Part 8

Our little hour,--how short it is When Love with dew-eyed loveliness Raises her lips for ours to kiss And dies within our first caress. Youth flickers out like wind-blown flame, Sweets of to-day to-morrow sour, For Time and Death, relentless, claim Our little hour.

Our little hour,--how short a tune To wage our wars, to fan our hates, To take our fill of armoured crime, To troop our banners, storm the gates. Blood on the sword, our eyes blood-red, Blind in our puny reign of power, Do we forget how soon is sped Our little hour?

Our little hour,--how soon it dies: How short a time to tell our beads, To chant our feeble Litanies, To think sweet thoughts, to do good deeds. The altar lights grow pale and dim, The bells hang silent in the tower-- So passes with the dying hymn Our little hour.

_Leslie Coulson_

BEFORE ACTION

By all the glories of the day, And the cool evening's benison: By the last sunset touch that lay Upon the hills when day was done; By beauty lavishly outpoured, And blessings carelessly received, By all the days that I have lived, Make me a soldier, Lord.

By all of all men's hopes and fears, And all the wonders poets sing, The laughter of unclouded years, And every sad and lovely thing: By the romantic ages stored With high endeavour that was his, By all his mad catastrophes, Make me a man, O Lord.

I, that on my familiar hill Saw with uncomprehending eyes A hundred of Thy sunsets spill Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice, Ere the sun swings his noonday sword Must say good-bye to all of this:-- By all delights that I shall miss, Help me to die, O Lord.

_W. N. Hodgson ("Edward Melbourne")_

COURAGE

Alone amid the battle-din untouched Stands out one figure beautiful, serene; No grime of smoke nor reeking blood hath smutched The virgin brow of this unconquered queen. She is the Joy of Courage vanquishing The unstilled tremors of the fearful heart; And it is she that bids the poet sing, And gives to each the strength to bear his part.

Her eye shall not be dimmed, but as a flame Shall light the distant ages with its fire, That men may know the glory of her name, That purified our souls of fear's desire. And she doth calm our sorrow, soothe our pain, And she shall lead us back to peace again.

_Dyneley Hussey_

OPTIMISM

At last there'll dawn the last of the long year, Of the long year that seemed to dream no end, Whose every dawn but turned the world more drear, And slew some hope, or led away some friend. Or be you dark, or buffeting, or blind, We care not, day, but leave not death behind.

The hours that feed on war go heavy-hearted, Death is no fare wherewith to make hearts fain. Oh, we are sick to find that they who started With glamour in their eyes came not again. O day, be long and heavy if you will, But on our hopes set not a bitter heel.

For tiny hopes like tiny flowers of Spring Will come, though death and ruin hold the land, Though storms may roar they may not break the wing Of the earthed lark whose song is ever bland. Fell year unpitiful, slow days of scorn, Your kind shall die, and sweeter days be born.

_A. Victor Ratcliffe_

THE BATTLEFIELD

Around no fire the soldiers sleep to-night, But lie a-wearied on the ice-bound field, With cloaks wrapt round their sleeping forms, to shield Them from the northern winds. Ere comes the light Of morn brave men must arm, stern foes to fight. The sentry stands, his limbs with cold congealed; His head a-nod with sleep; he cannot yield, Though sleep and snow in deadly force unite.

Amongst the sleepers lies the Boy awake, And wide-eyed plans brave glories that transcend The deeds of heroes dead; then dreams o'ertake His tired-out brain, and lofty fancies blend To one grand theme, and through all barriers break To guard from hurt his faithful sleeping friend.

_Sydney Oswald_

"ON LES AURA!"

SOLDAT JACQUES BONHOMME LOQUITUR:

See you that stretch of shell-torn mud spotted with pools of mire, Crossed by a burst abandoned trench and tortured strands of wire, Where splintered pickets reel and sag and leprous trench-rats play, That scour the Devil's hunting-ground to seek their carrion prey? That is the field my father loved, the field that once was mine, The land I nursed for my child's child as my fathers did long syne.

See there a mound of powdered stones, all flattened, smashed, and torn, Gone black with damp and green with slime?--Ere you and I were born My father's father built a house, a little house and bare, And there I brought my woman home--that heap of rubble there! The soil of France! Fat fields and green that bred my blood and bone! Each wound that scars my bosom's pride burns deeper than my own.

But yet there is one thing to say--one thing that pays for all, Whatever lot our bodies know, whatever fate befall, We hold the line! We hold it still! My fields are No Man's Land, But the good God is debonair and holds us by the hand. "_On les aura!_" See there! and there I soaked heaps of huddled, grey! My fields shall laugh--enriched by those who sought them for a prey.

_James H. Knight-Adkin_

TO AN OLD LADY SEEN AT A GUESTHOUSE FOR SOLDIERS

Quiet thou didst stand at thine appointed place, There was no press to purchase--younger grace Attracts the youth of valour. Thou didst not know, Like the old, kindly Martha, to and fro To haste. Yet one could say, "In thine I prize The strength of calm that held in Mary's eyes." And when they came, thy gracious smile so wrought They knew that they were given, not that they bought. Thou didst not tempt to vauntings, and pretence Was dumb before thy perfect woman's sense. Blest who have seen, for they shall ever see The radiance of thy benignity.

_Alexander Robertson_

THE CASUALTY CLEARING STATION

A bowl of daffodils, A crimson-quilted bed, Sheets and pillows white as snow-- White and gold and red-- And sisters moving to and fro, With soft and silent tread.

So all my spirit fills With pleasure infinite, And all the feathered wings of rest Seem flocking from the radiant West To bear me thro' the night.

See, how they close me in. They, and the sisters' arms. One eye is closed, the other lid Is watching how my spirit slid Toward some red-roofed farms, And having crept beneath them slept Secure from war's alarms.

_Gilbert Waterhouse_

HILLS OF HOME

Oh! yon hills are filled with sunlight, and the green leaves paled to gold, And the smoking mists of Autumn hanging faintly o'er the wold; I dream of hills of other days whose sides I loved to roam When Spring was dancing through the lanes of those distant hills of home.

The winds of heaven gathered there as pure and cold as dew; Wood-sorrel and wild violets along the hedgerows grew, The blossom on the pear-trees was as white as flakes of foam In the orchard 'neath the shadow of those distant hills of home.

The first white frost in the meadow will be shining there to-day And the furrowed upland glinting warm beside the woodland way; There, a bright face and a clear hearth will be waiting when I come, And my heart is throbbing wildly for those distant hills of home.

_Malcolm Hemphrey_

THE RED CROSS SPIRIT SPEAKS

Wherever war, with its red woes, Or flood, or fire, or famine goes, There, too, go I; If earth in any quarter quakes Or pestilence its ravage makes, Thither I fly.

I kneel behind the soldier's trench, I walk 'mid shambles' smear and stench, The dead I mourn; I bear the stretcher and I bend O'er Fritz and Pierre and Jack to mend What shells have torn.

I go wherever men may dare, I go wherever woman's care And love can live, Wherever strength and skill can bring Surcease to human suffering, Or solace give.

I helped upon Haldora's shore; With Hospitaller Knights I bore The first red cross; I was the Lady of the Lamp; I saw in Solferino's camp The crimson loss.

I am your pennies and your pounds; I am your bodies on their rounds Of pain afar: I am _you_, doing what you would If you were only where you could-- Your avatar.

The cross which on my arm I wear, The flag which o'er my breast I bear, Is but the sign Of what you'd sacrifice for him Who suffers on the hellish rim Of war's red line.

_John Finley_

CHAPLAIN TO THE FORCES

["I have once more to remark upon the devotion to duty, courage, and contempt of danger which has characterized the work of the Chaplains of the Army throughout this campaign."--_Sir John French, in the Neuve Chapelle dispatch_.]

Ambassador of Christ you go Up to the very gates of Hell, Through fog of powder, storm of shell, To speak your Master's message: "Lo, The Prince of Peace is with you still, His peace be with you, His good-will."

It is not small, your priesthood's price. To be a man and yet stand by, To hold your life while others die, To bless, not share the sacrifice, To watch the strife and take no part-- You with the fire at your heart.

But yours, for our great Captain Christ, To know the sweat of agony, The darkness of Gethsemane, In anguish for these souls unpriced. Vicegerent of God's pity you, A sword must pierce your own soul through.

In the pale gleam of new-born day, Apart in some tree-shadowed place, Your altar but a packing-case, Rude as the shed where Mary lay, Your sanctuary the rain-drenched sod, You bring the kneeling soldier God.

As sentinel you guard the gate 'Twixt life and death, and unto death Speed the brave soul whose failing breath Shudders not at the grip of Fate, But answers, gallant to the end, "Christ is the Word--and I his friend."

Then God go with you, priest of God, For all is well and shall be well. What though you tread the roads of Hell, Your Captain these same ways has trod. Above the anguish and the loss Still floats the ensign of His Cross.

_Winifred M. Letts_

SONG OF THE RED CROSS

O gracious ones, we bless your name Upon our bended knee; The voice of love with tongue of flame Records your charity. Your hearts, your lives right willingly ye gave, That sacred ruth might shine; Ye fell, bright spirits, brave amongst the brave, Compassionate, divine.

Example from your lustrous deeds The conqueror shall take, Sowing sublime and fruitful seeds Of _aidos_ in this ache. And when our griefs have passed on gloomy wing, When friend and foe are sped, Sons of a morning to be born shall sing The radiant Cross of Red; Sons of a morning to be born shall sing The radiant Cross of Red.

_Eden Phillpotts_

THE HEALERS

In a vision of the night I saw them, In the battles of the night. 'Mid the roar and the reeling shadows of blood They were moving like light,

Light of the reason, guarded Tense within the will, As a lantern under a tossing of boughs Burns steady and still.

With scrutiny calm, and with fingers Patient as swift They bind up the hurts and the pain-writhen Bodies uplift,

Untired and defenceless; around them With shrieks in its breath Bursts stark from the terrible horizon Impersonal death;

But they take not their courage from anger That blinds the hot being; They take not their pity from weakness; Tender, yet seeing;

Feeling, yet nerved to the uttermost; Keen, like steel; Yet the wounds of the mind they are stricken with, Who shall heal?

They endure to have eyes of the watcher In hell, and not swerve For an hour from the faith that they follow, The light that they serve.

Man true to man, to his kindness That overflows all, To his spirit erect in the thunder When all his forts fall,--

This light, in the tiger-mad welter, They serve and they save. What song shall be worthy to sing of them-- Braver than the brave?

_Laurence Binyon_

THE RED CROSS NURSES

Out where the line of battle cleaves The horizon of woe And sightless warriors clutch the leaves The Red Cross nurses go. In where the cots of agony Mark death's unmeasured tide-- Bear up the battle's harvestry-- The Red Cross nurses glide.

Look! Where the hell of steel has torn Its way through slumbering earth The orphaned urchins kneel forlorn And wonder at their birth. Until, above them, calm and wise With smile and guiding hand, God looking through their gentle eyes, The Red Cross nurses stand.

_Thomas L. Masson_

KILMENY

(A SONG OF THE TRAWLERS)

Dark, dark lay the drifters, against the red west, As they shot their long meshes of steel overside; And the oily green waters were rocking to rest When _Kilmeny_ went out, at the turn of the tide. And nobody knew where that lassie would roam, For the magic that called her was tapping unseen, It was well nigh a week ere _Kilmeny_ came home, And nobody knew where _Kilmeny_ had been.

She'd a gun at her bow that was Newcastle's best, And a gun at her stern that was fresh from the Clyde, And a secret her skipper had never confessed, Not even at dawn, to his newly wed bride; And a wireless that whispered above like a gnome, The laughter of London, the boasts of Berlin. O, it may have been mermaids that lured her from home, But nobody knew where _Kilmeny_ had been.

It was dark when _Kilmeny_ came home from her quest, With her bridge dabbled red where her skipper had died; But she moved like a bride with a rose at her breast; And "Well done, Kilmeny!" the admiral cried.

Now at sixty-four fathom a conger may come, And nose at the bones of a drowned submarine; But late in the evening _Kilmeny_ came home, And nobody knew where _Kilmeny_ had been.

There's a wandering shadow that stares at the foam, Though they sing all the night to old England, their queen, Late, late in the evening _Kilmeny_ came home, And nobody knew where _Kilmeny_ had been.

_Alfred Noyes_

THE MINE-SWEEPERS

Dawn off the Foreland--the young flood making Jumbled and short and steep-- Black in the hollows and bright where it's breaking-- Awkward water to sweep. "Mines reported in the fairway, Warn all traffic and detain. Sent up _Unity_, _Claribel_, _Assyrian_, _Stormcock_, and _Golden Gain_."

Noon off the Foreland--the first ebb making Lumpy and strong in the bight. Boom after boom, and the golf-hut shaking And the jackdaws wild with fright. "Mines located in the fairway, Boats now working up the chain, Sweepers--_Unity_, _Claribel_, _Assyrian_, _Stormcock_, and _Golden Gain_."

Dusk off the Foreland--the last light going And the traffic crowding through, And five damned trawlers with their syreens blowing Heading the whole review! "Sweep completed in the fairway. No more mines remain. Sent back _Unity_, _Claribel_, _Assyrian_, _Stormcock_, and _Golden Gain_."

Rudyard Kipling_

MARE LIBERUM

You dare to say with perjured lips, "We fight to make the ocean free"? _You_, whose black trail of butchered ships Bestrews the bed of every sea Where German submarines have wrought Their horrors! Have you never thought,-- What you call freedom, men call piracy!

Unnumbered ghosts that haunt the wave Where you have murdered, cry you down; And seamen whom you would not save, Weave now in weed-grown depths a crown Of shame for your imperious head,-- A dark memorial of the dead,-- Women and children whom you left to drown.

Nay, not till thieves are set to guard The gold, and corsairs called to keep O'er peaceful commerce watch and ward, And wolves to herd the helpless sheep, Shall men and women look to thee-- Thou ruthless Old Man of the Sea-- To safeguard law and freedom on the deep!

In nobler breeds we put our trust: The nations in whose sacred lore The "Ought" stands out above the "Must," And Honor rules in peace and war. With these we hold in soul and heart, With these we choose our lot and part, Till Liberty is safe on sea and shore.

_Henry van Dyke_

_February 11, 1917_

THE DAWN PATROL

Sometimes I fly at dawn above the sea, Where, underneath, the restless waters flow-- Silver, and cold, and slow, Dim in the east there burns a new-born sun, Whose rosy gleams along the ripples run, Save where the mist droops low, Hiding the level loneliness from me.

And now appears beneath the milk-white haze A little fleet of anchored ships, which lie In clustered company, And seem as they are yet fast bound by sleep, Although the day has long begun to peep, With red-inflamèd eye, Along the still, deserted ocean ways.

The fresh, cold wind of dawn blows on my face As in the sun's raw heart I swiftly fly, And watch the seas glide by. Scarce human seem I, moving through the skies, And far removed from warlike enterprise-- Like some great gull on high Whose white and gleaming wings beat on through space.

Then do I feel with God quite, quite alone, High in the virgin morn, so white and still, And free from human ill: My prayers transcend my feeble earth-bound plaints-- As though I sang among the happy Saints With many a holy thrill-- As though the glowing sun were God's bright Throne.

My flight is done. I cross the line of foam That breaks around a town of grey and red, Whose streets and squares lie dead Beneath the silent dawn--then am I proud That England's peace to guard I am allowed; Then bow my humble head, In thanks to Him Who brings me safely home.

_Paul Bewsher_

DESTROYERS OFF JUTLAND

["If lost hounds could speak when they cast up next day after an unchecked night among the wild life of the dark they would talk much as our destroyers do."--_Rudyard Kipling_.]

They had hot scent across the spumy sea, _Gehenna_ and her sister, swift _Shaitan_, That in the pack, with _Goblin_, _Eblis_ ran And many a couple more, full cry, foot-free; The dog-fox and his brood were fain to flee, But bare of fang and dangerous to the van That pressed them close. So when the kill began Some hounds were lamed and some died splendidly.

But from the dusk along the Skagerack, Until dawn loomed upon the Reef of Horn And the last fox had slunk back to his earth, They kept the great traditions of the pack, Staunch-hearted through the hunt, as they were born, These hounds that England suckled at the birth.

_Reginald McIntosh Cleveland_

BRITISH MERCHANT SERVICE

Oh, down by Millwall Basin as I went the other day, I met a skipper that I knew, and to him I did say: "Now what's the cargo, Captain, that brings you up this way?"

"Oh, I've been up and down (said he) and round about also.... From Sydney to the Skagerack, and Kiel to Callao.... With a leaking steam-pipe all the way to Californ-i-o....

"With pots and pans and ivory fans and every kind of thing, Rails and nails and cotton bales, and sewer pipes and string.... But now I'm through with cargoes, and I'm here to serve the King!

"And if it's sweeping mines (to which my fancy somewhat leans) Or hanging out with booby-traps for the skulking submarines, I'm here to do my blooming best and give the beggars beans!

"A rough job and a tough job is the best job for me, And what or where I don't much care, I'll take what it may be, For a tight place is the right place when it's foul weather at sea!"

* * * * *

There's not a port he doesn't know from Melbourne to New York; He's as hard as a lump of harness beef, and as salt as pickled pork.... And he'll stand by a wreck in a murdering gale and count it part of his work!

He's the terror of the fo'c's'le when he heals its various ills With turpentine and mustard leaves, and poultices and pills.... But he knows the sea like the palm of his hand, as a shepherd knows the hills.

He'll spin you yarns from dawn to dark--and half of 'em are true! He swears in a score of languages, and maybe talks in two! And ... he'll lower a boat in a hurricane to save a drowning crew.

A rough job or a tough job--he's handled two or three-- And what or where he won't much care, nor ask what the risk may be.... For a tight place is the right place when it's wild weather at sea!

_C. Fox Smith_

TO A SOLDIER IN HOSPITAL

Courage came to you with your boyhood's grace Of ardent life and limb. Each day new dangers steeled you to the test, To ride, to climb, to swim. Your hot blood taught you carelessness of death With every breath.

So when you went to play another game You could not but be brave: An Empire's team, a rougher football field, The end--perhaps your grave. What matter? On the winning of a goal You staked your soul.

Yes, you wore courage as you wore your youth With carelessness and joy. But in what Spartan school of discipline Did you get patience, boy? How did you learn to bear this long-drawn pain And not complain?

Restless with throbbing hopes, with thwarted aims, Impulsive as a colt, How do you lie here month by weary month Helpless, and not revolt? What joy can these monotonous days afford Here in a ward?

Yet you are merry as the birds in spring, Or feign the gaiety, Lest those who dress and tend your wound each day Should guess the agony. Lest they should suffer--this the only fear You let draw near.

Greybeard philosophy has sought in books And argument this truth, That man is greater than his pain, but you Have learnt it in your youth. You know the wisdom taught by Calvary At twenty-three.

Death would have found you brave, but braver still You face each lagging day, A merry Stoic, patient, chivalrous, Divinely kind and gay. You bear your knowledge lightly, graduate Of unkind Fate.

Careless philosopher, the first to laugh, The latest to complain. Unmindful that you teach, you taught me this In your long fight with pain: Since God made man so good--here stands my creed-- God's good indeed.

_Winifred M. Letts_

BETWEEN THE LINES