MIE; E Ey ,LIAM GARY SANGER, Jr. WITH THE ARMIES OF FRANCE WAR POEMS Bt WILLIAM GARY SANGER, Jr. AUTHOR OF "TIDES OF COMMERCE," " THE CITY OF TOIL AND DREAMS," " IN THE LAND OF THE HARVEST" SECOND EDITION Ubc Iftntcftetbocfjer press NEW YORK I918 Copyright, 19 i8 BY WM. GARY SANGER, Jr. Ube Iknfclierbocber f^ress, flew l^ocft SEP 10 1918 4^CI.A50453S With the Armies of France Armies of France, advance, Forward the line of blue, From the Alps away to the channel sea Into the battle to make men free. Forward, again, to Victory; Hail, Armies of France! 1916. Written in the Field in France. REVEILLE Dawn — on the fields of Flanders. Dawn — on the plains of France, A bugle call and a rampart wall And a day of sword and lance. Bayonet, blood and slaughter, Guns that pound and pound, Prayer and groan and tortured moan In the roar of the battle's sound. Dawn — on the fields of Flanders, Dawn — on the Marne and the Aisne, Free from strife — new homes and life Gladden the waking plain. 1916. Written at Plattsburg Military Training Camp. THE GIFT OF THE WARRIORS' To you we now bequeath that peace Which was not ours to know. Freedom, security — release From dangers of the foe. The foreign ranks shall not again Burnt cities trample under, Nor shall the hosts across the plain Sweep with their steel and thunder. To you we give that needed rest Which was not ours to find ; Each night you sleep serenely — blest — ■ At peace in heart and mind. No longer shall the dull red glow Flare in the smoke-dimmed heaven, Whose flaming cloud-belts weirdly show Where countless hosts have striven. * From The City of Toil and Dreams by the same author. 5 6 The Gift of the Warriors And unto you we give that fame Which was not ours to share, The glory of a sculptor's name, A writer's words of prayer. For we had dreamed our glorious dreams, Each in his field of knowing, But we laid them by — for war's dull gleams, The hope of our life foregoing. To you we give those hours of love That we so early lost. For war had called on us to prove Our faith — whatever the cost. The joys of home and fireside: A woman's soft caresses And children's laughter — merry-eyed. The love that cheers and blesses. And unto you the dawn we give Which is not ours to see. To you and yours the right to live, In thought and action — free. To you we give the morning light On lake and hillside streaming, And flashing on the city's height With colors bright and gleaming. The Gift of the Warriors For you the freedom and the life — For us an unknown grave After an agony of strife That others we might save. Yet we rejoice that in our pain, Our sacrifice and sorrow, We may bequeath to you our gain- The everlasting Morrow. January, 191 6. VERDUN Hail, Verdun, rock of immortal France, Thy crested forts against the stdlen sky Stand, through the tumult of the foe's advance That thunders at thy gates with savage cry. For with the legions of an empire's might The enemy has crossed the border lands And through the storm of this world-making fight Surges about thee with unnumbered bands. Again, again they come with shell and steel To storm thee, and to crush thy ramparts down And trample over France with iron heel, Burning and devastating field and town. Yet, day by day, we see thy grim forts stand. All hail, Verdun, defender of the land! Composed at Verdun, France, January, 191 7. FOR THOSE WHO DIED IN FRANCE For those who died in France By cannon-shell and lance, Forget not, friend, to pray- That they be truly blest In their eternal rest So far away. When here the moonlight dim, Through forest branch and limb Shall sift in checkered-silver patterns fair, The moonbeams also dance, In forest groves of France, And touch the little silent crosses there. And when the sunlight rays Shall melt the dawn's dim haze And call you to your day of Harvest reaping, Remember, all is still, For them, on plain and hill : They who are sleeping. 9 10 For Those who Died in France For you the sunlit hours Of happiness and flowers And music of the dance; Yet at the close of day Forget not then to pray, For those who died in France. Written November, 1916, just before the author sailed for France. CHRISTMAS EVE Sunset, the cannonade is dying down, And one by one the quiet stars appear. The moonbeams silver fort and field and town And trace the quiet trenches far and near. From somewhere in a town back of the lines A chapel bell is calling in the night, And high above the hilltop crowned with pines The evening star is shining calm and bright. It is as though the Angels of the Blest Had brought the tired army hosts release, A little pause, and time for needed rest And thoughts of home and love and heaven's peace. "Good tidings of great joy" for all tonight. In heaven all is peaceful, all is bright. Composed in the Field in France, Christmas Eve, 1916. XI WHEN SUNSET COMES When sunset comes, and through each western portal The rose-light streams through corridors and halls To cheer the hospital, and each poor mortal Within its walls. How gladly then we turn our tired faces To watch the golden windows of the west. Whose streaming light on wall and corner traces Visions of rest! Slowly the sunset fades, the shadows lengthen, And one by one we watch the stars appear ; The quiet evening seems our hopes to strengthen, Our hearts to cheer. For in the stillness of the moonlit hours Refreshing sleep shall come to one and all ; Our prisoned souls will find again their powers At heaven's call. 12 When Sunset Comes 13 So we shall dream, and all our cares will vanish, And we shall find our youth and health again, And every fear our happiness shall banish, And every pain. With hearts as light as children we shall waken And wonder why so long they kept us here, We who have never even once forsaken Those we hold dear. So each of us will leave his cot, and turning Steal to the door, and tiptoe down the hall, Where here and there a light is dimly burning Against the wall. Then down the big hall stairway to the landing, And past the drowsy porter at the door. Soon on the moonlit street we shall be standing, And free once more. Then through the paths of memory and gladness, Each to our special happiness and rest, Forgotten, then, the shadows and the sadness Where all is blest. 14 When Sunset Comes Some to our childhood days, where summer flowers Border the trout stream sparkling through the field And leading to the woods, where dreamy hours Their pleasures yield. And some to find the cottage of our childhood, There by the orchard and the farming land, Close to the field that borders on the wildwood So near at hand. With tears of love our father and our mother Welcome us home, as in the days long past, Brother and sister run to meet their brother Returned at last. And some of us to find our heart's desire: The maiden of our dreams with laughing eyes, Welcoming us with love's immortal fire, Our dearest prize. And some to where the mountain ranges tower. And some will turn to greet the glorious sea, And each will live through every golden hour Immortal, free. When Sunset Comes 15 So each takes up again his life's endeavor, Statesman and lawyer, doctor, engineer, Moulding our dreams of faith to last forever Afar and near. Slowly the shadows fade; the dawn, advancing, Will bid us to retrace our steps again, Away from fields of youthful dreams entrancing Back to our pain. Back in the dawn to where the open portal Takes us again to suffer through the day Each in his cot, a prisoner and mortal In human clay. So in the hospital, through daylight hours Sufferers all, we lie in silence there. Striving with pain that almost overpowers Our strength to bear. Till once again the sunset hours returning Bring us our rest, and all our cares release, With joy we see the evening lanterns burning, Beacons of peace. For sleep will come again with all its glory. The stars again their quiet watch will keep ; Forgotten, then, life's battle-tarnished story When we shall sleep. l6 When Sunset Comes No longer will the bayonets be gleaming, And hushed will be the tumult of the drums, Youthful and free our hearts will turn to dream- ing When sunset comes. Written in the Field in France, 1917, while in the American Ambulance Field Service. IT IS THE YOUNG WHO MUST ATONE It is the young who must atone, Surely the statesmen might have known, They who plotted a conquest far. And plunged the nations into war; Heedless then of the people's voice. Deaf to all but a ruler's choice, Bending low to a gilded crown And a foolish prince's leering frown; Surely the statesmen might have known : It is the young who must atone. Upon the heights of a great gray town, Over the harbor looking down There stands a house and a terrace fair With vines and lilacs drowsing there. A little child once used to play About the garden — in the day. And in the night his dreams would be Of the harbor and the glorious sea. By day, from the western window panes He watched the busy boats and trains; 17 i8 The Young Must Atone The line of docks at the waterside And the giant ships on the restless tide. Beyond the river, buildings high Towered into the pale blue sky. Spanning the gap from ridge to ridge There loomed a great suspension bridge, And so before the child there lay The harbor and the sunlit bay, Some day, when I'm grown up, thought he, I'll paint the city beside the sea. The child grew up to youth's estate There by the nation's deep-sea gate. And day by day he learned to draw And paint the spirit of what he saw. To watch the harbor night and day That was his work, his rest and play. And all her changing scenes he knew Day in and out, the whole year through. At times the summer sunlight gave Its burnished gold to every wave, And flashed on city walls and spires And windows with a thousand fires. He watched the gorgeous sunset skies The Young Must Atone 19 Bright with a million destinies, Flaming in rose and golden hue Upon the buildings there in view. He knew the winter days — so cold That everything seemed gray and old, And days of drifting snowflakes white, That veiled the harbor boats from sight. Or when the sea-fog, low and gray Veiled the boats on the sullen bay, And rising from the mist on high The city's towers sought the sky. If in the day *twas fair to see, What of the moonlit majesty: The silver rays of slanting light. The shadows deep, the calm of night. Myriad stars in the sky aglow. Lights of boats on the waves below, Moving, yellow and red and green. Like an enchanted Venice scene! High in the west the moon so bright, Silvered the bay with a path of light. And now and then across this track Of light would pass a shadow black, The silhouette of a moving boat, 20 The Young Must Atone A steamer, or a long car-float, Couriers they who never sleep Bearing the trade of the mystic deep. The youth grew up to man's estate. No longer now was he to wait And watch the toiling harbor vast, Now he would paint the scenes at last : The busy hours of morning light, The magic hours of moonlit night. Up in his western study, there Were placed five canvases, all bare And new, beside the window panes Where he could watch the boats and trains. These were to be his paintings five Showing the harbor, tense alive: A dawn in spring, a summer day, An aiitumn sunset on the bay, A cold gray winter afternoon. And last of all — a night in June, The harbor, and the stars, and moon. His masterpiece. Far away they spoke the word, Statesnien had decreed it : The Young Must Atone 21 War — the cannon now is heard. Millions march to feed it ; Millions in the prime of life Down to slaughter going, Torn and butchered in the strife, Red — blood — flowing. War, Discordant, Grim, relentless. Sweeping aside the monuments Whose walls were reared By centuries of consecrated labor. War — ^blind destroyer of a countless host of men Whose youthful lives gave such abundant promise Of glorious fulfillment : Architects, painters, sculptors, writers, inventors, statesmen, Men whose lives, had they been spared, Would have ennobled and enriched humanity, And would have made this world An infinitely better place in which to dwell; Lives who would have given their contributions glorious To science and to art. 22 The Young Must Atone Sad at heart, Perplexed and troubled, The young man followed duty's call And joined the army, Leaving his work, his hope, his happiness ; His five unpainted canvases Waiting the touch of the Master hand Whose magic brush should make them glow With life and immortality. For he had dreamed to show to all The spirit of the harbor, and its glory, The soul of all its ships, the wondrous story Of its love and hope and striving — That was to be his mission, His sacred contribution, his message to the world. The training of the army soon began: Weary months of drilling, And then, he and a host of others Set foot upon the soldier-crowded deck Of an army transport moored to a pier Along the harbor water front ; His harbor, The harbor of his youth and hopes and dreams. The Young Must Atone 23 At last the hour of departure came, The hawsers were cast loose, And — almost imperceptibly at first — The ship began to move. The deep-toned blast of the steamer's whistle echoed along the docks As she slowly backed out into the river And turned her bow to the sea. Along the harbor water front, the transport steamed, Then down the lower bay Till she had passed the Narrows And was out to sea. What of the young man and his dreams? Later his name was on a list Reported: "Killed in action." How still and mystic is the night ! Perhaps it is a night when troubled spirits walk abroad And seek to cross the silent veil Back to their life on earth again. How sad and kindly are the stars! 24 The Young Must Atone How wistfully the moon looks down Over the harbor and the town! Is it the window-curtain swaying As though the drowsy breeze were playing So languidly about the room Where shafts of moonlight pierce the gloom? Is it a figure standing there Before those five unpainted canvases, Those canvases, so new, so bare, So dumbly eloquent Of that which might have been? The ghostly form now seems to move And going to the windows of the west Looks out upon the harbor. It is a night in June And through the drifting clouds on high The silver summer moon Shines in the sky. Sadly the figure turns his gaze From one great canvas to another Helplessly, imploringly. Is it the window-curtain swaying As though the drowsy breeze were playing The Young Must Atone 25 So languidly about the room Where shafts of moonlight pierce the gloom? Is there a figure slowly leaving, Troubled in spirit, sadly grieving? Or is it just the moonbeam's light Upon the swaying curtains white, There in the stillness of the night? It is the young who must atone, Surely the statesmen might have known, They who plotted a conquest far. And plunged the nations into war; Heedless then of the people's voice. Deaf to all but a ruler's choice, Bending low to a gilded crown And a foolish prince's leering frown. Surely the statesmen might have known It is the young who must atone. Written in the Field in France, May, 191 7, while in the American Ambulance Field Service. TAPS Rest in sleep — rest in sleep, soldiers of glory, All is now hushed on the battle-strewn plain. Millions hereafter shall learn of your story, You, who have tasted the chalice of pain. You who have given your life and its gladness. All that you were and were hoping to be, Know that from out of the stillness and sadness. Life shall awaken eternal and free. Over the battle-field, fortress and byway Where you so lately have given your all, Sunlight and flowers shall gladden the highway, Roses and vines shall encircle the wall. Take then the rest that to you is now given, Sadly the Harvest moon shines in the skies, Sleep — and the stars will be sentries in heaven, Till the great Reveille bids you arise. 1 916, Written at Plattsburg Military Training Camp. 26 Additional War Poems 1918 27 I9i8. FORWARD MARCH (U. S. Army) Forward march — across the plain Now the bugle calls again, There beneath the darkening sky See our armies tramping by. England, France and Italy, Allies for world liberty, Now our soldier ranks extend To the far horizon's end. Forward march — we're on our way To the battle-lines today, Hear the steady tramp and beat Of the countless, moving feet. On to victory in France Now our army hosts advance, Freedom's call shall make us strong. And although the war is long. This shall ever be our song : "Forward march.'* 29 IN THE YEARS OF THE WAR Under what troubled skies your steps have led you, Through what unquiet regions dark and drear; Along what shell-torn heights, Through dim, weird days and nights Where death was near. 1Q18. 30 A SOLDIER'S tHOUGHTS AT SUNSET Sing me my favorite songs tonight: The songs of love and the moon's fair light. Songs of a terrace and lawns and trees And the fragrant, scarcely stirring breeze That drifts across the enchanted hills And all the air with magic fills; Songs of the dances and rhythmic play Of the gliding forms to the music's lay; And sing me a dreamy summer tune Of a balustrade, and the light of the moon. And the restful view of the valley there With its tranquil lake, so still and fair, Reflecting the myriad stars on high That twinkle and shine in the warm night sky. Sing of the lawns where the couples walk Between the dances — when they talk And laugh as they wander to and fro Where the Japanese lanterns softly glow And the old, old story — ever new Is whispered there and tokens true 31 32 A Soldier's Thoughts at Sunset Of love's immortal light are given The fire and tenderness of heaven; Making the lawns and gardens seem Like an enchanted midnight dream Touched with the silver slanting rays That light the walks and woodland ways And sifting down between the leaves, In the drowsy, scarcely stirring breeze, Trace their magic all around In varied patterns on the ground. How subtly fragrant are the hours, How witching are the music's powers. Sing to me then the enchanted lays Of the walks and lawns and the woodland ways : The songs of love and the moon's fair light, Sing me my favorite songs tonight. 1918. A NIGHT IN THE FUTURE How quiet is the sea tonight, It is as though forgetfulness and rest Had come upon the deep After the long and troubled years of war. No longer now the submarine Prowls in the dimness Watching for its prey. No longer the destroyers race to strike The darkened forms of giant battleships and fleets moving across the waters — Tonight these are but distant memories. The thunder of the guns no longer shakes the startled coast-line, And the concussion and the tumult of the cannonade Have long since died away. Tonight the far and peaceful stars look down from heaven upon the sea; One or two lanterns along the coast-line shine sleepily, 33 34 A Night in the Future And far out upon the waters are the lights of a ship moving along its course. How restful and how quiet is the night, How drowsy is the shore line Where the ground-swell washes lazily upon the pebbles and the sand. 1918. /" FOR THE PEOPLE OF THE WORLD America, this is thy gift and contribution to the world In these dark days When tyranny and might Strive to enslave the earth. First: to the aid of thy hard-pressed but still undaunted Allies, Fighting for truth and liberty, Thou dost send Thine armies — Millions of thy sons To stem the tyrant's tide And at the last To drive his savage hordes Back to the land from whence they came, And win for liberty and righteousness The lasting and immortal victory. And to the far and troubled seas ' About the coast of France and England, Also to other distant waters. Thou dost send 35 36 For the People of the World Thy navy — To guard the ocean-trails And with the aid of thy courageous Allies Sweep from the waves The lurking submarine And keep the tyrant*s battle-fleets Locked in their inner harbors. But of thy gifts, America, greatest is this : The high idealism of thy world democracy, Unswerving in thy search and struggle for The great completion of thy liberal aims : Freedom and truth and world-wide brotherhood. Right above might, Love above hate. Justice to every nation great and small. Thy lofty singleness of purpose Shall from the earth Banish the evils which have laid their heavy hand3 of torment On the world for centuries. Hail to thee, America; All hail to thee, Republic of the West, God guide thee in the hour of battle And in the years of peace Which are to come. 1918. SLEEP AND FORGET (In Memory of the Soldiers who died during the War) Sleep and forget, sleep and forget, After the pain and the tortured endeavor; Dim to the westward the sun has now set. Dream of the stars and your loved ones forever. See the new moon coming up o'er the plain, Casting its silver light over the lane, Over the village and over the hall. Over the field and the cottage wall ; Fragrant now is the sleep of night Under the silver starry light. 1918. 37 LIBRARY OF CONGRES: 018 360 023