A Treasury of War Poetry Part 13

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 G.o.ds, 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 h.e.l.l.

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 d.a.m.ned 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 G.o.d! 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 pa.s.s, 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?"