The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 38

October, 1915.

Read at the meeting of the American Academy, Boston, November, 1915.

REMARKS ABOUT KINGS

"_G.o.d said I am tired of kings._"--EMERSON.

G.o.d said, "I am tired of kings,"-- But that was a long while ago!

And meantime man said, "No,-- I like their looks in their robes and rings."

So he crowned a few more, And they went on playing the game as before, Fighting and spoiling things.

Man said, "I am tired of kings!

Sons of the robber-chiefs of yore, They make me pay for their l.u.s.t and their war; I am the puppet, they pull the strings; The blood of my heart is the wine they drink.

I will govern myself for awhile I think, And see what that brings!"

Then G.o.d, who made the first remark, Smiled in the dark.

October, 1915.

Read at the meeting of the American Academy, Boston, November, 1915.

MIGHT AND RIGHT

If Might made Right, life were a wild-beasts' cage; If Right made Might, this were the golden age; But now, until we win the long campaign, Right must gain Might to conquer and to reign.

July 1, 1915.

THE PRICE OF PEACE

Peace without Justice is a low estate,-- A coward cringing to an iron Fate!

But Peace through Justice is the great ideal,-- We'll pay the price of war to make it real.

December 28, 1916.

STORM-MUSIC

O Music hast thou only heard The laughing river, the singing bird, The murmuring wind in the poplar-trees,-- Nothing but Nature's melodies?

Nay, thou hearest all her tones, As a Queen must hear!

Sounds of wrath and fear, Mutterings, shouts, and moans, Madness, tumult, and despair,-- All she has that shakes the air With voices fierce and wild!

Thou art a Queen and not a dreaming child,-- Put on thy crown and let us hear thee reign Triumphant in a world of storm and strain!

Echo the long-drawn sighs Of the mounting wind in the pines; And the sobs of the mounting waves that rise In the dark of the troubled deep To break on the beach in fiery lines.

Echo the far-off roll of thunder, Rumbling loud And ever louder, under The blue-black curtain of cloud, Where the lightning serpents gleam.

Echo the moaning Of the forest in its sleep Like a giant groaning In the torment of a dream.

Now an interval of quiet For a moment holds the air In the breathless hush Of a silent prayer.

Then the sudden rush Of the rain, and the riot Of the shrieking, tearing gale Breaks loose in the night, With a fusillade of hail!

Hear the forest fight, With its tossing arms that crack and clash In the thunder's cannonade, While the lightning's forked flash Brings the old hero-trees to the ground with a crash!

Hear the breakers' deepening roar, Driven like a herd of cattle In the wild stampede of battle, Trampling, trampling, trampling, to overwhelm the sh.o.r.e!

Is it the end of all?

Will the land crumble and fall?

Nay, for a voice replies Out of the hidden skies, "Thus far, O sea, shalt thou go, So long, O wind, shalt thou blow: Return to your bounds and cease, And let the earth have peace!"

O Music, lead the way-- The stormy night is past, Lift up our hearts to greet the day, And the joy of things that last.

The dissonance and pain That mortals must endure, Are changed in thine immortal strain To something great and pure.

True love will conquer strife, And strength from conflict flows, For discord is the thorn of life And harmony the rose.

May, 1916.

THE BELLS OF MALINES

August 17, 1914

The gabled roofs of old Malines Are russet red and gray and green, And o'er them in the sunset hour Looms, dark and huge, St. Rombold's tower.

High in that rugged nest concealed, The sweetest bells that ever pealed, The deepest bells that ever rung, The lightest bells that ever sung, Are waiting for the master's hand To fling their music o'er the land.

And shall they ring to-night, Malines?

In nineteen hundred and fourteen, The frightful year, the year of woe, When fire and blood and rapine flow Across the land from lost Liege, Storm-driven by the German rage?

The other carillons have ceased: Fallen is Ha.s.selt, fallen Diest, From Ghent and Bruges no voices come, Antwerp is silent, Brussels dumb!

But in thy belfry, O Malines, The master of the bells unseen Has climbed to where the keyboard stands,-- To-night his heart is in his hands!

Once more, before invasion's h.e.l.l Breaks round the tower he loves so well, Once more he strikes the well-worn keys, And sends aerial harmonies Far-floating through the twilight dim In patriot song and holy hymn.

O listen, burghers of Malines!

Soldier and workman, pale beguine, And mother with a trembling flock Of children clinging to thy frock,-- Look up and listen, listen all!

What tunes are these that gently fall Around you like a benison?

"The Flemish Lion," "Brabanconne,"

"O brave Liege," and all the airs That Belgium in her bosom bears.