The Cup of Comus Part 10

_A BELGIAN CHRISTMAS_

_The "happy year" of 1914_

An hour from dawn: The snow sweeps on As it swept with sleet last night: The Earth around Breathes never a sound, Wrapped in its shroud of white.

A waked c.o.c.k crows Under the snows; Then silence.--After while The sky grows blue, And a star looks through With a kind o' bitter smile.

A whining dog; An axe on a log, And a m.u.f.fled voice that calls: A cow's long low; Then footsteps slow Stamping into the stalls.

A bed of straw Where the wind blows raw Through cracks of the stable door: A child's small cry, A voice nearby, That says, "One mouth the more."

A different note In a man's rough throat As he turns at an entering tread-- Satyrs! see!

"My woman--she Was brought last night to bed!"

A cry of "Halt!"-- "Ach! ich bin kalt!"

"A spy!"--"No."--"That is clear!

There's a good shake-down I' the jail in town-- For her!"--And then, "My orders here."

A shot, sharp-rolled As the clouds unfold: A scream; and a cry forlorn....

Clothed red with fire, Like the Heart's Desire, Look down the Christmas Morn.

The babe with light Is haloed bright, And it is Christmas Day: A cry of woe; Then footsteps slow, And the wild guns, far away.

_THE FESTIVAL OF THE AISNE_

Imperial Madness, will of hand, Builds vast an altar here, and rears Before the world, on G.o.dly land, A Moloch form of blood and tears.

And far as eye can see, behold, Priests plunge into its brazen arms Men, that its iron maw of mold Mangles, returning horrible forms.

Its Priests are armies, moving slow, And crowned like kings, in human-guise: And theirs it is to make it flow-- The crimson stream of sacrifice.

_THE CRY OF EARTH_

The Season speaks this year of life Confusing words of strife, Suggesting weeds instead of fruits and flowers In all Earth's bowers.

With heart of Jael, face of Ruth, She goes her way uncouth Through hills and fields, where fog and sunset seem Wild smoke and steam.

Around her, spotted as a leopard skin, She draws her cloak of whin, And through the dark hills sweeps dusk's last red glare Wild on her hair.

Her hands drip leaves, like blood, and burn With frost; her moony urn She lifts, where Death, 'mid driving stress and storm, Rears his gaunt form.

And all night long she seems to say "Come forth, my Winds, and slay!--"

And everywhere is heard the wailing cry Of dreams that die.

_CHILD AND FATHER_

A little child, one night, awoke and cried, "Oh, help me, father! there is something wild Before me! help me!" Hurrying to his side I answered, "I am here. You dreamed, my child."

"A dream?--" he questioned. "Oh, I could not see!

It was so dark!--Take me into your bed!"-- And I, who loved him, held him soothingly, And smiling on his terror, comforted.

He nestled in my arms. I held him fast; And spoke to him and calmed his childish fears, Until he smiled again, asleep at last, Upon his lashes still a trace of tears....

How like a child the world! who, in this night Of strife, beholds strange monsters threatening And with black fear, having so little light, Cries to its Father, G.o.d, for comforting.

And well for it, if, answering the call, The Father hear and soothe its dread asleep!-- How many though, whom thoughts and dreams appall, Must lie awake and in the darkness weep.

_THE RISING OF THE MOON_

The Day brims high its ewer Of blue with starry light, And crowns as King that hewer Of clouds (which take their flight Across the sky) old Night.

And Tempest there, who houses Within them, like a cave, Lies down and dreams and drowses Upon the Earth's huge grave, With wandering wind and wave.

The storm moves on; and winging From out the east--a bird, The moon drifts, calmly bringing A message and a word Of peace, in Heaven it heard.

Of peace and times called golden, Whose beauty makes it glow With love, like that of olden, Which mortals used to know There in the long-ago.

_WHERE THE BATTLE Pa.s.sED_

One blossoming rose-tree, like a beautiful thought Nursed in a broken mind, that waits and schemes, Survives, though shattered, and about it caught, The strangling dodder streams.

Gaunt weeds: and here a bayonet or pouch, Rusty and rotting where men fought and slew: Bald, trampled paths that seem with fear to crouch, Feeling a b.l.o.o.d.y dew.

Here nothing that was beauty's once remains.