A Treasury of War Poetry Part 15

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 G.o.d

["I rejoice with you in Wilhelm's first victory. How magnificently G.o.d supported him!"--Telegram from the Kaiser to the Crown Princess.]

Led by Wilhelm, as you tell, G.o.d has done extremely well; You with patronizing nod Show that you approve of G.o.d.

Kaiser, face a question new-- This--does G.o.d 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, b.e.s.t.i.a.l l.u.s.t, Filth too foul for printer's ink, Crime from which the apes would shrink-- Strange the offerings that you press On the G.o.d 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-- G.o.d as one of your allies.

Impious braggart, you forget; G.o.d 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 G.o.d.

_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 sh.e.l.l Are strewn with her undaunted sons who stayed the jaws of h.e.l.l.

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 impa.s.sioned 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 G.o.ddess of his l.u.s.t 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 sh.e.l.ls 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, 1915_

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!