Poems of the Great War Part 3

When the ships come back from slaughter, and the troops march home from war; When the havoc strewn behind us threats the road that lies before, Every hero shall be welcomed, every orphan shall be fed, By the man who stuck to business, by the man who kept his head.

HAROLD BEGBIE

FRANCE

Because for once the sword broke in her hand, The words she spoke seemed perished for a s.p.a.ce; All wrong was brazen, and in every land The tyrants walked abroad with naked face.

The waters turned to blood, as rose the Star Of evil fate denying all release.

The rulers smote the feeble crying "War!"

The usurers robbed the naked crying "Peace!"

And her own feet were caught in nets of gold, And her own soul profaned by sects that squirm, And little men climbed her high seats and sold Her honour to the vulture and the worm.

And she seemed broken and they thought her dead, The Over-Men, so brave against the weak.

Has your last word of sophistry been said, O cult of slaves? Then it is hers to speak.

Clear the slow mists from her half-darkened eyes, As slow mists parted over Valmy fell, And once again her hands in high surprise Take hold upon the battlements of h.e.l.l.

CECIL CHESTERTON

WE WILLED IT NOT

We willed it not. We have not lived in hate, Loving too well the shires of England thrown From sea to sea to covet your estate, Or wish one flight of fortune from your throne.

We had grown proud because the nations stood Hoping together against the calumny That, tortured of its old barbarian blood, Barbarian still the heart of man should be.

Builders there are who name you overlord, Building with us the citadels of light, Who hold as we this chartered sin abhorred, And cry you risen Caesar of the Night.

Beethoven speaks with Milton on this day, And Shakespeare's word with Goethe's beats the sky, In witness of the birthright you betray, In witness of the vision you deny.

We love the hearth, the quiet hills, the song, The friendly gossip come from every land; And very peace were now a nameless wrong,-- You thrust this bitter quarrel to our hand.

For this your pride the tragic armies go, And the grim navies watch along the seas; You trade in death, you mock at life, you throw To G.o.d the tumult of your blasphemies.

You rob us of our love-right. It is said.

In treason to the world you are enthroned.

We rise, and, by the yet ungathered dead, Not lightly shall the treason be atoned.

JOHN DRINKWATER

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, Stedfast 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 find our welfare in the general good; To hold together, merging all degrees In one wide brotherhood;--

To teach that he who saves himself is lost; 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

HYMN BEFORE ACTION

The earth is full of anger, The seas are dark with wrath, The Nations in their harness Go up against our path: Ere yet we loose the legions-- Ere yet we draw the blade, Jehovah of the Thunders, Lord G.o.d of Battles, aid!

High l.u.s.t and froward bearing, Proud heart, rebellious brow-- Deaf ear and soul uncaring, We seek Thy mercy now!

The sinner that forswore Thee, The fool that pa.s.sed Thee by, Our times are known before Thee-- Lord, grant us strength to die!

From panic, pride, and terror, Revenge that knows no rein, Light haste and lawless error, Protect us yet again, Cloak Thou our undeserving, Make firm the shuddering breath, In silence and unswerving To taste Thy lesser death!

Ah! Mary, pierced with sorrow, Remember, reach and save The soul that comes to-morrow Before the G.o.d that gave; Since each was born of woman, For each at utter need-- True comrade and true foeman-- Madonna, intercede!

E'en now their vanguard gathers, E'en now we face the fray-- As Thou didst help our fathers, Help Thou our host to-day!

Fulfilled of signs and wonders, In life, in death made clear-- Jehovah of the Thunders, Lord G.o.d of Battles, hear!

RUDYARD KIPLING

"YATTENDON HYMNAL NO. 54"