A Treasury of War Poetry Part 32

Among Herculean deeds the miracle That ma.s.s'd the labour of ten years in one Shall be thy monument. Thy work was done Ere we could thank thee; and the high sea swell Surgeth unheeding where thy proud ship fell By the lone Orkneys, at the set of sun.

_Robert Bridges_

_June 8, 1916_

KITCHENER

There is wild water from the north; The headlands darken in their foam As with a threat of challenge stubborn earth Booms at that far wild sea-line charging home.

The night shall stand upon the shifting sea As yesternight stood there, And hear the cry of waters through the air, The iron voice of headlands start and rise-- The noise of winds for mastery That screams to hear the thunder in those cries.

But now henceforth there shall be heard From Brough of Bursay, Marwick Head, And shadows of the distant coast, Another voice bestirred-- Telling of something greatly lost Somewhere below the tidal glooms, and dead.

Beyond the uttermost Of aught the night may hear on any seas From tempest-known wild water's cry, and roar Of iron shadows looming from the sh.o.r.e, It shall be heard--and when the Orcades Sleep in a hushed Atlantic's starry folds As smoothly as, far down below the tides, Sleep on the windless broad sea-wolds Where this night's shipwreck hides.

By many a sea-holm where the shock Of ocean's battle falls, and into spray Gives up its ghosts of strife; by reef and rock Ravaged by their eternal brute affray With monstrous frenzies of their sh.o.r.e's green foe; Where overstream and overfall and undertow Strive, s.n.a.t.c.h away; A wistful voice, without a sound, Shall dwell beside Pomona, on the sea, And speak the homeward- and the outward-bound, And touch the helm of pa.s.sing minds And bid them steer as wistfully-- Saying: "He did great work, until the winds And waters hereabout that night betrayed Him to the drifting death! His work went on-- He would not be gainsaid....

Though where his bones are, no man knows, not one!"

_John Helston_

THE FALLEN SUBALTERN

The starsh.e.l.ls float above, the bayonets glisten; We bear our fallen friend without a sound; Below the waiting legions lie and listen To us, who march upon their burial-ground.

Wound in the flag of England, here we lay him; The guns will flash and thunder o'er the grave; What other winding sheet should now array him, What other music should salute the brave?

As goes the Sun-G.o.d in his chariot glorious, When all his golden banners are unfurled, So goes the soldier, fallen but victorious, And leaves behind a twilight in the world.

And those who come this way, in days hereafter, Will know that here a boy for England fell, Who looked at danger with the eyes of laughter, And on the charge his days were ended well.

One last salute; the bayonets clash and glisten; With arms reversed we go without a sound: One more has joined the men who lie and listen To us, who march upon their burial-ground.

_Herbert Asquith_

_1915_

THE DEBT UNPAYABLE

What have I given, Bold sailor on the sea, In earth or heaven, That you should die for me?

What can I give, O soldier, leal and brave, Long as I live, To pay the life you gave?

What t.i.the or part Can I return to thee, O stricken heart, That thou shouldst break for me?

The wind of Death For you has slain life's flowers, It withereth (G.o.d grant) all weeds in ours.

_F.W. Bourdillon_

THE MESSAGES

"I cannot quite remember.... There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench--and three Whispered their dying messages to me...."

Back from the trenches, more dead than alive, Stone-deaf and dazed, and with a broken knee, He hobbled slowly, muttering vacantly:

"I cannot quite remember.... There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench, and three Whispered their dying messages to me....

"Their friends are waiting, wondering how they thrive-- Waiting a word in silence patiently....

But what they said, or who their friends may be

"I cannot quite remember.... There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench--and three Whispered their dying messages to me...."

_Wilfrid Wilson Gibson_

A CROSS IN FLANDERS

In the face of death, they say, he joked--he had no fear; His comrades, when they laid him in a Flanders grave, Wrote on a rough-hewn cross--a Calvary stood near-- "Without a fear he gave

"His life, cheering his men, with laughter on his lips."

So wrote they, mourning him. Yet was there only one Who fully understood his laughter, his gay quips, One only, she alone--

She who, not so long since, when love was new--confest, Herself toyed with light laughter while her eyes were dim, And jested, while with reverence despite her jest She worshipped G.o.d and him.

She knew--O Love, O Death!--his soul had been at grips With the most solemn things. For _she_, was _she_ not dear?

Yes, he was brave, most brave, with laughter on his lips, The braver for his fear!

_G. Rostrevor Hamilton_

RESURRECTION