A Treasury of War Poetry Part 3

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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 fort.i.tude, 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 G.o.d, 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 l.u.s.t 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 12, 1914_

LINES WRITTEN IN SURREY, 1917

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 h.e.l.ls, Falling on dreams, 'mid Death's extreme caress, Of English daisies dancing in English dells.

_George Herbert Clarke_