Poems of the Great War Part 2

The day and the hour have come.

The sea-strewn Empire prays to-night-- O Lord of our destiny!-- Thou didst give the seas into Britain's might, For the freedom of Thy seas we smite.

G.o.d give us victory!

JAMES BERNARD f.a.gAN

THE WIFE OF FLANDERS

Low and brown barns, thatched and repatched and tattered, Where I had seven sons until to-day-- A little hill of hay your spur has scattered....

This is not Paris. You have lost the way.

You, staring at your sword to find it brittle, Surprised at the surprise that was your plan, Who shaking and breaking barriers not a little, Find never more the death-door of Sedan.

Must I for more than carnage call you claimant, Paying you a penny for each son you slay?

Man, the whole globe in gold were no repayment For what you have lost. And how shall I repay?

What is the price of that red spark that caught me From a kind farm that never had a name?

What is the price of that dead man they brought me?

For other dead men do not look the same.

How should I pay for one poor graven steeple Whereon you shattered what you shall not know?

How should I pay you, miserable people, How should I pay you everything you owe?

Unhappy, can I give you back your honour?

Though I forgave, would any man forget?

While all the great green land has trampled on her The treason and terror of the night we met.

Not any more in vengeance or in pardon, One old wife bargains for a bean that's hers.

You have no word to break: no heart to harden.

Ride on and prosper. You have lost your spurs.

G. K. CHESTERTON

THE STARS IN THEIR COURSES

And now, while the dark vast earth shakes and rocks In this wild dreamlike snare of mortal shocks, How look (I muse) those cold and solitary stars On these magnificent, cruel wars?-- Venus, that brushes with her s.h.i.+ning lips (Surely!) the wakeful edge of the world and mocks With hers its all ungentle wantonness?-- Or the large moon (p.r.i.c.ked by the spars of s.h.i.+ps Creeping and creeping in their restlessness), The moon pouring strange light on things more strange, Looks she unheedfully on seas and lands Trembling with change and fear of counterchange?

O, not earth trembles, but the stars, the stars!

The sky is shaken and the cool air is quivering.

I cannot look up to the crowded height And see the fair stars trembling in their light, For thinking of the starlike spirits of men Crowding the earth and with great pa.s.sion quivering:-- Stars quenched in anger and hate, stars sick with pity.

I cannot look up to the naked skies Because a sorrow on dark midnight lies, Death, on the living world of sense; Because on my own land a shadow lies That may not rise; Because from bare grey hillside and rich city Streams of uncomprehending sadness pour, Thwarting the eager spirit's pure intelligence....

How look (I muse) those cold and solitary stars On these magnificent, cruel wars?

Stars trembled in broad heaven, faint with pity.

An hour to dawn I looked. Beside the trees Wet mist shaped other trees that branching rose, Covering the woods and putting out the stars.

There was no murmur on the seas, No wind blew--only the wandering air that grows With dawn, then murmurs, sighs, And dies.

The mist climbed slowly, putting out the stars, And the earth trembled when the stars were gone; And moving strangely everywhere upon The trembling earth, thickened the watery mist.

And for a time the holy things are veiled.

England's wise thoughts are swords; her quiet hours Are trodden underfoot like wayside flowers, And every English heart is England's wholly.

In starless night A serious pa.s.sion streams the heaven with light.

A common beating is in the air-- The heart of England throbbing everywhere.

And all her roads are nerves of n.o.ble thought, And all her people's brain is but her brain; And all her history (less her shame) Is part of her requickened consciousness.

Her courage rises clean again; Her children's inspiration is her name, her name!

Even in victory there hides defeat; The spirit's murdered though the body survives, Except the cause for which a people strives Burn with no covetous, foul heat; Fights she against herself who infamously draws The sword against man's secret spiritual laws.

But thou, England, because a bitter heel Hath sought to bruise the brain, the sensitive will, The conscience of the world, For this, England, art risen, and shalt fight Purely through long profoundest night, Making their quarrel thine who are grieved like thee; And (if to thee the stars yield victory) Tempering their hate of the great foe, that hurled Vainly her strength against the conscience of the world, Though all their dead be countless as the stars, And all the living bitter as the sea.

I looked again, or dreamed I looked, and saw The stars again and all their peace again.

The moving mist had gone, and s.h.i.+ning still The moon went high and pale above the hill.

Not now those lights were trembling in the vast Ways of the nervy heaven, nor trembled earth: Profound and calm they gazed as the soft-shod hours pa.s.sed.

And with less fear (not with less awe, Remembering, England, all the blood and pain), How look, I cried, ye stern and solitary stars On these disastrous wars!

JOHN FREEMAN

COMMANDEERED

Last year he drew the harvest home Along the winding upland lane; The children twisted marigolds And clover flowers, to deck his mane.

Last year--he drew the harvest home!

To-day--with puzzled, patient face, With ears a-droop, and weary feet, He marches to the sound of drums, And draws the gun along the street.

To-day--he draws the guns of war!

L. G. MOBERLY

THE MAN WHO KEEPS HIS HEAD

There's a man who fights for England, and he'll keep her still atop, He will guard her from dishonour in the market and the shop, He will save her homes from terror on the fields of Daily Bread, He's the man who sticks to business, he's the man who keeps his head.

Let the foe who strikes at England hear her wheels of commerce turn, Let the s.h.i.+ps that war with England see her factory furnace burn; For the foe most fears the cannon, and his heart most quails with dread When behind the man in khaki is the man who keeps his head.

Brand him traitor and a.s.sa.s.sin who with miser's coward mood Has his gold locked up in secret and his larders stored with food, Who has cast adrift his workers, who lies sweating in his bed, And who snarls to hear the laughter of the man who keeps his head.

Let the poor man teach the rich man, for the poor man's constant strife Is from day to day to seek work, day by day to war with life, And the poor man's home hangs ever by a frail and brittle thread, And the poor man's often hungry, but the poor man keeps his head.