to guard against hostile acts by organized bodies, and to lessen the possibilities, always present, of isolated murders or desperate guerilla acts by factions of the enemy. above all, it is of capital importance to establish in germany the sense of your overwhelming moral and physical standing, so as to complete by the presence of your potential strength the victories you have won on the battle-field. all external signs of discipline must be insisted upon, and the example in this, as in all instances, must come from the leaders. clothing and equipment must be, if possible, spotless, well kept, and well put on. badges and distinguishing marks must be complete, while the transport should be as clean as the circumstances will allow. in short, you must continue to be, and appear to be, that powerful-hitting force which has won the fear and respect of your foes and the admiration of the world. it is not necessary to say that the population and private property will be respected. you will always remember that you fought for justice, right, and decency, and that you cannot afford to fall short of these essentials, even in the country against which you have every right to feel bitter. rest assured that the crimes of germany will receive adequate punishment. attempts will be made, by insidious propaganda, to undermine the source of your strength; but you, the soldier citizens of the finest and most advanced democracy in the world, will treat such attempts with the contempt they deserve. you know that self-imposed, stern discipline has made you the hardest, most successful, and cleanest fighters of this war. beginning by the immortal stand at the second battle of ypres, you befittingly closed by the capture of mons your fighting record, in which every battle you fought is a resplendent page of glory. i trust you, and the people at home trust you, while the memory of your dead comrades demands of you to bring back that glorious record, pure and unsullied, to canada. arthur w. currie, lieut.-gen. commanding canadian corps tribute they need no dirge, for springtime fills all things with tribute unto them; the music of the daffodils shall be a soldier's requiem among a thousand hills. blow, golden trumpets, mournfully, for all the golden youth that's fled, for all the shattered dreams that lie where god has laid the quiet dead under an alien sky. but blow triumphant music, too, across the world from sea to sea, because the heart of youth was true, because our england proved to be even greater than we knew. mildred huxley _by permission of the author_ on the navy (_december, _) our safety from invasion, our daily bread, every means whereby we maintain our existence as an independent people, our unity as an empire, or federation of commonwealths and dependencies--all these float from hour to hour upon our naval defence. . . . . . . . . . . if that defence is neglected, weakened, or fettered, we should be in continual danger of subjugation or starvation. we should be forced to live in continued anxiety. if that naval defence were overthrown or outmatched by any other navy or probably by a combination of navies, we should hold, not merely our possessions, but our lives and liberties only on sufferance. where else in the whole world can such conditions be paralleled? we have the right to demand from all other nations, friends and foes alike, full recognition of these facts. we are also entitled to point out that this naval strength that we require, and which we are determined to preserve, has never been used in modern history in a selfish and aggressive manner, and that it has, on four separate occasions, in four separate centuries--against philip the second of spain, louis the fourteenth, napoleon, and the kaiser--successfully defended civilization from military tyranny, and particularly, preserved the independence of the low countries. in this greatest of all wars, the british navy shielded mighty america from all menace of serious danger; and, when she resolved to act, it was the british navy that transported and escorted the greater proportion of her armies to the rescue and deliverance of france. our record in a hundred years of unquestioned naval sway since trafalgar, proves the sobriety of our policy and the righteousness of our intentions. almost the only ports in the world open freely to the commerce of all nations were those of our island. its possessions and our coaling-stations were used freely and fully by ships of all nations. we suppressed the slave trade. we put down piracy. we put it down again the other day. even our coastwise traffic, so jealously guarded by every power in the world, was thrown open to all comers on even terms, by that ancient people in whose keeping the world has been wisely ready to intrust the freedom of the seas. . . . . . . . . . . we are sincere advocates of a league of nations. every influence britain can bring to bear will be used to make such a league a powerful reality. this fine conception of president wilson has been warmly welcomed by british democracies all over the world. we shall strive faithfully and loyally to carry it into being, and keep it in active benefit and existence. but we must state quite frankly that a league of nations cannot be for us a substitute for the british navy in any period that we can foresee. rt. hon. winston churchill the debt unpayable what have i given, bold sailor on the sea, in earth or heaven, that you should die for me? what can i give, o soldier, leal and brave, long as i live, to pay the life you gave? what tithe or part can i return to thee, o stricken heart, that thou shouldst break for me? the wind of death for you has slain life's flowers, it withereth (god grant) all weeds in ours. f. w. bourdillon _by permission of the author_ king george in paris (_november , _) in proposing the health of president poincaré, the king said: it is difficult for me adequately to express the great pleasure that i feel in being your guest here to-night in this fair city of paris, and in the midst of the great nation with which during past years i and my people have mingled our sorrows and our joys, and are now triumphantly crowned by overwhelming victory over the common enemy. we can all remember the repeated and desperate efforts made by the german armies to reach and capture this great capital; but, thanks to the bravery of the splendid french army and the loyal co-operation of the allies, the aims of the enemy have been defeated; and by the skilful direction and the strategy of the distinguished marshal foch, the troops of the invader have been hurled across the frontier and compelled to sue for peace. mr. president, i congratulate you and the noble french nation upon the great victory that has been achieved, in which my generals and armies are proud to have taken part. in the life and death conflict in which our nations have been together engaged for civilization and for right against the methods of barbarism and the forces of destruction, the french and british peoples have learned in unity of purpose to appreciate each other and their respective ideals. they have created a union of hearts and an identity of interests that, i trust, will ever grow closer, and contribute materially to the consolidation of peace and the advancement of civilization. lastly, let me add one word of sympathy for those heroic frenchmen and french women who have suffered at the hands of the invader such as few have suffered, except in belgium. and let us not forget the immortal dead, whose names will ever be enshrined in one of the most glorious pages of the history of the world. my soldiers have fought during all these years of relentless war side by side with the soldiers of france, whose valiant deeds have added fresh lustre to their immortal traditions. the sailors of our two navies have, together, kept these as in a comradeship and mutual trust which the length of the war itself has only served more and more to foster and strengthen. with all my heart i thank you for your friendly feelings and the terms in which you have proposed my health. accept also my cordial thanks for your generous hospitality and for the opportunity which you have afforded me in these ever memorable days of victory to pay my respectful homage to the french nation. britain's day (_december , _) (this message was cabled to the united states on the day set apart for publicly acknowledging the achievements of the british empire in the great war.) the achievements of the british empire for humanity are too manifold to enumerate in a short message. entering the war to defend the rights of nations, she has unhesitatingly given her sons and her wealth. gathered from her loyal dominions, the men of the british empire have carried their victorious eagles over many a bloody field. steadfast in adversity, wounded with a thousand wounds, britain's hammer blows have never weakened or faltered. but for the tenacity of her people the war would have been lost. to those of us who have been associated with them and who have fought beside their gallant troops, words of praise seem inadequate to express our admiration. these things our kinsmen have done, and these things have brought an inseparable union between them and ourselves. to the british people, we extend our thanks for the powerful aid her navy has given, and offer our great respect for the resolute anglo-saxon determination with which she has held on, and we offer our right hand of friendship that our two nations may be more firmly linked together to insure the future peace of the world. gen. j. j. pershing gifts from the dead ye who in sorrow's tents abide, mourning your dead with hidden tears, bethink you what a wealth of pride they've won you for the coming years. grievous the pain; but, in the day when all the cost is counted o'er, would it be best that you should say: "we lost no loved ones in the war"? who knows? but proud then shall ye stand that best, most honoured boast to make: "my lover died for his dear land", or, "my son fell for england's sake". christlike they died that we might live; and our redeemed lives would we bring, with aught that gratitude may give to serve you in your sorrowing. and never a pathway shall ye tread, no foot of seashore, hill, or lea, but ye may think: "the dead, _my_ dead, gave this, a sacred gift, to me". p. habberton lulham _by permission of the author_ the woman's toll o mother, mourning for the son who keeps his last dread watch by unfamiliar streams, or for that other, gay of heart, who sleeps where the great waters guard his secret dreams, amid your tears take comfort for a space, they showed them worthy of their island race. o wife, who heard across the wintry sea death's trumpet shrill for him who goes no more riding at dawn with that brave company whose fellowship no morning shall restore, in whose dark heart your bitterest hour shall bring scents from the scattered petals of the spring. o maid, with wondering eyes untouched of grief, war's dreadful shadow spares your innocent years, yet shall you deem the ways of sunshine brief, paying long hence your toll of hidden tears for love that perished ere the web was spun, and children that shall never see the sun. ruth duffin _joint author, with celia duffin, of "the secret hill" by permission of the author_ pilgrims for oh! when the war will be over, we'll go and we'll look for our dead; we'll go when the bee's on the clover, and the plume of the poppy is red; we'll go when the year's at its gayest, when meadows are laughing with flowers; and there where the crosses are grayest, we'll seek for the cross that is ours. for they cry to us: _friends, we are lonely, a-weary the night and the day; but come in the blossom-time only, come when our graves will be gay: when daffodils all are a-blowing, and larks are a-thrilling the skies, oh, come with the hearts of you glowing, and the joy of the spring in your eyes._ _but never, oh! never come sighing, for ours was the splendid release; and oh! but 'twas joy in the dying to know we were winning you peace. so come when the valleys are sheening, and fledged with the promise of grain; and here where our graves will be greening, just smile and be happy again._ and so when the war will be over, we'll seek for the wonderful one; and maiden will look for her lover, and mother will look for her son; and there will be end to our grieving, and gladness will gleam over loss, as--glory beyond all believing!-- we point . . . to a name on a cross. robert w. service _from "rhymes of a red cross man"--by permission of william briggs, toronto_ epitaphs for the slain (_for a british graveyard in france_) when you go home, tell them of us and say: for your to-morrow, these gave their to-day. -------- (_for those who fell in the first battle of ypres_) when might in scornful millions came arrayed, here a few english stood, and he was stayed. -------- (_for a war memorial_) these in the glorious morning of their days for england's sake lost all but england's praise. -------- (_for a general grave on vimy ridge_) you come from england? is she england still? yes, thanks to you who died upon this hill. j. m. edmonds _in "the times"_ extract from field-marshal sir douglas haig's official report (_january, _) (too great an emphasis cannot be placed on the following paragraph from sir douglas haig's official report of january, , on the operations along the british front during the last days of the great war. that the german army was thoroughly beaten when the armistice was declared, is here put beyond doubt by this laconic summary of the military situation, when the order to cease firing was proclaimed.) the military situation on the british front on the morning of the th november can be stated very shortly. in the fighting since november st, our troops had broken the enemy's resistance beyond possibility of recovery, and had forced on him a disorderly retreat along the whole front of the british armies. thereafter, the enemy was capable neither of accepting nor refusing battle. the utter confusion of his troops, the state of his railways, congested with abandoned trains, the capture of huge quantities of rolling stock and material, all showed that our attack had been decisive. president poincarÉ at the opening of the paris peace conference (_january , _) gentlemen: france greets and thanks you for having chosen as the seat of your labours the city which for more than four years the enemy has made his principal military objective and which the valour of the allied armies has victoriously defended against unceasingly renewed offensives. permit me to see in your decision the homage of all the nations that you represent toward a country which more than any other has endured the sufferings of war, of which entire provinces have been transformed into a vast battle-field and have been systematically laid waste by the invader, and which has paid the human tribute in death. france has borne these enormous sacrifices although she had not the slightest responsibility for the frightful catastrophe which has overwhelmed the universe, and at the moment when the cycle of horror is ending, all the powers whose delegates are assembled here may acquit themselves of any share in the crime which has resulted in such an unprecedented disaster. what gives you the authority to establish a peace of justice is the fact that none of the peoples of whom you are the delegates has had any part in the injustice. humanity can place confidence in you because you are not among those who have outraged the rights of humanity. there is no need for further information or for special inquiries into the origin of the drama which has just shaken the world. the truth, bathed in blood, has already escaped from the imperial archives. the premeditated character of the trap is to-day clearly proved. in the hope of conquering, first, the hegemony of europe, and next, the mastery of the world, the central empires, bound together by a secret plot, found the most abominable of pretexts for trying to crush serbia and force their way to the east. at the same time they disowned the most solemn undertakings in order to crush belgium and force their way into the heart of france. these are the two unforgettable outrages which opened the way to aggression. the combined efforts of great britain, france, and russia were exerted against that man-made arrogance. your nations entered the war successively, but came one and all to the help of threatened right. like germany, great britain had guaranteed the independence of belgium. germany sought to crush belgium. great britain and france both swore to save her. thus from the very beginning of hostilities there came into conflict the two ideas which for fifty months were to struggle for the domination of the world--the idea of sovereign force, which accepts neither control nor check, and the idea of justice, which depends on the sword only to prevent or repress the abuse of strength. faithfully supported by her dominions and colonies, great britain decided that she could not remain aloof from a struggle in which the fate of every country was involved. she has made, and her dominions and colonies have made with her, prodigious efforts to prevent the war from ending in a triumph for the spirit of conquest and destruction of right. . . . . . . . . . . the intervention of the united states was something more, something greater, than a great political and military event. it was a supreme judgment passed at the bar of history by the lofty conscience of a free people, and their chief magistrate, on the enormous responsibilities incurred in the frightful conduct which was lacerating humanity. it was not only to protect themselves from the audacious aims of german megalomania that the united states equipped fleets and created immense armies, but also, and above all, to defend an ideal of liberty over which they saw the huge shadow of the imperial eagle encroaching further every day. . . . . . . . . . . while the conflict was gradually extending over the entire surface of the earth, the clanking of chains was heard here and there, and captive nationalities from the depths of their age-long jails, cried out to us for help. yet more, they escaped to come to our aid. poland came to life again; sent us troops. the czecho-slovaks won their rights to independence in siberia, in france, in italy. the jugo-slavs, the armenians, the syrians, and the lebanese, the arabs, all oppressed peoples, all the victims long helpless or resigned of great historic deeds of injustice, all the martyrs of the past, all the outraged consciences, all the strangled liberties, reviewed the clash of arms and turned toward us as their natural defenders. war gradually attained the fulness of its first significance and became, in the fullest sense of the term, a crusade of humanity for right; and if anything can console us, in part at least, for the losses we have suffered, it is assuredly the thought that our victory is also the victory of right. this victory is complete, for the enemy only asked for the armistice to escape from an irretrievable military disaster. in the interests of justice and peace, it now rests with you to reap from this victory its full fruits. . . . . . . . . . . by establishing this new order of things, you will meet the aspirations of humanity, which, after the frightful conclusions of the blood-stained years, ardently wishes to free itself, protected by a union of free peoples, against every possible revival of primitive savagery. an immortal glory will attach to the names of the nations and the men who have desired to co-operate in this grand work of faith and brotherhood, and who have taken the pains to eliminate from the future peace causes of disturbance and instability. this very day, forty-eight years ago--on the th of january, --the german empire was proclaimed by an army of invasion in the chateau at versailles. it was consecrated by the fate of two french provinces. it was thus a violation from its origin and, by the fault of its founders, it was born in injustice. it has ended in oblivion. you are assembled in order to repair the evil that has been done, and to prevent a recurrence of it. you hold in your hands the future of the world. i leave you, gentlemen, to your grave deliberations, and declare the conference of paris open. national anthem god save our gracious king, long live our noble king, god save the king. send him victorious, happy and glorious, long to reign over us, god save the king. o lord our god, arise, scatter his enemies, and make them fall. confound their politics, frustrate their knavish tricks, on thee our hopes we fix, god save us all. thy choicest gifts in store, on him be pleased to pour; long may he reign. may he defend our laws, and ever give us cause to sing with heart and voice, god save the king. [frontispiece: t. a. browne] the belgian mother and ballads of battle time by t. a. browne second edition toronto: the macmillan company of canada, limited, at st. martin's house :: :: mcmxvii copyright, canada, by the macmillan company of canada, limited dedicated to the great war veterans living, and dead, by whose exalted patriotism and heroic sacrifice in war the british empire was preserved canada to the veterans of the great war as gallant knights, as valiant-souled crusaders, you come from quests of peril o'er the sea; from conflicts stern, against the brute invaders, with laurels nobly won, you come to me. in contest grim, the mightiest of the ages, my banner through the carnage you have borne; your names are written large on glory's pages, i greet you, gallant soldiers, battle-worn. through all the years to be, i shall remember the deeds you wrought, since first you sailed away; since flaming down through belgium, that september, the prussian hell-hounds, baying, sought calais. there ypres and st. julien, shining glorious, red courcelette and vimy's ridge aglow, and many another unsung fight, victorious, wherein you clove a pathway through the foe. you have returned with memories unfading, of prodigies performed in freedom's name, of charging hosts and volley's enfilading, and roaring craters curtained with death's flame. some come not back; in lands afar they're sleeping. who dies for freedom fills no nameless grave; their memory enshrined all hearts are keeping, so sleep remembered, all the gallant brave. yours is the place of honour in the nation; who dares for right the highest shall command; who pours for liberty his heart's libation shall win the grateful tribute of my land. contents the belgian mother the burial of king edward, the peacemaker the coronation of king george v the greater canada the battle call give! give! give! the battle of langemarck "somewhere in france" lines to greece ireland kismet the crimson year, christmas, grit and tory "de fightin' fisherman" monsieur poilu "the bells of belgium" lad of my heart when drinking to erin duty "a wartime greeting" the aviators hell's acolyte copper johnny the quest eternal the building of the chateau the spirit of christmas the chosen people the waif a toast ballad of the budget, year "the pipe" the miracle of may in summer love's miracle the squaw-man heart's desire the awakening eyes of the heart cupid's arrow my april maiden the call of the open the loving cup the belgian mother the belgian mother hear me, o god, who reignest upon high, from blood-bespattered fields hear thou my cry! hear thou a belgian mother's fierce appeal, whose torn bosom, 'neath the prussian heel, crimson and breastless challenges thy sky, of christ the merciful demanding why. wherefore the murder of my valiant sons! wherefore the ravage of my little ones? hear me, o father; jesus, hear me pray, shall there be reckoning, shall prussia pay? father, to whom i knelt these many years, thou wilt give answer to a mother's tears; give answer to the cry of her despair, if heav'n be not o'erthrown, if thou art there! helpless i stand amid the storm of hate, my children slain, my fields made desolate. i will not cease from urging till thou give some sign, some token, that thy justice live. by daytime and by night-time i shall pray. for these foul crimes on mine, shall prussia pay! for sack of cities, sacrilege of shrines, for trampled tombs, a thousand nameless crimes, that cry for vengeance unto heaven's throne, shall he not pay, shall prussia not atone? the dying hands of children grip my heart; from vale and upland, and the thronging mart, there is no laughter where they used to play; they cry unmothered, starved, with faces gray. if this be not a hell 'neath devil's sway, for all my little ones, shall prussia pay! o god of mine, thy harvest moon still beams, nor hides in horror from such ghastly scenes, and thy great sun i thought thy hand might shade, and dim the light that gave such carnage aid. red ravage rides across my piteous plain, behold namur, behold beloved louvain! temples of wisdom, prostrate in the dust, trampled and scarred to glut a despot's lust. hast thou no rod this crowned ghoul to flay? for ruin of beauty, lord, shall prussia pay! out from the land that loved them, beggared flung, sons from the loins of olden heroes sprung; they whom great caesar chronicled in praise, shalt thou leave outcast, doom to evil days? shall belgium's sons, shall this beloved soil, whose very mould is martial, be made spoil? lord of the slain in olden battles, hear! till all i love, till all i hold most dear, till my young hero-king shall find his throne, till belgians shall again sing songs of home, i from amid the ruins, night and day, shall cry to thee, "o god, make prussia pay!" the burial of king edward, the peace-maker all day the league long lines have onward marched; mourn the sad millions round the silent bier, where rests beneath the temple, nobly arched, the form a worldwide people held most dear. the sombre pageant darkens all the land. the seven kings in mournful grandeur ride, kings of the earth must bow to death's command; happy the prince who heeds nor builds on pride! happy the land, that in such mournful hour can through the tears of parting proudly say, as we, he wrought each instrument of power for good, and o'er his people's hearts held sway. shaping his efforts ever toward this end, that e'en the alien learned to bless his name, healing the wounds red war had made, a friend to arts of peace, that is his crowning fame. peacemaker, rest among thy kingly sires; peace was thy shrine, and never war's array, nor glories reared on force were thy desires; thy strength was given to shield, and not to slay. dead king, thy noblest triumph here is made. who claims such tribute from a mighty state reigns on; a sceptred king, though in death laid, and dying lives, beloved, immortal, great. may, . the coronation of king george v an ode of empire summer with the sun conspiring spreads her tapestry of june, flora, all her glories flaunting, floors thy pathway flower-strewn, hedge and field and rose-crowned wayside blush in beauty all aflame, while around thee, radiant ranging, millions give thee sire, acclaim. strike o bard! thy proudest paen, singing with a soul on fire; paint, o master of the canvas! all that grandeur may inspire; but thy soaring inspirations broken-winged shall flutter down, swooning in the purpling glory lighting this an empire's crown. proudly moves the purple pageant over mighty london's pave, rank on rank of gorgeous colour, stately moving wave on wave, rank on rank the massing millions roar a welcome that upsoars like the ocean billows breaking stormy round thy island shores. festooned arches, brilliant bunting, scarlet seas white-capped with plumes, tossing, surging, rythmic swaying to melodious marching tunes, king and prince and jewelled marquis, ermine robe and silken hose, sweeping stately, thousand bannered, on and on the pageant goes. onward to the culmination of the long day's fevered strain, to the happy culmination with its hope of joyful reign, to the solemn coronation 'neath westminster's wondrous pile, treasure house of britain's glory, loveliest heirloom of her isle. sepulchre sublime and mossy; brooder old what dreams are thine, thou who blessed our monarch's forebears since the great confessor's time, thou who holds the dust of princes in thy motherly embrace, who serene through years of tumult watched upgrow a mighty race. from thy walls, oh temple olden, thou hast watched the long years through. seen the forest fastness broken, seen thy sons the seas subdue, seen the saxon hosts embattled to the conquering norman yield, and the hunchback king remorseless die on bosworth's bloody field. seen thy chivalry in squadrons fall in internecine strife, and the regal stuart yielding on the block a royal life, heard the conflict fierce of battle, heard the raging of old wars, seen the victor lift the vanquished and in peace forget their scars. and by slow regeneration from the things that did degrade, rise upon a new foundation a fair nation nobly made, in her hand the touch of freedom, in her soul the newer birth, bent upon the nobler mission, peace, good-will, to men of earth. thus to nationhood and greatness did britannia proudly rise, upwards, onwards, ere extending unto wider, broader skies, penetrating lands of darkness, luminous around the world, mothering a hundred races, guarding 'neath her flag unfurled. steadfast in her mighty mission, seeking for the greater good, hampered often in her labour, often too misunderstood. giving of her wealth and wisdom, giving birth to nations new, giant sons who name her mother, mighty offspring to her true. they who sentinel the vastness of an empire's broad domain, greater than the macedonians, mightier than rome or spain, never empire such as britain's, never one with fewer stains, far extended, many millioned, mantling mountains, seas, and plains. sire, we thy sons salute thee from thy empire's utmost end; this galaxy, thy free nations, to thee heartfelt greetings send; may thy reign be long and fruitful 'neath the king of kings above, olden empires bound by bondage, thine is bound by chains of love. sovereign companion of the watery main, who chose the ocean as thy boyish bride, who know her passion in the hurricane, and love her with a briton's sea-born pride; far continents and empires hast thou trod and saw thy standards in the sunlight stream, in every land beneath the dome of god, ere thought of empire entered in thy dream. wise in the wisdom of the sea art thou to gauge the compass and control the helm; god give thee grace to guide an empire now, prince called to kingship o'er a mighty realm; for on the summit of eight hundred years amid the menace of these days we stand, and crown thee king amid an empire's cheers-- lord of a kingdom reaching land on land. upon this day uplifted crowned art thou, full orbed and sceptred in thy kingly state, the diadem of empire on thy brow, throned o'er a kingdom proud, surpassing great. thine is the king, the sceptre, and the sword-- symbols of power, thine, and thine alone; and thine to keep the compact of the lord-- to guide thy people and protect thy throne. lo, 'tis the awful moment! on thy head the ancient crown of britain rests--'tis done-- above the tombs where sleep the kingly dead that reared a kingdom and an empire won. glory on glories round thee blaze, and deep within thy people's hearts thou art enthroned; unfearful of the whirlwinds fierce that sweep o'er alien monarchs, banished and disowned. while splendour such as england seldom knew, within a temple ancient and supreme, marshals her grandeur, crimson, gold, and blue, in iridescent shadings opaline. glory on glories 'round thee blaze and sweet ambrosial incense rises to the sides, while prince and peer and people 'round thee meet, 'neath galleries begemmed with beauty's eyes. while rolls on high the organ's swelling notes, thrilling aloft in jubilees of sound; while joyful from a thousand loyal throats-- "god save the king"--in glad acclaims resound, triumphant blare the bugles on the breeze, in crashing cannonades the guns reply-- "god save the king"--it leaps a hundred seas, and million voiced is echoed to the skies! the greater canada called the great soul of the westland, "come unto me, ye who rule, they who would plan for my greatness needs must attend in my school. vast are my dreams of the future, born in my domain afar, they who would labour to build me let them now follow my star." into the east went the message, sweeping on clarion clear, steady-toned, crisp and compelling, speaking that all men might hear, telling of courage triumphant, of prodigies nobly performed, of barrenness mantled in beauty, of nakedness clothed and adorned. and he who ruled in the temple laboured and wrought for the good of the land that reared him to honour, hearkened and understood; and borne on the wings of the morning he to the west gave reply, "soul of the westland, i hearken, unto thy kingdom go i." then rose the west for his coming, pulsed the warm blood in her veins, decked she her hillsides with beauty, matted with gold all her plains; flung her broad banners in welcome, spread the fair fruits of her soil, sent forth her offspring to greet him, children of sunlight and toil. trooping they came--him acclaiming--over the gold-crested plain, jewelled with blossoms, sweet scented, bright with the gleam of the grain, manhood and womanhood greeting, giving a welcome full sweet, there 'neath the sunlight of heaven, there midst the ripening wheat. into the west went the seeker drawn by the voice of the soul, vigilant into the vastness speeding from goal unto goal, preaching the gospel of union, seeking the end that all creeds might on the altar of freedom sacrifice give of fair deeds. then where the slumbering mountains fling their white pinnacles high, precipiced, avalanched, chasmed, challenging ever the sky, the soul of the west met the seeker and led him unto the throne, where vision-eyed and majestic she dreamed in her glory alone. then spoke the soul to the seeker, "far have you followed the quest, out of the east i have called you unto my uttermost west; out of the east you have issued, forth from the old to the new, to gaze on the wonder accomplished, to judge of the things yet to do. "long have i brooded and waited over my league vista'd lands, waiting the slow evolution, nursing my wide scattered bands. men of all lands and all nations sprung from the ends of the earth-- they came to me and i fed them, asking not station or birth. "men from the steppes of the russias, bearded and burdened and poor, sons of the plains of the obi and deserts of jeti kenoor, children of darkness and peril seeking the bounty i give, craving the right but to labour, craving the boon but to live. "sons of the vede and the danube, wards of the tara and rhone, these have i nourished and nurtured, these have i loved as my own; cheering them on when they wavered with visions of greatness to be, when cities would gladden my prairie and spires rear by the sea. "now breaks the dawn of fulfilment, now through the mists see arise, splendours thy dreams have recorded, sweet to the patriot's eyes. lo, 'tis the vision of greatness, prophetic, soul-stirring, grand, all that i dreamed, master builder, all that you hoped for or planned. "beaches that billow and beckon, pregnant with bounty and life, vistas of life giving plenty, foreign to clamour and strife, cities that spring as by magic, fair, full of promise, they mould, rising in splendour and beauty, proud in their settings of gold. "harbours o'erflowing with commerce where the proud galleons ride, weighted and straining like racers waiting the turn of the tide, legions of peaceful invaders, bearing no weapons that slay, eager, expectant, and joyful, entering under my sway. "behold an edifice building out of the wealth of the earth by the sons that i have nurtured, by men of different birth; building in love and in labour by men who are undismayed by the storm and stress of seasons, undaunted and unafraid. "behold an edifice rising over the land that god made, august, eternal, majestic, reared by the ploughshare and spade, builded of granite and iron, of oak and gold and of steel, a temple where all may worship, a temple where all may kneel. "the granite, the hearts undaunted, the oak and the gold fair deeds; the steel and the iron, girders binding the different creeds, the floors are the throbbing heart beats of men who love my sod and the dome, the love of country and abiding faith in god." high beat the heart of the seeker, deeply his being was stirred; "soul of the westland," he answered, "i came, i have seen, i have heard, while life shall beat in my bosom, while love shall throb in my breast, labour will i for the eastland, labour will i for the west, "that to the great consummation, building in honour and peace, the nation may rise full proportioned, growing in splendid increase, with east and west undivided, bearing her banners unfurled, a nation exultant and godly, spreading its light on the world." the battle call e'en as of peace we sang, while yet the laughter rang, burst the red storm. past is the long prelude, bloody and grim and nude looms the dread form. gone is the haunting fear, duty alone stands clear, ours to perform. blow, british bugles, blow! o'er land and seas aflow, call round the world, over thy vales and crags, under thy battle flags, proudly unfurled, till all thy children, all, leap to thy martial call, for freedom hurled. from o'er the western sea, mother, we come to thee-- come o'er the foam. from east and south and north, gladly we issue forth, where e'er we roam. courage, thou lion heart, soon shall we do our part for king and throne. fearless of death and flame, forward in freedom's name we shall advance. until the menace dies, until it stricken lies under our lance. though death be our repose, live shamrock, thistle, rose, lillies of france! give! give! give! august, citizens, your kind attention: i desire here to mention we are sending thirty thousand of our bravest to the war. and they leave those to them nearest, all they love, all they hold dearest-- mothers, wives, and little children who must be provided for. then let's give! give! give! that the empire yet may live; that the flag which stands for freedom may be still uplifted high. everybody "loosen up," let us fill the widow's cup-- 'tis our patriotic duty to the men who fight and die. give, then, without hesitation, donate as befits your station, as befits a loyal nation that is ever in the van. open up your golden coffers, be not niggardly in offers-- give up freely every woman, give up gladly every man. then let's give! give! give! that the empire yet may live; that the flag which stands for freedom may be still uplifted high. everybody "loosen up," let us fill the orphan's cup-- 'tis our patriotic duty to the men who fight and die. they have heard their brothers calling from the plains where men are falling, where the hosts embattled grapple, where the deep-mouthed cannon roar. to those valleys battle-stricken, where the dead and dying thicken-- they have gone to fight for freedom, they have left our peaceful shore. then let's give! give! give! that the empire yet may live; that the flag which stands for freedom may be still uplifted high. everybody "loosen up," let us fill the mother's cup-- 'tis a patriotic duty to the men who fight and die. men who stay behind can lighten soldier hearts, their pathway brighten; it is little that they ask us, they who offer up their lives. till the cruel war is over let us o'er their loved ones hover-- o'er the little children waiting, o'er the mothers and the wives. then let's give! give! give! that the empire yet may live! that the flag which stands for freedom may be still uplifted high. everybody "loosen up," let us fill the soldier's cup-- 'tis our patriotic duty to the men who fight and die. the battle of langemarck when men shall say who saved the day in years that are to be; when veterans back from war's grim track again abide with me; when peace regains her throne and reigns, and silent are the guns, i'll think with pride of those who died and say they were my sons. i sent them from their peaceful tasks, those strong young sons of mine; i saw them swinging down the street, i saw them stand in line. my unbronzed of the counting-house, my sun-tanned from the farms, i sent them forth, sons of the north, my gallant men-at-arms. with summer's fading rose they went, i well recall the day; the gold was on the maple leaf, the birds were on the spray, and through the long white wintertime i waited for the spring for word to tell me how they served their country and their king. and then i heard the tolling bells and saw the flags half-mast. why should i weep in springtime with the long, white winter past? and why are all the people stirred and what is it they say? my boys have dared, have fought and shared the glory of the fray. across the sea, afar from me, they've met the dreaded huns at langemarck, in flanders, my gallant northern sons. near ypres, in the lowlands, three thousand miles away, across the wave, my children brave, have died--but saved the day. in grim array that april day, entrenched the allies lay, to bar the path of prussian wrath that fumed to reach calais; and ypres town, half battered down, they'd sought with longing eyes, for they had sworn that very morn to take it as a prize. and breathing there the battle air beneath the warm sunshine from peschendelle to policapelle, canadians held the line; then, sudden as the avalanche that rips the mountain side, the battle broke, and through the smoke they met the german tide. they watched the fume-filled cloud-bank rise and spread its stifling rack; they saw the belgian veterans and gallant french fall back; they heard them cry, they saw them fly as men by fiends pursued; they heard the shout, they saw the rout before that cloud, hell-brewed. in such a plight, as veterans might have blanched before and failed, they stood uncowed with spirits proud and hearts that never quailed. surprised, amazed, a moment dazed, in that tremendous hour, like living rocks they met the shocks of mad germanic power. they saw the wide breach wider grow, when men in terror fled; they saw the eager foe leap on o'er the dying and the dead; and by that foe and through that gap they saw an empire fall; then, in the breach, to front the foe, they threw their living wall. they threw their living breasts between to stem the german tide, my volunteers of canada--they fought as vet'rans tried. they fought the boast of wilhelm's host; they met them hand to hand, my young men of the counting-house, my ploughboys from the land. they came from ranches of the west, where plain and mountain call, from down east way, by fundy's bay, from don and montreal; their feet had known the sea-walled street, where ocean mists hang gray, and one to four, though stricken sore, they kept the foe at bay. the air rained death by bomb and dart, the earth belched death below by shining blade and hand grenade and death by poison slow. three days of hell, with shot and shell, they fought 'neath moon and sun; the belgian plain was strewn with slain, canadian and hun. ye troubadours--who sing of wars and brave deeds handed down, when you will sing how for the king they fought near ypres town, tell how they fought and nobly wrought like paladins of old; tell how my sons retook the guns and won their spurs of gold. and you will tell how birchall fell as calm as on parade, how on they bore amid the roar in that wild charge they made, where julien's wood in moonlight stood when midnight met the morn. tell how they died, my brave, my pride, on that field battle torn. they went not forth for gain or gold, 'twas not for such they died. they fought for right 'gainst armed might that covenants defied. pure was their quest, to serve the best, their banner they unfurled for that high plan, the rights of man, the freedom of the world. the feet that press'd my ample breast, the eyes that loved my pines, will know no more my welcome shore, but still their glory shines. sing, troubadour, let thy song soar, sing with a voice divine of how they saved the day and braved the despot of the rhine. "somewhere in france" oh, everywhere the women wait for men "somewhere in france"; they wait the postman's passing step, they watch with eager glance; they watch and wait to know their fate, with anxious hearts in pain, the seas are wide and, woe betide, they may not come again. oh, postman on your daily round, what message do you bring from them who fight in foreign lands for country and for king? and is it glad or is it sad, that missive's written page, postmarked from france where men advance and frightful battles rage? "somewhere in france" in nowhere land, there is no mark at all to tell them where their dear ones fight or where their loved ones fall; but this must be in war, you see, and so they bravely wait, some mother in her quiet room, some sweetheart by the gate. they may not know the bitter truth, they have enough to bear, and well it is they may not know the things that happen there. god keep the brave across the wave who fight for more than lives, and bless them, too, the women true, the sweethearts, mothers, wives. and yet we know their sacrifice, and know they'd gladly share the wounds and pain of those who fight their battles over there. 'tis theirs to bear the secret care more deadly than the blow, the nameless pain and heavy chains that only women know. they may not with their loved ones march with brave and buoyant tread, they may not close their dying eyes, nor weep above their dead. 'tis theirs to give and wait and live, 'tis theirs to love and bear the cross for those whose life-blood flows afar in france,--somewhere. and love is such a wondrous thing that when its sacred flame burns in a woman's heart, she learns what language may not name. it pales all blooms, it light illumes, the angel's wing outgilds, and makes the sod a court of god, and earth to heaven builds. touch with such flame the hearts, o god! of waiting women here, and may its light leap o'er the land and gleam in every tear that women shed for lovers dead, by war's unholy hands, and bring surcease of pain, and peace to this and all the lands. lines to greece hellas to eastward flames the war apace, along the hills of macedon and thrace. time marches onward, hand in hand with fate. awake, awake, ere yet it be too late. hellas, arise; thou wert not wont to lie prone, while the conflict light'ned in thy sky. land of the muse, if memory thee inspires, wake, and with freedom strike as did thy sires. the monuments that mount thy marble peaks, surely from these some voice heroic speaks. thy place is in the vanguard of the free, and comrade of the turk thou canst not be. around thee, greece, the tide of battle swells from serbia southward to the dardanelles. while from the rhine the siren thee beguiles, brooding meanwhile enslavement of thine isles. the bulgar thunders on thy hilly flanks, the turk, hun-bought, arrays his crimsoned ranks, and fresh from slaughter where armenia cowers, lifts praise to allah as on thee he lowers. joyous the memory of thy ancient power, golden thy lyrics and thy martial dower, proud was thy form when greatness thee attired, when homer sang and phidias inspired. hast thou forgotten one of saxon strain? canst thou remember byron and refrain? his was the voice that waked the god in thee, and his the race that wrought to make thee free. remember still how wise ulysses chose, when from the deep the dulcet chant arose, now be thy soul, o greece, with wisdom strong! reject not orpheus for the siren's song. where chooseth greece, while moves the dark intrigue, where progress beckons or where despots league? each hour supine promotes oppression's goal, betrays mankind, and tarnishes thy soul. ireland harp of my country, i tune thee with gladness, now thy wild song all my being o'erfills, lifting my soul from its memories of sadness, flooding with joy as it vibrates and thrills. fame's on the wing and death's in the valleys, war's on the world and freedom's the prize, who, with head high, marches on with the allies, ireland, 'tis she, with her glorified eyes. guiding her sons where the onset is fiercest, fearless of death, how she leads them along, and where she rides, her mighty lance piercest, as she sings the wild chant of the celt's battle song. rangers of connaught and fusileers famous, irishmen all from the north to dunloe, paddy and michael and terry and shamus, oh, what a name they've made fighting the foe! down in the balkans, in france, or in flanders, no matter where, sure 'tis ever the same, whether as privates or marshal commanders, ever on ireland they've shed deathless fame. song of the allies, sure that's "tipperary", whose armies march to the lilt of that song. who thrilled the world? sure 'twas michael o'leary! irish,--the lad could to none else belong. oh, the long wait, now the blest vindication, ireland, asthore, smile again, 'tis the dawn; lo--on thy banners, see, ireland a nation, the cloud has been lifted, the darkness is gone! kismet in memory of the death of lord kitchener the sea has garnered what the land would keep, the orkneys' brine enshrouds him in its gloom. unphrased, mysterious, he sank to sleep in ocean deeps that darken o'er his tomb. what message sealed his dead and sphinx-like lips up from his great heart, yearning to be told, while strained in agony the stricken ship amid that wilderness of waters cold? methought while death's tubed menace sped the waves the sea exultant cried from vengeful crests, "him take i captive to my sombre caves, for my lost nelson, whom the land invests; it prisons still my noblest sailor son, so from the land i take its peerless one." he planned in continents and empire hewed, moulding from out the waste an ordered world, striding a bronzed colossus, grim and rude, o'er afric veldt and egypt's sands, storm-swirled, pressing imperial-purposed, to his goal; before, his country's high and luminous star, he on her altar laid his splendid soul. bequeathed in martyrdom of glorious war. beside the cyprus hills or nubian sands, by libya's stony, terraced, huge plateau, within the trackless silence, "what commands!" whispered the sphinx, his ear alone to know. what portents shaped the wild sirocco's rage where memnon tunes across the plain at dawn? saw he the vast armies of the west engage in strife stupendous, in those days agone, when by the nile he conquered at khartoum? saw he unmoved the vision of his doom? with his high fame and liberty secure, he rests, his task gigantic, nobly done. born for the ages, ever to endure, he would not pass were victory not won. behold the prodigy he reared!--arrayed, the millions surging to his trumpet voice proclaim the triumph that his genius laid. be brave, my england; it is well, rejoice! like egypt's temples towering he stands amid the crumbling nations, battle-strewn, shadowing times, shifting war-duned sands, prodigious, silent, sombre, and immune. the crimson year christmas, from riga southward to the horn, fierce beats the iron hail, beneath the pole star and the cross, war's vampire rides the gale. across earth's shaken palisades, the red sirocco blows from sand of suez in the south to yukon's northern snows. and who are these who sally forth--these million doomed to die, where scarred between embattled hordes, the scalped hills bloody lie, sons of the mothers of the world, each sworn to overwhelm legions of men of many climes, from city, farm, and realm. sons of the mothers of the earth, who out of love were born, go forth in majesty of health and come back maimed and torn. caught in the whirlpool of the war, all raging, battle-swirled, boiling and reeling, bloody-foamed, labours the frenzied world. who dare cry peace where all is strife; who bid the conflict cease? who dares to kneel beside the crib which thrones the prince of peace? behold! it is the christmas time, the feast of him divine; how shall we stand with stained hands, and worship at his shrine? from verdun's hero-hallowed heights to belgium's sea-swept dunes, the land with shell-ripped bosom lifts his temples, heaped in ruins. what gory harvests here are reaped, of human flesh and bone, christ, in thy christmas time, forgive! who shall for these atone? the serbian hills lie bleak and bare, their people fled or slain; and through the iron gate the storm sweeps the wallachian plain; and twice ten thousand thundering guns hurl forth their screaming shells, till europe seems a place accurst with all its flaming hells. there is no respite on the land--no safety on the deep, where like a school of famished sharks the gaunt subs vigil keep; while overhead, like vultures huge, the pinioned airships fly, wheeling their courses, seeking prey across the glowering sky. the sky where once his herald glowed, that ushered in his reign, the earth which hushed to hear of peace in sweet, seraphic strain, the water which in olden days, storm-tossed, obeyed his will, the earth, the waters, and the sky--his--now men mould to kill. like human gophers burrowing, whole armies sap and mine, and foul beneath the winds of god, proud humans rot as swine, and crimson with the blood of men the streams their courses run:-- god in this christmas hour forgive! how shall we greet thy son? the rocket's glare shall greet his eyes, the tumult breaks his rest, and he, the king, shall sorrowed cling unto his mother's breast; the battle's smoke his star shall dim, the song the angels sing shall pass unheard; thus men at war shall greet their lord and king. what of the future and mankind while christian, christian slays? how shall we dream of better things amid these saddened days? there sounds, derisive, from the east, the laughing pagan lands, "go back, false prophets of the christ, with blood upon your hands." behind their eastern barriers as tigers wait their prey, the little bead-eyed yellow men sit dreaming of their day, when crippled europe, on a crutch, shall cringe before their power, and, chained with broken sword, renounce two thousand years of dower. grit and tory the petty feuds of life depart when roll the nation's drums, and common dangers shared remolds, and strength from union comes. we lived divided in our town, he up the street where i lived down, and when we met we used to frown, for we were grit and tory. but that was in the yesterdays; then something came to change our ways; i'll tell for you the story. i used to think i hated him, i felt he hated me, before the call of duty came and took us o'er the sea, for i was grit unto the core, and he was tory double-bore; in three campaigns we fought it o'er, in battles sometimes gory. for prejudice is rooted deep, and folk sometimes lose precious sleep, because they're grit and tory. it used to be our loudest boast and proudest to relate, that we were always party men and always voted straight; and he who holds his cause as right, is seldom too darn proud to fight, and so we fought with all our might just like two common bruisers; but that was in the olden days, e'er something came to change our ways, and make us saner hoosiers. full sudden came the king's appeal, a call for volunteers, that stirred the fighting blood of us who rowed for many years; then bill enlisted and i too, since there was fighting still to do, went o'er the ocean wide and blue, convoyed by fighting cruisers; and as we sailed for sunny france i wondered which would get his chance and which would be the loser. when whole battalions march away and enter in the fray, the little strifes of little towns seem very far away, and all the hasty words that's said seem petty where great armies tread, and fields are covered thick with dead, and stricken comrades dying; and oft i wondered what i'd say if bill and i should meet some day, among the wounded lying. strange tricks that jade of fortune plays upon the field of strife, and so it came in war's great game i owed to bill my life. we didn't meet till on the somme-- in no-man's land i lay most gone, while over head the bright sun shone, and shrapnel shells were flying. then suddenly i felt a thrill. i heard the voice of fighting bill for his old foeman calling. i did my best to cry hello; it was too great a strain; but in a haze i saw his face and heard him call again. i knew him by the broken nose i gave him once when we'd had blows at one of our big country shows, when i gave him a mauling, and then he spied me and cried--joe! i raised to greet him kind of slow, and then he caught me falling. such things as this don't happen much, but they do happen though, and he's a different bill to-day and i'm a different joe. we're back again in that same town. he up the street where i live down, and when we meet, we _never_ frown, but we're still grit and tory. "de fightin' fisherman" oh, de fish she's all glad in de river, de trout and de bass jomp wid glee, for de garcon dat scares all dere liver is start o'er de ocean--sapre. de tackles all pack in de bunker, de rod he has change for a gun, soon he'll troll in a trench for a junker wit' a steel bullet fit for a hun. for joe he has tak' the king's shilling. he march to the barriefield camp, he show he is able and willing, he's de man of de most best stamp. so joe when we hear dat you're goin' we know that it won't be for play, an' we lak to giv' somethin' for showin' we don't forget dem dats away. an' mebbe when you res' from de fightin', wit' dis keepsake pipe in your jaws, a dream of the office may lighten, or your islan' camp, up by de chats.[ ] fly de flag on de ole _foxy quiller_, she be sad till you come back again, a medalled and famous man-killer, who laid by de rod to hunt men. an' if in de fight, as in fishin', you handle de gun like de rod, i t'ink kaiser bill will be wishin' you never come over,--by god. an' jes' at dis time when de nation sends her braves' sons over de sea, we give you our heart's salutation, au revoir,--and god bless you, bebe. dere's plenty close shave in dis razor, an' de time piece gives radian' light, an' sometam you may capture de kaiser if he tries to creep up in de night. [ ] chats, a waterfall on the ottawa, pronounced as shaw. monsieur poilu you'd say that he was plucky, if you saw him in a trench. it matters not how mucky you'd know that he was french. monsieur poilu, gay and eager in his tattered, war-stained coat, sniping germans as a pastime with the laughter in his throat. here's looking at you, poilu, dashing son of gallant france, you're a gentleman and soldier and you take a fighting chance. he's bearded and he's scrappy, and his cheeks, they ruddy glow; he can fight, and he is happy, when he's charging on the foe. you would think he was in paris listening to some sweet refrain, or dining with the _petite femmes_ along the river seine, instead of facing prussian steel and charging through the fray. then here's to you, gallant poilu, with you're heart so light and gay. comrade poilu over there, fighting to your latest breath, with a smile so debonair in the blazing face of death, you have won undying glory, to your country you've been true, and the whole wide world salutes you and drinks a toast to you. you're a reckless, laughing devil as d'artagnan of romance, and you're fighting, fighting, fighting for beloved _la belle france_. "the bells of belgium" i heard the bells of belgium sweetly ringing, like angel tones celestial on the air. within the fields the harvesters were singing, when plentitude and peace were there. i heard the bells of belgium softly chiming, when o'er the peaceful vale uprose the moon; the maiden walked, her lover's arm entwining, unthinking of his exile, or her doom. i heard the bells of belgium sadly tolling, they sobbed across the vineyards and the dunes, the rack of war across the land was rolling, and ravagers had laid the land in ruins. an alien race a land of freemen goaded, and pitiless as proud, took up their reign, and ruffian stern, the heavy burden loaded, on hearts that rankled 'neath the bondsman's chain. i heard the belgian bells prophetic ringing, and deep and calm their voices seemed to say: "let faith and hope in every heart keep springing, for belgium shall regain her own some day!" and joy again shall gladden tearful faces, and exiled feet again shall press her sod, and soft intoned within the sacred places, shall lift the prayers of belgians unto god. i heard the bells of belgium wildly ringing, with madness of great gladness did they ring; they pealed of triumph, and a nation bringing unto his own, its hero and its king. lad of my heart lad of my heart--for you i am lonely, and drear are the hills though they say they are green. 'tis a sad lass i am with loving you only, will you never come back to your irish colleen? lad of my heart--that day i remember, when out of the town with the soldiers away, you marched to the war in the early september, and left me to fight, while i left you to pray. lad of my heart--do you hear my love calling? you that's been gone this many a day. lad of my love--do you see my tears falling? waiting for you in the dusk of the may. lad of my heart--i have your last letter, ever i'll keep it held close in my breast; for the pain deep within it seems to make better, and the stain that's upon it my lips oft have pressed. lad of my heart--i still hear you speaking, "molly, aroon, shure now try to be brave," and fondly, with love, your lips mine were seeking, lad of my heart, oh where is your grave? somewhere in france--lad of mine, you are lying, and never again will we tryst on the sod; but we'll meet in the dawn, where there's no more of sighing, lad of my heart,--for i know you're with god. when drinking to erin when drinking to erin with laughter and story, remember her soldiers the loyal and brave, who on fields of france, 'mid a halo of glory, went to death that the banner of britain might wave. remember the hearts that in erin are broken, and remember the names that will live through the years, then lift up the shamrock, sweet, triple-leaved token, and drink to the war with its glory and tears. drink to his majesty, kingly and gracious, drink to earl roberts, erin's own pride; drink to brave kitchener, strong-willed, tenacious; drink to her soldiers who battled and died. how quickly they marshalled when war clouds were breaking, to the call of the empire they answered with cheers; few, few were the moments they spent in leave-taking, ere they sailed for the front, the brave fusiliers. through the valleys of death they marched with the others, true british hearts as their fathers before, english, irish, and scots, all heroes, all brothers, their music of death the cannon's deep roar. they sleep 'neath a sod where no shamrocks are growing, afar from hibernia, their dear, beloved isle; but if you remember, perchance, there's no knowing, they may wake from their sleep for a moment and smile. and may the tale of their love and devotion touch the heart lying deep in britain's broad breast, and may happiness dawn o'er that isle of the ocean that gave to the empire the sons she loved best. duty i did not hate the man i killed, that soldier tall with eye of blue. i might have spared him had i willed, i did what duty bade me do. the duty that was his and mine, the thing to which we both were sworn, to take the human life divine of god, unto a woman born. to drain the body's coursing blood, to dark the shining eye's bright ray, to limp the form that proudly stood and make of it but lifeless clay. we had been days in battle grim, and foot by foot had nearer crept. amid the carnage and the din had eaten little, little slept. and then we charged; i saw the gleam of bayonets in the bright sunshine. we charged with faces fierce and lean, i sought his life and he sought mine. i took his life, i saw him reel; i pierced his body through and through, and as i plucked away the steel, i met his eyes so wide and blue. then passed the battle tide along. like one gone mad i fought and slew; i had no thought of right or wrong, to fight and kill was all i knew. we swept the field, we won the day. entrenched upon the plain i slept; morn came and with it shadows gray, and something in my heart that wept. and if to think be not a crime for those who fight the fight of kings, upon that plain at dawning time i thought of sweeter, gentler things; of home and vales of waving green and one who waited babe on knee; and all the cherished joys between the trenches and my love and me; of all the loving hearts that yearn through cheerless nights and pensive days; and all the tender eyes that burn with dreams, the hand of war waylays; of those who feel the armed might, and bear its scars their breasts within, the meek with faces strangely white as her who'd wait in vain for him. in what old garden would she wait, his golden girl with eyes of brown; by what old fashioned trellised gate in some old street in some old town. no more to know the touch of hands, nor tender light of his wide eyes, with all her maiden heart had planned, a vanished dream of paradise. for i, on her, the thorny crown with hands ungentle deep had pressed, her heart's fair garden trampled down, and crushed its roses in her breast. i did not hate the man i killed, but duty hath her stern commands; i might have spared him had i willed, but one on high he understands. the morning broke, and then a lark high in the heavens poured his lay; i turned from phantoms of the dark to duty and grim war's array. "a wartime greeting" as towers the mountain o'er the valleys wide, so lifts the pillar of the patriot's pride; and 'neath the shadow of the conflict stern, still brightly may the christmas hearth-fire burn. our greatest and our humblest all are one. to each, one privilege, one gift is given: the love of country--then from sire to son preserve our heritage, as our sires have striven. the past is glorious: the future sure, if we but labour, and with love endure. such joy as christmas brings, i wish each one. let's "carry on"--until the victory's won. the aviators theirs is the free unrutted tracts of air, the clime of cloudland and of boundless space; from grimy earth they soar to regions rare, and meet the blue eternal face to face-- above the clouds; the earth, a swallowed ball. lost in the gray abysses far below; biding the storm above the whirlwinds thrall, the aviators of the allies go. theirs is the flight of eagles, and as they, they swoop and drive their talons in the foe, then wheeling, strike again their crippled prey, and send him crashing to the earth below. hell's acolyte o'er a city saturnalian, when the feast was at its height, cried the demon of the riot, riding on the howling night. cried aloud in gleeful frenzy, "who would wish to be divine, when as fiend he reigns the master of unnumbered slaves of wine?" swept he o'er the noisome brothel where the bacchanalians brawled, mingled with its maudlin wantons where with libertines they sprawled; hovered o'er the wine-room's riot where his dupes carnival held, while the ribald song's wild chorus on the night's mad frenzy swelled. gloated as he perched above them, and his voice rang out in pride-- "oh, my master! i have triumphed, i, thy fiend of drink," he cried. "master thou whose cause i cherish, master thou who reign'st in hell, am i worthy of thy kinship? in thy cause have i done well? "fiend of drink am i, remorseless, ruling, worshipped everywhere-- boon companion of the novice, prop of every wreck's despair. moods have i to meet the many, costumes fit for any state, to the brutalized or polished i can be a fitting mate. "where patrician faces gather, clothed am i in bright champagne, sparkling gloriously golden, beading to an amorous strain. eyes grow bright as lips caress me; fevers burn within the veins; i repay their love with madness, laughing as i forge their chains. "now, in ruby robes translucent, dance i in the goblet bright,-- wanton of the wine-glass, weaving dreams with mirages bedight. o'er the wastes of wine i lure men, till on sands of quenchless thirst, lo, my red simoom engulfs them, helpless, raving, and accurst! "ere the sun-god, swiftly rising, swings his flaming sword of day, gin-gowned for the assignation, wait i for my quivering prey,-- wait i for my faithful lovers, they who crave my morning kiss, abject, pleading for my favour, for my warmth, reviving bliss. "sweet to me their hast'ning footsteps at the well-remembered hour, and i sparkle with elation, conscious of my mastering power. sweet each lover's supplication for the balm he would obtain; like a maiden in her beauty reign i 'midst my servile train. "ne'er was queen of story olden wooed as i by mortal man; ne'er had king in ages golden court so cosmopolitan; not for wealth of my surroundings do they tribute to me pay, for they love me all as faithful in dim dens where i hold sway. "what a court is this, my master! here i watch life's strange parade-- here i view the grotesque pageant of mankind in masquerade-- maskers from the grimy army tipple with the titled peer; every walk of life commingling, great and lowly, all are here. "that fine fellow, deep imbibing, with the classic brow and chin, was an actor great and famous--sweet it was his love to win. what a world of fine expression had he in his mobile face! on the stage great were his triumphs ere i brought him to disgrace. "he who rends the night with laughter, he with curls of glossy jet, wrote a poem of wondrous beauty, and he reigned a social pet till i touched his vibrant heart-strings with the madness of desire; now he sings no more of beauty, dimmed is his poetic fire. "now his songs are dark and gloomy, broken are his symphonies, and the bright thought halts and falters, glides along, then stops and flees; now he craves but for my kisses, all his hopes are wrapped in me, thus, a wreck, he rhymes unreason 'midst his ragged company. "i have lured the pale religieux from his height of snowy dreams by the sweet circean measures of my strange, soul-haunting themes-- strangled love and filial duty by the witchery of my charms-- quenched the genius of a million, passion-drowned within my arms. "from his love of virgin beauty, i have led the trusting swain till he sank in my morasses--till he sought her not again; i have watched her fading, drooping like a rose in chilling dawn, waiting for love's warmth that came not, ever paling, sinking wan. "and unto her heart's slow breaking as she guessed her lover's plight, i have whispered to her, dreaming of him in the restless night: 'maiden, of thy lover dreaming, practising thy girlish arts, i could teach thee subtle secrets, philter give that love imparts. "'but my joy is in the breaking, not the mending of a heart, so i'll keep thy truant lover by my wiles from thee apart; i will drag him down to ruin, into gulfs where misery dwells; where i lead he, too, shall follow, by my power that compels. "'when a wreck he reels through passion, for my charms i'll take his health, goad him down to sin's abysses, steal from him his scanty wealth. know, o maiden, this remember, never more shall he be free; he, thy lover whom thou dream'st of, yet shall kill for love of me.' "thus fair womankind i torture, through that love for man they bear, till from cheeks the roses vanish, till gray-tinged is raven hair; while my poison, slowly filtering, stains the fonts of purity, and they sink by man polluted, tainted to obscurity. "i am drink, the fiend remorseless, all that's mortal is my prey; these mad lovers 'neath me reeling are my playthings of to-day. each to-morrow brings new victims, each to-day a grave i fill; he who loves me truest, fondest, with a demon's joy i kill." so hell's acolyte satanic, where the tinkling glasses gleamed, told the story of his triumphs to that other master fiend; while the laughter, wild, discordant, broke amidst the streaming lights, in the nearing midnight hour on that ribald night of nights. told how when, in prisons lonely, men, repenting all too late, wake in frightful desolation, cursing at their woeful fate; wake to awful understanding of hands red with bloody stains, wake to hear his voice exultant crying in their clearing brains-- "mortal, who in drunken frenzy consummated thy red deed, now awakened and in terror, now, oh, now i take my meed-- satiate my hate with gloating, as remorse shrieks in thy brain, when thy bloodshot eyes protruding read thy doom in that red stain!" told of bright homes rent and broken, of sweet maidens downward drawn; there recited stories sombre of the lives he held in pawn; till the bright lamps dimmed and darkened, till each maudlin wretch sought home, leaving, in the darkness gloating, drink's dread demon throned alone. copper johnny[ ] you have seen him on the street every day, heard the shuffle of his feet on the way, heard his piercing voice so shrill, calling out with right good will, through a ragged, whiskered jaw, "free press," "citizen," "le taw."[ ] all the city knows him well, for he's queer; half a century--quite a spell-- he's been here. spent his life 'mong paper boys, shared their hardships and their joys, winter blast and springtime thaw, calling "journal," "press," "le taw." copper johnny is his name, poor old chap; he's a cripple with a cane and a pack. selling papers is his trade, makes a living without aid, never broke but music's law, crying "journal," "press," "le taw." there's a kind of wistful look on his face; could we read it as a book we might trace memories of a loved one, sweet, her who helps his weary feet, as to fill need's hungry maw he calls "journal," "press," "le taw." copper johnny's gray and old, partly blind; and his face is rough in mold, but it's kind; and his eyes are blue and pale, bleached by many a stormy gale; cracked, his voice, with many a flaw, calling "journal," "press," "le taw." we have missed him, for his place none can fill, and we long to see his face, but he's ill. he was strange and old and talked, muttered always as he walked. strangest newsie one e'er saw, with "press," "citizen," "le taw." maybe johnny won't get well, who can tell! he's been sick for quite a spell since he fell, crushed beneath the horses' feet, as he called upon the street through the evening gray and raw, "free press," "citizen," "le taw." should god take him up from here, this i know: there'll be flowers on his bier, not for show; and the lord who loves the poor will grant johnny this, i'm sure, right to shout 'neath heaven's law, "free press," "citizen," "le taw." [ ] john mcdowell, known as copper johnny, for many years a newsboy of ottawa, was knocked down by a horse near the russell house, sparks street. he was in the hospital when this appreciation was written. [ ] johnny pronounced le temps--"le taw". the quest eternal ofttimes across the plains of space i gaze, when night holds court amid her jewelled train, and where her fairest handmaid beauteous glows, i watch to see some signal-fire leap forth to tell me if his soul's sojourning there; for in his life i've heard him oft propound this theory of the purpose of mankind-- the age-old mystery of the whirling spheres: i bathe within the shoreless seas of space-- my soul floats o'er the billows fathomless, and everywhere the beacon lights gleam clear that mark the strands where i shall yet sojourn, when finished is my visit on earth's shore; for we are all eternal argonauts in hopeful quest of god's own blessed isle; earth but a port upon the blessed way, where rest we for a space to trim our sails. borne by god's tide, each captain, without chart, must breast the unknown sea by faith sustained, and whither bound ask not. one only knows, the omnipresent pilot man calls god. o soul of mine, yearn not, hope on, nor fear; what though the frail-ribbed skiff wherein thou float'st sink in the depths unfathomed? thou shalt live, and one by one god's infinite islands tread; for of his wine immortal thou hast drunk, and blest art thou, his pledge upon thy lips; of his red wine enough thy cask contains to cheer and nourish till life's sojourn ends. and though thine eyes grow dim with watchfulness ere quite the newer harbour breaks to view, thy pilot's hand shall guide thy tiny bark, nor yet disturb thy dreamless sleep, until on glitt'ring sands of some new shore thou'lt wake, a little child new-robed and wonder-eyed, gazing enraptured on that newer dream of landscapes rare and shades ineffable, with eager steps exploring lovely vales 'midst fair companions sweet as earth e'er knew, learning new truths that fancies old dispel, and in their contemplation quite forget the times unnumbered thou hast lived and loved and dreamed fair dreams in other planets old. the father's mansion has full many rooms-- each room a wonder-work, a throbbing star, hung with rare paintings from the master's brush, so wonderful, so mighty in their power, that though we ponder them till life's nightfall, our souls scarce grasp the beauty of one scene. o thou, who count'st thy crown as nearly won! the child grows not o'er-night unto the man. how hard the labour of the alphabet! how long the contest 'gainst the icy pole! a thousand generations have not solved the many secrets of one human frame. why hopest thou then by one life's little span to grasp the mystery of a million suns? the warring doctors, by their long dispute, their little knowledge prove to humbler men-- each holds the secret of the only way, yet each can prove the other's chart is wrong. man in the image of his god was made, mark, then, how man considers earth's dull drones-- will god in courts of heaven then give place that myriads may ever sing his name, sitting with jewelled harps in lazy ease? not so! god's plan is one of ceaseless aim, and he himself unceasingly directs. have we not seen his fiery messengers, hard riding on some planet-rounding course across the ranges of infinity? o argonaut, the journey yet is long, and countless worlds are thine yet to explore! none know the hour of starting--then prepare and let thy bark clean-decked put out to sea; but yesterday a million ships left port, but yesterday a million more sailed in; still thou with heart heroic face thy tasks-- faith in thy pilot keep--he knows the way-- and bravely through the mystery sail on, with trust in him. 'twill be revealed some day. the building of the chateau where the wilderness holds kingdom, where the primal fastness broods, i, the rock, within my stratum, lay amid the solitudes, patient lay throughout the ages, part of the primeval plan, till the voice of progress called me to the purpose of the man. from afar he came invading, pressing onward unafraid, braved the spirits of the vastness where they met him grim arrayed, piercing past my rugged outposts, hewing down my mighty guards, crying i, the earth god, seeketh, and my purpose none retards. in the bosom of the mountain, there he found me, laid me bare, found me fitting for his purpose, found me worthy past compare, with strange instruments attacked me, drilled and blasted me apart, from the wilderness he bore me, from my mountain mother's heart. lifted me with strong devices, dragged me down the mountain trails, barged me down the rushing rivers, speeded me on gleaming rails, captive bore me to the city where i rose above the land, for the purpose of the builders who an edifice had planned. on the plateau by the river, 'neath the shadow of the tower, there the purpose was unfolded of the man's creative power. to the northward, the laurentians purple-tinted cast their haze, such the setting of my future, such the vista for my gaze. came the toilers, swiftly shaping, blasting, through the day and night. delving for my deep foundation by the city's vista'd site, came the long and slender girders all the iron, measured, bored, clanging protest as they piled it, while the blasting ripped and roared. circling swung the straining derricks, shrieked the engine's shrilly note, as by magic to their places joint and girder seemed to float; stone on stone they laid and set me, tier on tier my structure rose, on the plateau by the river, sweeping seaward as it flows. they have hewn me to being, they have shaped with skilful hands, and the chateau on the plateau o'er the river proudly stands, deemed a miracle of beauty, classic, stately, and refined, reared as fitting habitation for the leaders of mankind. though i stand a thing of grandeur, stone on stone majestic piled, i am brooding on the open, i am dreaming of the wild. they would tame me with their graces, they would lure me with their songs, from the olden memoried places where my stony heart belongs. though the wealthy loll within me and on luxury they feast, though they robe me and bedeck me with the weavings of the east, though my floors with rugs be matted, that their feet may silent tread, i am steel and stone and iron, and my soul is mountain-bred. when the wind drives from the mountain far beyond the river shore, all my being throbs in gladness to the music of its roar, all the primal that's within me, all the hewn and chiselled stone, thrills in greeting to the booming of its mighty chested tone. and i see the pine-tressed mountains where they taunt the raging gale, as it roars adown the gulches to the cities of the vale, and the bed within its shadows where for centuries i lay, beckons for the lost one, dwelling where the humans hold their sway. when the night her mask of sable presses on the earth's warm face, and when, satined and bejewelled, lovely women do me grace, when the violins are throbbing out the passion of the dance, then i ponder on the future, and the destiny of chance. i the chateau, i the splendid, shall i crumble and decay, lichened guard the shining river when the years have passed away, or a comforter still flourish, guarding humans from the blast, when a century has rounded, when a hundred years have passed. time the jester, time the judger, time the measurer of things, time shall weigh the builders' cunning, as the earth to eastward swings; they have hewn me to being, they have shaped with skilful hands, and the chateau on the plateau o'er the river proudly stands.[*] [*] this poem was written around the building of the chateau laurier, ottawa. from the chateau a fine view of the laurentian mountains can be had. the spirit of christmas snowflakes and happy bells, and hopeful words sincere, and hands that grip, while from the lips fall words of christmas cheer. snowflakes and shining eyes, and the joy that giving gives, that opes heart-gates in love, nor hates a single thing that lives. snowflakes and prattle sweet, heart music and soft chimes, and stories rare where friends compare the present with past times. snowflakes and leaden skies, and men in prison cells, that make their moans to cold gray stones, nor hear thy chimes, o bells. snowflakes and hearts that break in longing for sweet home, and faces worn and passion torn that brood uncheered alone. snowflakes and tolling bells, and the slow tread on the snow, the sobbing hushed, the teardrops brushed, and saddened voices low. snowflakes, and o'er it all the voice of one divine calls low and sweet, "be glad, nor weep, for rich and poor are mine. "snowflakes--o ye who joy, remember my commands: clothe ye and feed all those in need in this and other lands. "snowflakes--o prisoned ones, grieve not, but kneel and pray; for tidings glad i bring the sad: i ransomed men this day. "snowflakes--rejoice, o earth! none need this day be sad that read aright my message bright, that shines to make men glad." the chosen people somewhere in the book 'tis written how god had a chosen race, one he favoured, while the others could not get to see his face, not a smile of recognition, nor a momentary look, and 'twas taken for the gospel, for 'twas written in the book. it's been thundered down the ages how jehovah, in his wrath, swept his wayward, helpless children from the favoured people's path, with the whirlwinds of his power, unto woeful death and flame, that some despot might keep reigning, razing cities in his name. some have pondered as they heard it, and have wondered as they read, if the language of the big book told the truth in all it said; for their souls have heard strange music, and their eyes have seen a light, and somehow his chosen people seems the whole world, black and white. all the globe, with all its peoples, all its races, all its creeds, with its wise and unwise sinners, and its strange and varied breeds; for the sunlight tells the story, and the rain reveals the truth, that our father's universal, as he was in days of ruth. not a god of wrath and battles to a chosen few confined, but a father omnipresent, taking care of all mankind; and the deity they worship, and the god to whom they pray, never slaughtered his poor children in the way some chapters say. have you seen the sunlight gleaming on a summer day in june, spreading broadcast texts of glory, while the birds hozannas tune? how it floods the heart with gladness, and what charity it brings, 'till all hate melts to forgiveness in the greater good of things. have you seen it kiss the foreheads of the mourners as they weep? have you watched it bathe the outcast as he lays forlorn asleep? o, the blessed sun from heaven shines alike on bad and good; read the lesson of the sunshine, then will he be understood. have you seen the falling raindrops, like a blessing glad and sweet, on the rock and on the meadow, on the thistle and the wheat? what a sermon's in the downpour falling out of god's own hand! read the lesson of the rainfall, as it nourishes the land. maybe they're not strong on logic, maybe they have much to learn, but it seems if love created, hate cannot creation spurn; and the rain like benediction and the sunshine glad and bright, fills them with a hope unbounded and a faith that all is right. through vicissitude and conflict, as this old world wheels and turns, ever searching, tearful, calling, man for his creator yearns; and i know the father's watching with a love so great and wide that he never could be happy with a pleading soul outside. the waif dark-orbed dear little miss, torn are your shoes, and the clothes bagged and thin that you wear; how you live nobody knows. strange little waif of the slums, thrifty and business-like, too, plying your trade with the rest of the ragged, outcast crew; rushing about in the throng, calling your wares in the cold; o child, such a heart as yours is made of god's purest gold! brave little buffeted ship, battered and blown in life's gale, where is your port in the storm? to what refuge do you sail? born of some drab of the street down where the red beacons burn, may god guide ever your way-- free from sin's shoals may you turn. where do you live--'neath the street, or attic above the stair? where'er it be, little maid, my heart goes out to you there. some pass who turn a deaf ear to your shrill voice when you call; but there's one hears, never fear, whose love is greater than all. he alone hears your low sob, lonely at night in your bed, with none to kiss you to sleep or smooth the curls of your head. sometimes in dreams do you see visions of dainties high piled? sometime may that dream be true, tired-out, motherless child. o mothers, kissing to rest, praying to god o'er your dears, pray for these waifs of the world, unmothered in their young years. pray, too, that on that dread day when judgments fall on earth's sons, censure-free we then may stand, uncharged by these little ones. when for deeds done in the flesh each soul its place is assigned, pray no child may accuse you of being cold or unkind. one passed you last night at dusk, one whom the world brands with shame; say, was it then all her fault? god, who knows, may not so blame. once as this child of the street she strove for bread, pure of heart, till hope died in her young breast, when mankind failed in its part. and now if sinning she goes, fighting her battle alone, remember, she asked for bread, and the world gave her a stone. dark is the world with its griefs, but bright is joy's pathway wide, and sorrow smiles through her tears when charity walks by her side. derelicts lost in the dark, strange ships that pass in the night, guided by love's lamp aglow, god's harbour find by its light. a toast on the occasion of a departmental banquet to every branch of this great tree, that shelters you and shelters me, let's quaff a toast, and with a song, drink to the king--may he live long. with quip and jest, with speech and tale, in fellowship let us regale. here's to our chief! here's to each soul! toast with a will, fill high the bowl! to comrades present, absent friends, drink while the curling smoke ascends; and then one crowning toast we'll raise to woman and her gentle ways. o! lovely ladies, you who wait for tardy husbands homing late; i crave you, by your fair renown, forgive all these who here sit down. so ends the feast, and if i heard the twitter of the morning bird, what matter, we have known good cheer-- good-bye, old friends, until next year. ballad of the budget year 'ees a-going down to london town, my lord as lives on the 'ill, and 'e leaves to-day, the folks do say, to vote 'gainst the budget bill. it be now a score of years or more since 'es left 'is 'igh-walled seat, but 'es going away, for 'ells to pay and the welshman must be beat. it do seem queer 'is leavin' 'ere, and i'm doctorin' for the gout, for 'tween countin' rents and pounds and pence 'es never gone much about. it's the welshman's scheme that spoiled his dream, it's something about the land, so 'es off, my lord, to protect his 'oard from the bloomin' hupstart's 'and. they be askin' gold for the fleet, i'm told, and they only ask what's fair, but 'im up there with 'is lordly air and wantin' to pay 'is share. well, i don't think much about law and such, but this i 'as to say, if the people's right, and it comes to a fight, 'is lordship will 'ave to pay. lor' bless the fleet, she's 'ard to beat, and she allus has been our pride, an' i'd shout for joy like a devon boy, if i could but see her ride out o'er the sea as she used to be, the queen of the worldwide main, with her cheerin' tars, and her bristlin' spars, and honour without a stain. it's twenty years since the 'ouse of peers 'as seen 'im, and is it right that the people's will 'is kind can kill, and do it all in a night? 'e ain't been stirred like this, we 'eard, since the days of gladstone's bill, but i'll bet my forge 'im they calls george will win, and i 'opes 'e will. "the pipe" because you love the fragrant weed, good friend, this honest pipe in fellowship we send; a true companion that has blessed mankind, 'twill solace bring of peace to heart and mind. 'tis hewed from wood of purest briar strain, 'tis earthborn, nursed by sunshine, wind, and rain; 'tis forest bred, a child of solitude, and thus to lonely hearts 'tis drink and food. fill it, and to your mind it will conjure visions of joy to be that long endure. fill it, it asks no more than it can hold, and 'twill repay your faith a thousandfold. light it, and when it feels the flaming kiss 'twill throb and glow, returning bliss for bliss; light it, and it will answer to your touch, no sweetheart's kiss will ere repay so much. smoke it, and as the azure wreaths arise, 'twill soothe as sweet as sweetest lullabys. smoke it, and it will bring a strange delight, a constant joy by daytime or by night. smoke it, it asks you but attention's wage, and, like good wine, 'twill sweeten with old age; friends may turn foes and fortune fair may frown, but pipes are friends that seldom turn us down. thus unto you this simple gift we make, accept it, and likewise our friendship take; and when it weaves its aromatic spell, may it recall those friends who love you well. the miracle of may the sunlight beams, the lily leans her sweet pale cheek to meet the breeze, the garden glows, the soft breeze blows and shakes the blossoms on the trees. the lilacs bloom, the rivers croon to willows bending for their kiss, and scented flowers laugh in the showers that tell of summer's coming bliss. again aglow the roses blow, like rubies in the dewy morn; the world, long bare, lets loose her hair, and million-gemmed is beauty born. o, wondrous change, to mortals strange! but yesterday 'twas cold and drear; some magic hand hath touched the land, and, lo, the happy spring is here! o, master, we give praise to thee; thou answerest kindly when we pray, and thus is wrought the boon we sought-- the wondrous miracle of may. in summer in summer, when the rising sun with keen and flashing ray, flings arrows at retreating night, and ushers in the day, when out from every nook and glade the frightened shadows creep, and scamper off to caverns dark, when life awakes from sleep. the gentle sunbeams, kiss the dewy teardrops of the night from off the eyelids of the flowers, with whisp'ring soft and light, then stirs my heart, with yearnings sweet is thrilled as from above, then would i worship at the feet of you, of you, my love. in summer, when the fragrant earth basks in the shimmering glare of noontide warmth, and drowsy hum of insects fills the air, when bashful flowers their glories hide amid the grasses tall, and nature her siesta takes in hushed and langorous thrall, when sparkling streamlets through the dells and o'er the mosses croon, and birds and breezes fold their wings within the arms of june, then stirs my heart, with yearnings sweet is thrilled as from above, then would i slumber, rest, and dream with you, with you, my love. in summer, when the last faint rays from western sky has fled, when earth wraps round her evening's cloak and day has gone to bed, when moonlight glinting through the trees fantastic patterns trace, and starry lamps illuminate the corridors of space, when shining morn and burning day within the night's cool arms, rest from the pageant of the day, forgetful of their charms, then stirs my heart, with yearnings sweet is thrilled as from above, then for eternity i pray, with you, with you, my love. love's miracle she stood in maiden loveliness serene, of fawn-like grace, and beauty rare of face, fair prey i deemed, for i had but to lean to kiss her or to hold in my embrace. and yet i paused, i hardly knew the why, i said she, as the others, is fair game; no guardian stood above her but the sky, and yet i paused, the beast within me tame. her pure eyes fronted mine so unafraid, and in their depths dwelt such a wondrous charm, it seemed to wrap a glory round the maid, that banished evil and the power to harm. and somehow there the evil in me died, as in a dream afraid i seemed to stand, i am unworthy, all my being cried, and yet she smiled, nor could i understand. days passed, once more beneath the sky, as one enchanted, i beside her walked, drinking the freshness of her spirit high, in a new world that blossomed as she talked. "how beautiful the bird's song is!" she said, and, lo, the singing came surpassing sweet, "see how the flowers bloom all rosy red!" i looked, and saw them springing at our feet. the breezes soft their peaceful preludes played along the glistening harp-strings of the grass, i bowed my head as penitent that prayed, the miracle of love had come to pass. the squaw-man love from his homeland hillsides led him forth, a willing captive, to a foreign land, nor looked he either east or west or north, but followed where she led him by the hand. how strong he was in all that men hold good, how fair to view in manly grace and form! yet as a child, against her maidenhood, the castle of his heart she took by storm. o lady, golden-haired and blue of eye, fair english beauty with the cheeks of rose, dost thou afar in moonlit gardens sigh, and dream of him as evening shadows close? dost thou oft weep with troubled heart and brain, between each letter's ever-length'ning wait? ah, weep no more; he will not come again-- no more will he unlatch thy garden gate. for eyes of night have pierced him to the core, a forest maiden sings his child to rest. he has forgotten, and will come no more-- another head he pillows on his breast. e'en now, perhaps, to some sweet forest song, with rhythmic stroke he paddles her along o'er some smooth lake that mirrors cloudless skies, deep as the love that dwells in her dark eyes. perchance ere now, in some green forest glade, a home for her he's built, a cabin made, where sunshine greets them with its morning kiss, and wakes them to a new day's perfect bliss. 'tis o'er, thy dream; his ways and thine divide, the sterile plains of memory grow more wide; love claims its own, and thou must pay the cost-- a dark-orbed maid has won what thou hast lost. o love, that blossoms on the desert sands as sweet as in the richly gilded room, that knows no age and blesses in all lands, and strews upon the world its lovely bloom, where spring the fountains of thy mystic brew that thrills alike the peasant maid and queen, that flowers hearts with drops of wondrous dew on gale-swept shores, as where the roses dream? heart's desire give me the breath of dewy morns, the stirring chase, the hunter's horns, the scent of roses 'mid the thorns in all their beauty dreaming. give me the shining fields so sweet, where sun and shadow love to meet; the sickles swinging through the wheat, while golden sunlight's streaming. give me the flower-jewelled hills-- a love-song that with rapture thrills, that lifts the heart above earth's ills, and gives to life new meaning. give me the hush of quiet eves, the sleepy note amid the leaves, god's calm, sweet slumber that relieves, while starry lamps are gleaming. give me a woman sweet and true to have and hold life's journey through, and love like sunshine ever new in bright eyes softly beaming. give these, the world may have the rest; the heart's content the heart that's blest; ah, gold is bright, but these are best! i'll ask no more, i'm deeming. the awakening think not 'tis death because so cold earth lies, wrapped in her snowy shroud of billowed white, for when the tears of springtime kiss her brow her violet eyes will open wide and sweet, and unseen hands will robe her wondrously, weaving with garlands all her tresses fair. again her cheek with blushing rose will glow, and sighs sweet-scented will her bosom stir, and radiant in her sunny maidenhood, with ripples of sweet laughter she will roam, scattering auroral gifts of flow'ry bloom, till all mankind shall worship at her feet. eyes of the heart i haunt again those unforgotten ways where once we walked in dear remembered days; and throbbing earth, the streams and skies so blue, call with my heart in longing, dear, for you. i see thee sad with every wind that grieves, behold thy cheeks in autumn's blushing leaves; thy laugh i hear when come the rippling rills, sparkling and gay adown the grassy hills. ah, it is love that sees alone thy form in every rose that doth the vale adorn! ah, it is love when all the summer sky seems but reflected beauty from thine eye! i hear thy voice in cadences so sweet, when birds that love in woody places meet; thy loving smile i see revealed again in every sunburst following the rain. when o'er the land soft steals the breath of june, and happy birds within the treetops tune, then hand-in-hand again to love's sweet lays i walk with thee as in the olden days. the strands of gold, the sun-god's gleaming hair, is as the light within thy tresses rare; the white-sailed moon-ship gliding on the night has gleaned her beauty from thy forehead white. but food of dreams love cannot satisfy, nor mem'ries feed the starving heart; thus i, love-lorn, with weary wings toward heaven soar, beating for entrance 'gainst god's golden door. longing for thee, earth's ways in dreams i tread, by thy white hand along its pathways led. counting the hours till on celestial strands i'll kiss again thy lips, thine eyes, thy hands. cupid's arrow say, have you met her? i can't forget her, fair as the lily, her name; she with the eyes blue, of summer sides' hue, with her the world i would gain. 'twas on a may day-- oh, such a gay day! sweet singing birds filled the trees; fair spring went laughing to the gay chaffing of her wayward love, the breeze. i, too, was merry, heart light and airy, knew not i'd lose it that day; cupid was stirring, his arrow whirring, and my poor heart in the way. she smiled so naively, glanced i so bravely, unthinking quite of the cost; on that spring morning, done without warning, i and my poor heart were lost. 'twas a sweet losing; had i the choosing, gladly again she might take; all i love dearest, all i hold nearest, little would be for her sake. yet is the gladness mingled with sadness. did she but smile to betray? loving, i'm hoping, in darkness groping, waiting her love to bring day. my april maiden maid of moods like april ranging; tearful, then to laughter changing: luring sweetly, then estranging; i have wondered if thou art just a playful nymph coquetting with poor mortals, and forgetting how thou woundest, nor regretting that thou didst their wounds impart. by thy body shapely, slender, by thy glances languid, tender, thou hast made me thy defender, thou hast nestled in my heart. by thy cheeks as rose-leaves tinted, by thy hair from sunbeams minted, thou hast taken love unstinted, robbed me quite without return. each new mood but makes thee dearer, makes my passion stronger, clearer, makes me long to come the nearer, makes me love thee more and more. when i see thine eyes compelling, dark with passion and rebelling to thy bosom's quickened swelling, then i would thy love implore. or when from thy window glancing, bright they shine with laughter dancing, they but make thee more entrancing, if that could be, than before. o thou april maiden, weaving spells alluring and deceiving, wilt thou some day me be leaving? wilt thou yet my true love spurn! i have loved thee fondly, madly, i would win thee, wed thee gladly, in thy snare i'm tangled sadly, 'tis thy love must set me free. i have loved thee unabated from a time now long undated; in a desert land i've waited, thou must my oasis be. give me love, for time is pressing, doubt's red sands grow hot, distressing; send thy love's rain, sweet caressing; there is none can save but thee. dear, the sands are round me burning, thus to thee, sweetheart, i'm turning; for thy saving love i'm yearning, say thou lov'st me, or i burn. the call of the open i turn my face from the city, the city of siren songs, i am going back to the prairie to where my heart belongs; her smile is true and gentle, there is peace in her ample breast, and i know there's a welcome waiting with my love of the golden west. it is years since i watched the shadows across her bosom roll, ere the luring voice of the city my boyish senses stole; it is long since with swelling bosom i watched the sunbeams glide or the waving, far-flung reaches of her hills and valleys wide. i am done with the sham and glitter where the huddled millions toil, lured with the money mirage, 'mid the din and the mad turmoil; i am sick of the man-made temples that gloss the reeking sod, so i take my course to the open, to the glorious temples of god. i hear the voice of the mountains, they are singing the oldtime strains, the lure of the land is o'er me, the lure of the virgin plains; the voice of rivers murmur, "come back to your boyhood home", so i turn my face from the city, i am going back to my own. the loving cup presented to my father, on the occasion of the celebration of his eightieth christmas, born of the noblest impulse of the heart, love comes with joy to worship at a shrine, seeking the dear one, yearning to impart a benediction drawn from wells divine. so with a heartfelt tribute to your worth, we gather round you in your life's decline, to honour you, the author of our birth, and ask a blessing on our lives and thine. rich is your life with honest effort filled, and though your path with trials was beset, you bravely fought and counselled and instilled the noblest, and our hearts do not forget. it is not wealth that marks life's crowning goal, nor power and place, nor tawdry pomp and fame; but worth and true nobility of soul, the white-robed years, the fair, untarnished name. this is your priceless heritage, we hold, may we bequeath it thus from sire to son, down generations, while the years unfold; this is your children's wish, their prayer, each one, and from this loving cup may ever flow the vintage of our hearts, a glowing stream, winding beside you, singing soft and low of tender memories, with love adream. we pledge you in its bowl with gladsome song, and toast the happiness of days to be. may life be joyous, and your years be long, and every hour from care and ills be free. t. h. best printing co. limited, toronto