A Treasury of War Poetry Part 20

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, 1915_

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 hors.e.m.e.n, 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 hea.r.s.e 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 gra.s.s 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 n.o.bler 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, 1915_

THE CRICKETERS OF FLANDERS

The first to climb the parapet With "cricket b.a.l.l.s" in either hand; The first to vanish in the smoke Of G.o.d-forsaken No Man's Land; First at the wire and soonest through, First at those red-mouthed hounds of h.e.l.l, 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!

Sh.e.l.l-hole to sh.e.l.l-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 G.o.d; 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 pa.s.s.

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.