A Treasury of War Poetry Part 5

You have become a forge of snow-white fire, A crucible of molten steel, O France!

Your sons are stars who cl.u.s.ter to a dawn And fade in light for you, O glorious France!

They pa.s.s through meteor changes with a song Which to all islands and all continents Says life is neither comfort, wealth, nor fame, Nor quiet hearthstones, friendship, wife nor child, Nor love, nor youth's delight, nor manhood's power, Nor many days spent in a chosen work, Nor honored merit, nor the patterned theme Of daily labor, nor the crowns nor wreaths Of seventy years.

These are not all of life, O France, whose sons amid the rolling thunder Of cannon stand in trenches where the dead Clog the ensanguined ice. But life to these Prophetic and enraptured souls is vision, And the keen ecstasy of fated strife, And divination of the loss as gain, And reading mysteries with brightened eyes In fiery shock and dazzling pain before The orient splendour of the face of Death, As a great light beside a shadowy sea; And in a high will's strenuous exercise, Where the warmed spirit finds its fullest strength And is no more afraid, and in the stroke Of azure lightning when the hidden essence And shifting meaning of man's spiritual worth And mystical significance in time Are instantly distilled to one clear drop Which mirrors earth and heaven.

This is life Flaming to heaven in a minute's span When the breath of battle blows the smouldering spark.

And across these seas We who cry Peace and treasure life and cling To cities, happiness, or daily toil For daily bread, or trail the long routine Of seventy years, taste not the terrible wine Whereof you drink, who drain and toss the cup Empty and ringing by the finished feast; Or have it shaken from your hand by sight Of G.o.d against the olive woods.

As Joan of Arc amid the apple trees With sacred joy first heard the voices, then Obeying plunged at Orleans in a field Of spears and lived her dream and died in fire, Thou, France, hast heard the voices and hast lived The dream and known the meaning of the dream, And read its riddle: how the soul of man May to one greatest purpose make itself A lens of clearness, how it loves the cup Of deepest truth, and how its bitterest gall Turns sweet to soul's surrender.

And you say: Take days for repet.i.tion, stretch your hands For mocked renewal of familiar things: The beaten path, the chair beside the window, The crowded street, the task, the accustomed sleep, And waking to the task, or many springs Of lifted cloud, blue water, flowering fields-- The prison-house grows close no less, the feast A place of memory sick for senses dulled Down to the dusty end where pitiful Time Grown weary cries Enough!

_Edgar Lee Masters_

TO FRANCE

Those who have stood for thy cause when the dark was around thee, Those who have pierced through the shadows and shining have found thee, Those who have held to their faith in thy courage and power, Thy spirit, thy honor, thy strength for a terrible hour, Now can rejoice that they see thee in light and in glory, Facing whatever may come as an end to the story In calm undespairing, with steady eyes fixed on the morrow-- The morn that is pregnant with blood and with death and with sorrow.

And whether the victory crowns thee, O France the eternal, Or whether the smoke and the dusk of a nightfall infernal Gather about thee, and us, and the foe; and all treasures Run with the flooding of war into bottomless measures-- Fall what befalls: in this hour all those who are near thee And all who have loved thee, they rise and salute and revere thee!

_Herbert Jones_

PLACE DE LA CONCORDE

AUGUST 14, 1914

[Since the bombardment of Strasburg, August 14, 1870, her statue in Paris, representing Alsace, has been draped in mourning by the French people.]

Near where the royal victims fell In days gone by, caught in the swell Of a ruthless tide Of human pa.s.sion, deep and wide: There where we two A Nation's later sorrow knew-- To-day, O friend! I stood Amid a self-ruled mult.i.tude That by nor sound nor word Betrayed how mightily its heart was stirred,

A memory Time never could efface-- A memory of Grief-- Like a great Silence brooded o'er the place; And men breathed hard, as seeking for relief From an emotion strong That would not cry, though held in check too long.

One felt that joy drew near-- A joy intense that seemed itself to fear-- Brightening in eyes that had been dull, As all with feeling gazed Upon the Strasburg figure, raised Above us--mourning, beautiful!

Then one stood at the statue's base, and spoke-- Men needed not to ask what word; Each in his breast the message heard, Writ for him by Despair, That evermore in moving phrase Breathes from the Invalides and Pere Lachaise-- Vainly it seemed, alas!

But now, France looking on the image there, Hope gave her back the lost Alsace.

A deeper hush fell on the crowd: A sound--the lightest--seemed too loud (Would, friend, you had been there!) As to that form the speaker rose, Took from her, fold on fold, The mournful c.r.a.pe, gray-worn and old, Her, proudly, to disclose, And with the touch of tender care That fond emotion speaks, 'Mid tears that none could quite command, Placed the Tricolor in her hand, And kissed her on both cheeks!

_Florence Earle Coates_

TO FRANCE

What is the gift we have given thee, Sister?

What is the trust we have laid in thy hand?

Hearts of our bravest, our best, and our dearest, Blood of our blood we have sown in thy land.

What for all time will the harvest be, Sister?

What will spring up from the seed that is sown?

Freedom and peace and goodwill among Nations, Love that will bind us with love all our own.

Bright is the path, that is opening before us, Upward and onward it mounts through the night; Sword shall not sever the bonds that unite us Leading the world to the fullness of light.

Sorrow hath made thee more beautiful, Sister, n.o.bler and purer than ever before; We who are chastened by sorrow and anguish Hail thee as sister and queen evermore.

_Frederick George Scott_

_QUI VIVE?_

_Qui vive?_ Who pa.s.ses by up there?

Who moves--what stirs in the startled air?

What whispers, thrills, exults up there?

_Qui vive?_ "The Flags of France."

What wind on a windless night is this, That breathes as light as a lover's kiss, That blows through the night with bugle notes, That streams like a pennant from a lance, That rustles, that floats?

"The Flags of France."

What richly moves, what lightly stirs, Like a n.o.ble lady in a dance, When all men's eyes are in love with hers And needs must follow?

"The Flags of France."

What calls to the heart--and the heart has heard, Speaks, and the soul has obeyed the word, Summons, and all the years advance, And the world goes forward with France--with France?

Who called?

"The Flags of France."

What flies--a glory, through the night, While the legions stream--a line of light, And men fall to the left and fall to the right, But _they_ fall not?

"The Flags of France."

_Qui vive?_ Who comes? What approaches there?

What soundless tumult, what breath in the air Takes the breath in the throat, the blood from the heart?

In a flame of dark, to the unheard beat Of an unseen drum and fleshless feet, Without glint of barrel or bayonets' glance, They approach--they come. _Who_ comes? (Hush! Hark!) _"Qui vive?"_ "The Flags of France."

Uncover the head and kneel--kneel down, A monarch pa.s.ses, without a crown, Let the proud tears fall but the heart beat high: The Greatest of All is pa.s.sing by, On its endless march in the endless Plan: "_Qui vive?_"

"The Spirit of Man."