Hello, Soldier! Part 11

He sits astride an engine dread, And at his touch the awful ball Across the quaking world is sped, I see a million creatures fall.

Beyond the soldiers on the hill, The mother by her basinet.

The bolt its mission must fulfil, And in the years that are not yet Creation by the blow is shorn Of dimpled hosts of babes unborn!

THE COMMON MEN.

THE great men framed the fierce decrees Embroiling State with State; They bit their thumbs across the seas In diplomatic hate; They lit the pyre whose glare and heat Make h.e.l.l itself seem cold; The flames bloomed red above the wheat, Their wild profusion wreathed the street- Then in the smoke and fiery sleet The common men took hold.

Where Babel was with Bedlam freed, And wide the gates were flung; To chaos, while the anarch breed In all the world gave tongue, The common men in close array, By mountain, plain and sea, Went outward girded for the fray, On one dear quest, whate'er they pay In blood and pain--the open way To keep for Liberty.

The common men who never tire, Unsightly in the mirk Of caking blood and smoke and mire, Push forward with their work; A while in foulest pits entombed, Resistless, still and slow, Burnt, broken, stifled, seeming doomed, Past where the flowers of Satan bloomed, Up gutted hills with sh.e.l.l-breath plumed, The stubborn armies go.

Contending in the shattered sky In empyrean wars, The sons of simple men out-vie G.o.d's splendid meteors; Where'er the mills of Vulcan roared And blinked against the night, Swart shapes with sweat-washed eyes have stored The clean, lean lightnings of the Lord To be a league-long, leaping sword In this our holy fight.

The small men know the burden well, The dreadful paths they know, With fear and death and torture dwell.

And sup and sleep with, woe.

They're riven in the shrapnel gust, But; blind and reeling, plan Another blow, a final thrust To subjugate the tyrant's l.u.s.t.

So, bleeding, blundering in the dust, Men fight and die for MAN.

THE CHURCH BELLS.

The Viennese authorities have melted down the great bell in St. Stephen's to supply metal for guns or muntions. Every poor village has made a similar gift.--Lokal Anzeiger.

THE great bell booms across the town, Reverberant and slow, And drifting from their houses down The calm-eyed people go.

Their feet fall on the portal stones Their fathers' fathers trod; And still the bell, with reverent tones, From cottage nooks and purple thrones Is calling souls to G.o.d.

The chapel bells with ardor spake Above the poplars tall, And perfumed Sabbath seemed to wake.

Responsive to their call From dappled vale and green hillside And nestling village hives The peasants came in simple pride To hear how their Lord Jesus died To sweeten all their lives.

They boom beyond the battered town; The hills are belching smoke; And valleys charred and ranges brown Are quaking 'neath the stroke.

The iron roar to Heaven swells, And domes and steeples nod; Through cities vast and ferny dells And village streets the clamant bells Are calling souls to G.o.d!

THE YOUNG LIEUTENANT.

THE young lieutenant's face was grey.

As came the day.

The watchers saw it lifting white And ghostlike from the pool of night.

His eyes were wide and strangely lit.

Each thought in that unhallowed pit: "I, too, may seem like one who dies With wide, set eyes."

He stood so still we thought it death, For through the breath Of reeking sh.e.l.l we came, and fire, To h.e.l.l, unlit, of blood and mire.

Tianced in a chill delirium We wondered, though our lips were dumb What precious thing his fingers pressed Against his breast.

His left hand clutched so lovingly What none might see.

All bloodless were his lips beneath The straight, white, rigid clip of teeth.

His eyes turned to the distance dim; Our sleepless eyes were all on him.

He stirred; we aped a phantom cheer.

The hour was here!

The young lieutenant blew his call.

"G.o.d keep us all!"

He whispered softly. Out he led; And over the vale of twisted dead, Close holding that dear thing, he went.

On through the storm we followed, bent To pelt of iron and the rain Of flame and pain.

His wan face like a lodestar glowed Down that black road, And deep among the torn and slain We drove, and twenty times again He squared us to the charging hordes.

His word was like a hundred swords.

And still a hand the treasure pressed Against his breast.

Our gain we held. Up flamed the sun.

"The ridge is won,"

He calmly said, and, with a sigh, "Thank G.o.d, a man is free to die!"

He smiled at this, and so he pa.s.sed.

His secret prize we knew at last, For through his hand the jewel's red, Fierce l.u.s.tre bled.

THE ONE AT HOME.

DON told me that he loved me dear Where down the range Whioola pours; And when I laughed and would not hear He flung away to fight the wars.

He flung away--how should he know My foolish heart was dancin' so?

How should he know that at his word My soul was trillin' like a bird?

He went out in the cannon smoke.

He did not seek to ask me why.

Again each day my poor heart broke To see the careless post go by.

I cared not for their Emperors-- For me there was this in the wars; My brown boy in the sh.e.l.l-clouds dim, And savage devils killin' him!

They told me on the field he fell, And far they bore him from the fight, But he is whole--he will be well Now in a ward by day and night A fair, tall nurse with slim, neat hands By his white bedside smilin' stands; His brow with trailin fingertips She soothes, and damps his fevered lips!

I know her not, but I can see How blue her great eyes are, and hear The cooin' of her voice as she Speaks gentle comfort to my dear; With love as sweet as mother's care She heals his wounds, she strokes his hair...

O G.o.d, could I but let him see The hate of her consumin' me!

THE HAPLESS ARMY

"A soldier braving disease and death on the battlefield has a seven times better chance of life than a new-born baby."--Secretary of War, U.S.A.

THE Hapless Army from the dark That lies beyond creation, All blinded by the solar spark, And leaderless in lands forlorn, Come stumbling through the mists of morn; And foes in close formation, With taloned fingers dripping red, Bestrew the sodden world with dead.

The Hapless Army bears no sword; Fell destiny fulfilling, It marches where the murder horde, Amid the fair new urge of life, With poison stream, and shot, and knife, Make carnival of killing.

No war above black h.e.l.l's abyss Knows evil grim and foul as this.