A Treasury of War Poetry Part 12

Search for the foe in thine own soul, The sloth, the intellectual pride; The trivial jest that veils the goal For which, our fathers lived and died; The lawless dreams, the cynic Art, That rend thy n.o.bler self apart.

Not far, not far into the night, These level swords of light can pierce; Yet for her faith does England fight, Her faith in this our universe, Believing Truth and Justice draw From founts of everlasting law;

The law that rules the stars, our stay, Our compa.s.s through the world's wide sea.

The one sure light, the one sure way, The one firm base of Liberty; The one firm road that men have trod Through Chaos to the throne of G.o.d.

Therefore a Power above the State, The unconquerable Power, returns, The fire, the fire that made her great Once more upon her altar burns, Once more, redeemed and healed and whole, She moves to the Eternal Goal.

_Alfred Noyes_

CHRISTMAS: 1915

Now is the midnight of the nations: dark Even as death, beside her blood-dark seas, Earth, like a mother in birth agonies, Screams in her travail, and the planets hark Her million-throated terror. Naked, stark, Her torso writhes enormous, and her knees Shudder against the shadowed Pleiades, Wrenching the night's imponderable arc.

Christ! What shall be delivered to the morn Out of these pangs, if ever indeed another Morn shall succeed this night, or this vast mother Survive to know the blood-spent offspring, torn From her racked flesh?--What splendour from the smother?

What new-wing'd world, or mangled G.o.d still-born?

_Percy MacKaye_

"MEN WHO MARCH AWAY"

(SONG OF THE SOLDIERS)

What of the faith and fire within us Men who march away Ere the barn-c.o.c.ks say Night is growing gray, To hazards whence no tears can win us; What of the faith and fire within us Men who march away!

Is it a purblind prank, O think you, Friend with the musing eye Who watch us stepping by, With doubt and dolorous sigh?

Can much pondering so hoodwink you?

Is it a purblind prank, O think you, Friend with the musing eye?

Nay. We see well what we are doing, Though some may not see-- Dalliers as they be-- England's need are we; Her distress would leave us rueing; Nay. We well see what we are doing, Though some may not see!

In our heart of hearts believing Victory crowns the just, And that braggarts must Surely bite the dust, Press we to the field ungrieving, In our heart of hearts believing Victory crowns the just.

Hence the faith and fire within us Men who march away Ere the barn-c.o.c.ks say Night is growing gray, To hazards whence no tears can win us; Hence the faith and fire within us Men who march away.

_Thomas Hardy_

_September 5, 1914_

WE WILLED IT NOT

We willed it not. We have not lived in hate, Loving too well the s.h.i.+res of England thrown From sea to sea to covet your estate, Or wish one flight of fortune from your throne.

We had grown proud because the nations stood Hoping together against the calumny That, tortured of its old barbarian blood, Barbarian still the heart of man should be.

Builders there are who name you overlord, Building with us the citadels of light, Who hold as we this chartered sin abhorred, And cry you risen Caesar of the Night.

Beethoven speaks with Milton on this day, And Shakespeare's word with Goethe's beats the sky, In witness of the birthright you betray, In witness of the vision you deny.

We love the hearth, the quiet hills, the song, The friendly gossip come from every land; And very peace were now a nameless wrong-- You thrust this bitter quarrel to our hand.

For this your pride the tragic armies go, And the grim navies watch along the seas; You trade in death, you mock at life, you throw To G.o.d the tumult of your blasphemies.

You rob us of our love-right. It is said.

In treason to the world, you are enthroned, We rise, and, by the yet ungathered dead, Not lightly shall the treason be atoned.

_John Drinkwater_

THE DEATH OF PEACE

Now slowly sinks the day-long labouring Sun Behind the tranquil trees and old church-tower; And we who watch him know our day is done; For us too comes the evening--and the hour.

The sunbeams slanting through those ancient trees, The sunlit lichens burning on the byre, The lark descending, and the homing bees, Proclaim the sweet relief all things desire.

Golden the river brims beneath the west, And holy peace to all the world is given; The songless stockdove preens her ruddied breast; The blue smoke windeth like a prayer to heaven.

O old, old England, land of golden peace, Thy fields are spun with gossameres of gold, And golden garners gather thy increase, And plenty crowns thy loveliness untold.

By sunlight or by starlight ever thou Art excellent in beauty manifold; The still star victory ever gems thy brow; Age cannot age thee, ages make thee old.

Thy beauty brightens with the evening sun Across the long-lit meads and distant spire: So sleep thou well--like his thy labour done; Rest in thy glory as he rests in fire.

But even in this hour of soft repose A gentle sadness chides us like a friend-- The sorrow of the joy that overflows, The burden of the beauty that must end.

And from the fading sunset comes a cry, And in the twilight voices wailing past, Like wild-swans calling, "When we rest we die, And woe to them that linger and are last";

And as the Sun sinks, sudden in heav'n new born There s.h.i.+nes an armed Angel like a Star, Who cries above the darkling world in scorn, "G.o.d comes to Judgment. Learn ye what ye are."