Hello, Boys! Part 6

There was a row of narrow beds, new-made; Each bore a starry banner and a cross.

And each the name of one who, ere he played His role of warrior, met earth's final loss.

They were so young, so eager for the fray!

And thoughts of glory filled each boyish heart, When over dangerous seas they sailed away To face the foe and play some splendid part.

But in the tedious toil, the dull routine Which must precede achievement on the field, Disease, that secret enemy with mean Sly tactics, forced them to disarm and yield.

So they were buried on that hill in France, Before their ears had heard the battle din; Before life gave them its dramatic chance - A lasting fame, or glorious death to win.

Yet, looking up beyond their graves of green, I seem to see them wearing band and star; Men are rewarded in the Worlds Unseen Not for the way they die, but what they are.

AMERICAN BOYS, h.e.l.lO!

Oh! we love all the French, and we speak in French As along through France we go.

But the moments to us that are keen and sweet Are the ones when our khaki boys we meet, Stalwart and handsome and trim and neat; And we call to them--'Boys, h.e.l.lo!'

'h.e.l.lo, American boys, Luck to you, and life's best joys!

American boys, h.e.l.lo!'

We couldn't do that if we were at home - It never would do, you know!

For there you must wait till you're told who's who, And to meet in the way that nice folks do.

Though you knew his name, and your name he knew - You never would say 'h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo, American boy!'

But here it's just a joy, As we pa.s.s along in the stranger throng, To call out, 'Boys, h.e.l.lo!'

For each is a brother away from home; And this we are sure is so, There's a lonesome spot in his heart somewhere, And we want him to feel there are friends RIGHT THERE In this foreign land, and so we dare To call out 'Boys, h.e.l.lo!'

'h.e.l.lo, American boys, Luck to you, and life's best joys!

American boys, h.e.l.lo!'

DE ROCHAMBEAU

ON THE PRESENTATION OF AN AMERICAN BANNER TO CAMP ROCHAMBEAU BY THE MARQUISE DE ROCHAMBEAU AT TOURS, FRANCE, JUNE 1, 1918

Here is a picture I carry away On memory's wall. A green June day, A golden sun in an amethyst sky, And a beautiful banner floating as high As the lofty spires of the city of Tours, And a slender Marquise, with a face as pure As a sculptured saint: while staunch and true In new-world khaki and old-world blue, Wearing their medals with modest pride, Her stalwart bodyguard stand at her side.

Simple the picture; but much it may mean To one who reads into and under the scene, For there, in that opulent hour and weather, Two great Republics came closer together; A little nearer came land to land Through the magical touch of a woman's hand.

And once again as in long ago The grand old name of de Rochambeau s.h.i.+nes forth like a star, for our world to see - Our Land of the Brave, and our Home of the Free.

AFTER

Over the din of battle, Over the cannons' rattle, Over the strident voices of men and their dying groans, I hear the falling of thrones.

Out of the wild disorder That spreads from border to border, I see a new world rising from ashes of ancient towns; And the rulers wear no crowns.

Over the blood-charged water, Over the fields of slaughter, Down to the hidden vaults of Time, where lie the worn-out things, I see the pa.s.sing of kings.

THE BLASPHEMY OF GUNS

There must be lonely moments when G.o.d feels The need of prayer - Such lonely moments, knowing not anywhere, In any spot or place, In all the far recesses of vast s.p.a.ce, Dwells any one to whom His prayers may rise, And then, methinks--so urgent is His need - G.o.d bids His prayers descend.

He that has ears to hear, let him take heed, For much G.o.d's prayers portend.

G.o.d flings His solar system forth to be Finished by beings who befit each sphere.

Not ours to pry the secrets out of Mars; Our work lies here.

To star-folk leave the stars.

There must be many worlds that give G.o.d care: Young worlds that glow and burn, Old worlds that freeze and fade.

This world is man's concern.

Methinks G.o.d must be very much dismayed, Seeing the use we make of earth to-day, While loud we pray.

Last night, in sleep, beyond the earth's small zone, Adventurously my spirit went alone, Past lesser h.e.l.ls and heavens, where souls may pause To learn the meaning of death's larger laws, Past astral shapes and bodies of desire, Past angels and archangels, high and higher, Until the pinnacles of s.p.a.ce it trod, Then, awestruck, paused, hearing the voice of G.o.d.

'Mortals of earth, for whom I shaped a sphere (So spake the Voice), 'there rises to Mine ear Eternal praises and eternal pleas.

Now, after centuries, I tire of these.

Have ye no knowledge of the Maker's needs, Ye who ask favours and who praise by creeds?

Why has it not sufficed That unto this small earth I sent great Christ, Divine expression of the mortal man, To aid my plan?

'Why ask for more when all has been refused?

Why praise My name Who hourly am abused?

Why seek for Me or heaven, when in you dwells Hate's lurid h.e.l.ls?

'Persistent praises and persuasive pleas - I tire, I tire of these; But I, the Maker of a billion suns, Ask men to stop the blasphemy of guns.'

This is G.o.d's prayer.

(There must be many worlds that give G.o.d care.)

THE CRIMES OF PEACE

Musing upon the tragedies of earth, Of each new horror which each hour gives birth, Of sins that scar and cruelties that blight Life's little season, meant for man's delight, Methought those monstrous and repellent crimes Which hate engenders in war-heated times, To G.o.d's great heart bring not so much despair As other sins which flourish everywhere And in all times--bold sins, bare-faced and proud, Unchecked by college, and by Church allowed, Lifting their l.u.s.ty heads like ugly weeds Above wise precepts and religious creeds, And growing rank in prosperous days of peace.

Think you the evils of this world would cease With war's cessation?

If G.o.d's eyes know tears, Methinks He weeps more for the wasted years And the lost meaning of this earthly life - This big, brief life--than over b.l.o.o.d.y strife.

Yea; there are mean, lean sins G.o.d must abhor More than the fatted, blood-drunk monster, War.