Hello, Soldier! Part 10

Quite possibly I'll make a strike; The odds are all opposed to that.

Behind the dawn the Furies sway The mighty globe from which to get Those bullets which throughout the day Will winners be to break or slay.

I have not struck a starter yet

The busy bullets rise and flock; They whistle as they pa.s.s; They're chipping at the solid rock, They're skipping in the gra.s.s.

Out there the tiny dancers throw Their sober skirts of rust, Brown flitting figures tipping toe Along the golden dust.

UNREDEEMED.

I SAW the Christ down from His cross, A tragic man lean-limbed and tall, But weighed with suffering and loss.

His back was to a broken wall, And out upon the tameless world Was fixed His gaze His piercing eye Beheld the towns to ruin hurled, And saw the storm of death pa.s.s by.

Two thousand years it was since first He offered to the race of men His sovran boon, As one accurst They nailed Him to the jibbet then, And while they mocked Him for their mirth He smiled, and from the hill of pain To all the hating tribes of earth Held forth His wondrous gift again.

To-day the thorns were on His brow, His grief was deeper than before.

From ravaged field and city now Arose the screams and reek of war.

The black smoke parted. Through the rift G.o.d's sun fell on the b1oody lands.

Christ wept, for still His priceless gift He held within His wounded hands.

THE LIVING PICTURE

HE rode along one splendid noon, When all the hills were lit with Spring, And through the bushland throbbed a croon Of every living, hopeful thing.

Between his teeth a rose he bore As white as milk, and pa.s.sing there He tossed it with a laugh. I wore It as it fell among my hair.

No day a-drip with golden rain, No heat with drench of wattle scent Can touch the heart of me again But with that young, sweet wonder blent.

We wed upon a gusty day, When baffled fury whipped the sea; And now I love the swift, wet play Of wind and rain besetting me.

I took white roses in my hand, A white rose on my forehead shone, For we had come to understand White roses bloomed for us alone.

When scarce a year had gone he sped To fight the wars. With eyes grown grim He kissed my lips, and whispering said: "The world we must keep sweet for him!"

He wrote of war, the soldier's life.

"'Tis hard, my dearest, but be brave.

I did not make my love my wife To be the mother of a slave!"

My babe was born a boy. He had His father's eyes, his smile, his hair, And, oh, my soul was br.i.m.m.i.n.g glad-- It seemed his father's self was there!

But now came one who bade me still In holy Heaven put my trust.

They'd laid my love beneath the hill, And sealed his eyes with timeless dust.

Against my breast the babe I drew, With strength from him to stay my fears.

I fought my fight the long days through; He laughed and dabbled in my tears.

From my poor heart, at which it fed With tiger teeth, I thrust despair, And faced a world with shadow spread And only echoes in the air.

The winter waned. One eve I went, Led by a kindly hand to see In moving scenes the churches rent, The tumbled hill, the blasted lee.

Of soldiers resting by the road, Who smoked and drowsed, a muddy rout, One sprang alert, and forward strode, With eager eyes to seek us out.

His fingers held a rose. He threw The flower, and waved his cap. In me A frenzy of a.s.surance grew, For, O dear G.o.d, 'twas he! 'twas he!

I called aloud. Aloft my child I held, and nearer yet he came; And when he understood and smiled, My baby lisped his father's name.

They say I fell like something dead, But when I woke to morning's glow My boy sat by me on the bed, And in his hand a rose of snow!

THE IMMORTAL STRAIN.

"Late Mids.h.i.+pman John Travers (Chester), aged 16 years. He was mortally wounded early in the action, yet he remained alone in a most exposed post awaiting orders, with his gun's crew dead all round him."

WE told old stories one by one, Brave tales of men who toyed with death, Of wondrous deeds of valor done In days of bold Elizabeth.

"Alas! our British stock," said we, "Is not now what it used to be."

We read of Drake's great sailors, or Of fighting men that Nelson led, Who steered the walls of oak to war.

"These were our finest souls," we said.

"Their fame is on the ocean writ, Nor time, nor storm may cancel it.

"The mariners of England then Were lords of battle and of breeze.

The were, indeed the wondrous men Who won for us the sh.o.r.eless seas, Who took old Neptune's ruling brand And set it in Britannia's hand.

"But now," we sighed, "the blood is pale, We're little people of the street, And dare not front the shrilling gale.

The sons of England are effete, Of shorter limb and smaller mould, Mere pigmies by the men of old."

Then came the vibrant bugle note.

None cowered at the high alarm, The steady fleets were still afloat, And England saw her soldiers arm, And readily, with sober grace.

The close-set ranks swung into place.

On sea and sh.o.r.e they fought again, And storied heroes came to life, Once more were added to the slain.

Once more found glory in the strife; Again her yeoman sons arose; A wall 'tween Britain and her foes.

The eager lads, with laughing lips And souls elate, where oceans roar, Or planes the eagle's flight eclipse, Give all for her, and come no more; Or where death thunders down the sky Beside their silent guns they lie;

This boy who, while the iron rains With seething riot whip the flood, Fights on, till in his heart remains No single drop of English blood, Avers the British strain sublime, Outliving Death, outlasting Time!

THE UNBORN

I SEE grim War, a b.e.s.t.i.a.l thing, with swinish tusks to tear; Upon his back the vampires cling, Thin vipers twine among his hair, The tiger's greed is in his jowl, His eye is red with b.l.o.o.d.y tears, And every obscene beast and fowl From out his leprous visage leers.

In glowing pride fell fiends arise, And, trampled, G.o.d the Father lies.

Not G.o.d alone the Demon slays; The hills that swell to Heaven drip With ooze of murdered men; for days The dead drift with the drifting s.h.i.+p, And far as eye may see the plain Is c.u.mbered deep with slaughtered ones, Contorted to the shape of pain, Dissolving 'neath the callous suns, And driven in his foetid breath Still ply the harvesters of Death.