Part 2

The new fellowship of the two great Anglo-Saxon nations which a book of this character may, to a degree, illustrate, is filled with such high promise for both of them, and for all civilization, that it is perhaps hardly too much to say, with Ambassador Walter H. Page, in his address at the Pilgrims' Dinner in London, April 12, 1917: "We shall get out of this association an indissoluble companionship, and we shall henceforth have indissoluble mutual duties for mankind. I doubt if there could be another international event comparable in large value and in long consequences to this closer association." Mr. Balfour struck the same note when, during his mission to the United States, he expressed himself in these words: "That this great people should throw themselves whole- heartedly into this mighty struggle, prepared for all efforts and sacrifices that may be required to win success for this most righteous cause, is an event at once so happy and so momentous that only the historian of the future will be able, as I believe, to measure its true proportions."

The words of these eminent men ratify in the field of international politics the hopeful anticipation which Tennyson expressed in his poem, _Hands all Round_, as it appeared in the London _Examiner_, February 7, 1852:--

"Gigantic daughter of the West, We drink to thee across the flood, We know thee most, we love thee best, For art thou not of British blood? Should war's mad blast again be blown, Permit not thou the tyrant powers To fight thy mother here alone, But let thy broadsides roar with ours. Hands all round! God the tyrant's cause confound! To our great kinsmen of the West, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round.

"O rise, our strong Atlantic sons, When war against our freedom springs! O speak to Europe through your guns! They can be understood by kings. You must not mix our Queen with those That wish to keep their people fools; Our freedom's foemen are her foes, She comprehends the race she rules. Hands all round! God the tyrant's cause confound! To our dear kinsmen of the West, my friends, And the great cause of Freedom, round and round."

They ratify also the spirit of those poems in the present volume which seek to interpret to Britons and Americans their deepening friendship. "Poets," said Shelley, "are the unacknowledged legislators of the world," and he meant by legislation the guidance and determination of the verdicts of the human soul.

G. H. C.

_August, 1917_

THE CHOICE

THE AMERICAN SPIRIT SPEAKS:

To the Judge of Right and Wrong With Whom fulfillment lies Our purpose and our power belong, Our faith and sacrifice.

Let Freedom's land rejoice! Our ancient bonds are riven; Once more to us the eternal choice Of good or ill is given.

Not at a little cost, Hardly by prayer or tears, Shall we recover the road we lost In the drugged and doubting years,

But after the fires and the wrath, But after searching and pain, His Mercy opens us a path To live with ourselves again.

In the Gates of Death rejoice! We see and hold the good-- Bear witness, Earth, we have made our choice For Freedom's brotherhood.

Then praise the Lord Most High Whose Strength hath saved us whole, Who bade us choose that the Flesh should die And not the living Soul!

_Rudyard Kipling_

"LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE WORLD"

Thou warden of the western gate, above Manhattan Bay, The fogs of doubt that hid thy face are driven clean away: Thine eyes at last look far and clear, thou liftest high thy hand To spread the light of liberty world-wide for every land.

No more thou dreamest of a peace reserved alone for thee, While friends are fighting for thy cause beyond the guardian sea: The battle that they wage is thine; thou fallest if they fall; The swollen flood of Prussian pride will sweep unchecked o'er all.

O cruel is the conquer-lust in Hohenzollern brains: The paths they plot to gain their goal are dark with shameful stains: No faith they keep, no law revere, no god but naked Might;-- They are the foemen of mankind. Up, Liberty, and smite!

Britain, and France, and Italy, and Russia newly born, Have waited for thee in the night. Oh, come as comes the morn. Serene and strong and full of faith, America, arise, With steady hope and mighty help to join thy brave Allies.

O dearest country of my heart, home of the high desire, Make clean thy soul for sacrifice on Freedom's altar-fire: For thou must suffer, thou must fight, until the warlords cease, And all the peoples lift their heads in liberty and peace.

_Henry van Dyke_

_April 10, 1917_

TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Brothers in blood! They who this wrong began To wreck our commonwealth, will rue the day When first they challenged freemen to the fray, And with the Briton dared the American. Now are we pledged to win the Rights of man; Labour and Justice now shall have their way, And in a League of Peace--God grant we may-- Transform the earth, not patch up the old plan.

Sure is our hope since he who led your nation Spake for mankind, and ye arose in awe Of that high call to work the world's salvation; Clearing your minds of all estranging blindness In the vision of Beauty and the Spirit's law, Freedom and Honour and sweet Lovingkindness.

_Robert Bridges_

_April 30, 1917_

ABRAHAM LINCOLN WALKS AT MIDNIGHT

(IN SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS)

It is portentous, and a thing of state That here at midnight, in our little town, A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, Near the old court-house pacing up and down,

Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards He lingers where his children used to play; Or through the market, on the well-worn stones He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.

A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl Make him the quaint great figure that men love, The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.

He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. He is among us:--as in times before! And we who toss and lie awake for long Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings. Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? Too many peasants fight, they know not why, Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now The bitterness, the folly, and the pain.

He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn Shall come;--the shining hope of Europe free: The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp, and Sea.

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, That all his hours of travail here for men Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace That he may sleep upon his hill again?

_Vachel Lindsay_

THE "WILLIAM P. FRYE"

I saw her first abreast the Boston Light At anchor; she had just come in, turned head, And sent her hawsers creaking, clattering down. I was so near to where the hawse-pipes fed The cable out from her careening bow, I moved up on the swell, shut steam and lay Hove to in my old launch to look at her. She'd come in light, a-skimming up the Bay Like a white ghost with topsails bellying full; And all her noble lines from bow to stern Made music in the wind; it seemed she rode The morning air like those thin clouds that turn Into tall ships when sunrise lifts the clouds From calm sea-courses.

There, in smoke-smudged coats, Lay funnelled liners, dirty fishing-craft, Blunt cargo-luggers, tugs, and ferry-boats. Oh, it was good in that black-scuttled lot To see the _Frye_ come lording on her way Like some old queen that we had half forgot Come to her own. A little up the Bay The Fort lay green, for it was springtime then; The wind was fresh, rich with the spicy bloom Of the New England coast that tardily Escapes, late April, from an icy tomb. The State-house glittered on old Beacon Hill, Gold in the sun.... 'T was all so fair awhile; But she was fairest--this great square-rigged ship That had blown in from some far happy isle On from the shores of the Hesperides.

They caught her in a South Atlantic road Becalmed, and found her hold brimmed up with wheat; "Wheat's contraband," they said, and blew her hull To pieces, murdered one of our staunch fleet, Fast dwindling, of the big old sailing ships That carry trade for us on the high sea And warped out of each harbor in the States. It wasn't law, so it seems strange to me-- A big mistake. Her keel's struck bottom now And her four masts sunk fathoms, fathoms deep To Davy Jones. The dank seaweed will root On her oozed decks, and the cross-surges sweep Through the set sails; but never, never more Her crew will stand away to brace and trim, Nor sea-blown petrels meet her thrashing up To windward on the Gulf Stream's stormy rim; Never again she'll head a no'theast gale Or like a spirit loom up, sliding dumb, And ride in safe beyond the Boston Light, To make the harbor glad because she's come.

_Jeanne Robert Foster_

ENGLAND AND AMERICA

Mother and child! Though the dividing sea Shall roll its tide between us, we are one, Knit by immortal memories, and none But feels the throb of ancient fealty. A century has passed since at thy knee We learnt the speech of freemen, caught the fire That would not brook thy menaces, when sire And grandsire hurled injustice back to thee.

But the full years have wrought equality: The past outworn, shall not the future bring A deeper union, from whose life shall spring Mankind's best hope? In the dark night of strife Men perished for their dream of Liberty Whose lives were given for this larger life.

_Florence T. Holt_

TO AMERICA

When the fire sinks in the grate, and night has bent Close wings about the room, and winter stands Hard-eyed before the window, when the hands Have turned the book's last page and friends are sleeping, Thought, as it were an old stringed instrument Drawn to remembered music, oft does set The lips moving in prayer, for us fresh keeping Knowledge of springtime and the violet.

And, as the eyes grow dim with many years, The spirit runs more swiftly than the feet, Perceives its comfort, knows that it will meet God at the end of troubles, that the dreary Last reaches of old age lead beyond tears To happy youth unending. There is peace In homeward waters, where at last the weary Shall find rebirth, and their long struggle cease.

So, at this hour, when the Old World lies sick, Beyond the pain, the agony of breath Hard drawn, beyond the menaces of death, O'er graves and years leans out the eager spirit. First must the ancient die; then shall be quick New fires within us. Brother, we shall make Incredible discoveries and inherit The fruits of hope, and love shall be awake.

_Charles Langbridge Morgan_

A CHANT OF LOVE FOR ENGLAND

A song of hate is a song of Hell; Some there be that sing it well. Let them sing it loud and long, We lift our hearts in a loftier song: We lift our hearts to Heaven above, Singing the glory of her we love,-- _England!_

Glory of thought and glory of deed, Glory of Hampden and Runnymede; Glory of ships that sought far goals, Glory of swords and glory of souls! Glory of songs mounting as birds, Glory immortal of magical words; Glory of Milton, glory of Nelson, Tragical glory of Gordon and Scott; Glory of Shelley, glory of Sidney, Glory transcendent that perishes not,-- Hers is the story, hers be the glory, _England!_

Shatter her beauteous breast ye may; The spirit of England none can slay! Dash the bomb on the dome of Paul's-- Deem ye the fame of the Admiral falls? Pry the stone from the chancel floor,-- Dream ye that Shakespeare shall live no more? Where is the giant shot that kills Wordsworth walking the old green hills? Trample the red rose on the ground,-- Keats is Beauty while earth spins round! Bind her, grind her, burn her with fire, Cast her ashes into the sea,-- She shall escape, she shall aspire, She shall arise to make men free: She shall arise in a sacred scorn, Lighting the lives that are yet unborn; Spirit supernal, Splendour eternal, ENGLAND!

_Helen Gray Cone_

AT ST. PAUL'S

APRIL 20, 1917

Not since Wren's Dome has whispered with man's prayer Have angels leaned to wonder out of Heaven At such uprush of intercession given, Here where to-day one soul two nations share, And with accord send up thro' trembling air Their vows to strive as Honour ne'er has striven Till back to hell the Lords of hell are driven, And Life and Peace again shall flourish fair.

This is the day of conscience high-enthroned, The day when East is West and West is East To strike for human Love and Freedom's word Against foul wrong that cannot be atoned; To-day is hope of brotherhood's bond increased, And Christ, not Odin, is acclaimed the Lord.

_Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley_

JIMMY DOANE

Often I think of you, Jimmy Doane,-- You who, light-heartedly, came to my house Three autumns, to shoot and to eat a grouse!

As I sat apart in this quiet room, My mind was full of the horror of war And not with the hope of a visitor.

I had dined on food that had lost its taste; My soul was cold and I wished you were here,-- When, all in a moment, I knew you were near.

Placing that chair where you used to sit, I looked at my book:--Three years to-day Since you laughed in that seat and I heard you say--

"My country is with you, whatever befall: America--Britain--these two are akin In courage and honour; they underpin

"The rights of Mankind!" Then you grasped my hand With a brotherly grip, and you made me feel Something that Time would surely reveal.

You were comely and tall; you had corded arms, And sympathy's grace with your strength was blent; You were generous, clever, and confident.

There was that in your hopes which uncountable lives Have perished to make; your heart was fulfilled With the breath of God that can never be stilled.

A living symbol of power, you talked Of the work to do in the world to make Life beautiful: yes, and my heartstrings ache

To think how you, at the stroke of War, Chose that your steadfast soul should fly With the eagles of France as their proud ally.

You were America's self, dear lad-- The first swift son of your bright, free land To heed the call of the Inner Command--

To image its spirit in such rare deeds As braced the valour of France, who knows That the heart of America thrills with her woes.

For a little leaven leavens the whole! Mostly we find, when we trouble to seek The soul of a people, that some unique,

Brave man is its flower and symbol, who Makes bold to utter the words that choke The throats of feebler, timider folk.

You flew for the western eagle--and fell Doing great things for your country's pride: For the beauty and peace of life you died.

Britain and France have shrined in their souls Your memory; yes, and for ever you share Their love with their perished lords of the air.

Invisible now, in that empty seat, You sit, who came through the clouds to me, Swift as a message from over the sea.

My house is always open to you: Dear spirit, come often and you will find Welcome, where mind can foregather with mind!

And may we sit together one day Quietly here, when a word is said To bring new gladness unto our dead,

Knowing your dream is a dream no more; And seeing on some momentous pact Your vision upbuilt as a deathless fact.

_Rowland Thirlmere_

PRINCETON, MAY, 1917

_Here Freedom stood by slaughtered friend and foe, And, ere the wrath paled or that sunset died, Looked through the ages; then, with eyes aglow, Laid them to wait that future, side by side._

(Lines for a monument to the American and British soldiers of the Revolutionary War who fell on the Princeton battlefield and were buried in one grave.)

Now lamp-lit gardens in the blue dusk shine Through dogwood, red and white; And round the gray quadrangles, line by line, The windows fill with light, Where Princeton calls to Magdalen, tower to tower, Twin lanthorns of the law; And those cream-white magnolia boughs embower The halls of "Old Nassau."

The dark bronze tigers crouch on either side Where redcoats used to pass; And round the bird-loved house where Mercer died, And violets dusk the grass, By Stony Brook that ran so red of old, But sings of friendship now, To feed the old enemy's harvest fifty-fold The green earth takes the plow.

Through this May night, if one great ghost should stray With deep remembering eyes, Where that old meadow of battle smiles away Its blood-stained memories, If Washington should walk, where friend and foe Sleep and forget the past, Be sure his unquenched heart would leap to know Their souls are linked at last.

Be sure he waits, in shadowy buff and blue, Where those dim lilacs wave. He bends his head to bless, as dreams come true, The promise of that grave; Then, with a vaster hope than thought can scan, Touching his ancient sword, Prays for that mightier realm of God in man: "Hasten thy kingdom, Lord.

"Land of our hope, land of the singing stars, Type of the world to be, The vision of a world set free from wars Takes life, takes form from thee; Where all the jarring nations of this earth, Beneath the all-blessing sun, Bring the new music of mankind to birth, And make the whole world one."

And those old comrades rise around him there, Old foemen, side by side, With eyes like stars upon the brave night air, And young as when they died, To hear your bells, O beautiful Princeton towers, Ring for the world's release. They see you piercing like gray swords through flowers, And smile, from souls at peace.

_Alfred Noyes_

THE VIGIL

England! where the sacred flame Burns before the inmost shrine, Where the lips that love thy name Consecrate their hopes and thine, Where the banners of thy dead Weave their shadows overhead, Watch beside thine arms to-night, Pray that God defend the Right.

Think that when to-morrow comes War shall claim command of all, Thou must hear the roll of drums, Thou must hear the trumpet's call. Now, before thy silence ruth, Commune with the voice of truth; England! on thy knees to-night Pray that God defend the Right.

Single-hearted, unafraid, Hither all thy heroes came, On this altar's steps were laid Gordon's life and Outram's fame. England! if thy will be yet By their great example set, Here beside thine arms to-night Pray that God defend the Right.

So shalt thou when morning comes Rise to conquer or to fall, Joyful hear the rolling drums, Joyful tear the trumpets call, Then let Memory tell thy heart: "England! what thou wert, thou art!" Gird thee with thine ancient might, Forth! and God defend the Right!

_Henry Newbolt_

"FOR ALL WE HAVE AND ARE"

For all we have and are, For all our children's fate, Stand up and meet the war. The Hun is at the gate! Our world has passed away In wantonness o'erthrown. There is nothing left to-day But steel and fire and stone.

Though all we knew depart, The old commandments stand: "In courage keep your heart, In strength lift up your hand,"

Once more we hear the word That sickened earth of old: "No law except the sword Unsheathed and uncontrolled," Once more it knits mankind. Once more the nations go To meet and break and bind A crazed and driven foe. Comfort, content, delight-- The ages' slow-bought gain-- They shrivelled in a night, Only ourselves remain To face the naked days In silent fortitude, Through perils and dismays Renewed and re-renewed.

Though all we made depart, The old commandments stand: "In patience keep your heart, In strength lift up your hand."

No easy hopes or lies Shall bring us to our goal, But iron sacrifice Of body, will, and soul There is but one task for all-- For each one life to give. Who stands if freedom fall? Who dies if England live?

_Rudyard Kipling_

ENGLAND TO FREE MEN

Men of my blood, you English men! From misty hill and misty fen, From cot, and town, and plough, and moor, Come in--before I shut the door! Into my courtyard paved with stones That keep the names, that keep the bones, Of none but English men who came Free of their lives, to guard my fame.

I am your native land who bred No driven heart, no driven head; I fly a flag in every sea Round the old Earth, of Liberty! I am the Land that boasts a crown; The sun comes up, the sun goes down-- And never men may say of me, Mine is a breed that is not free.

I have a wreath! My forehead wears A hundred leaves--a hundred years I never knew the words: "You must!" And shall my wreath return to dust? Freemen! The door is yet ajar; From northern star to southern star, O ye who count and ye who delve, Come in--before my clock strikes twelve!

_John Galsworthy_

_PRO PATRIA_

England, in this great fight to which you go Because, where Honour calls you, go you must, Be glad, whatever comes, at least to know You have your quarrel just.

Peace was your care; before the nations' bar Her cause you pleaded and her ends you sought; But not for her sake, being what you are, Could you be bribed and bought.

Others may spurn the pledge of land to land, May with the brute sword stain a gallant past; But by the seal to which _you_ set your hand, Thank God, you still stand fast!

Forth, then, to front that peril of the deep With smiling lips and in your eyes the light, Steadfast and confident, of those who keep Their storied 'scutcheon bright.

And we, whose burden is to watch and wait,-- High-hearted ever, strong in faith and prayer,-- We ask what offering we may consecrate, What humble service share.

To steel our souls against the lust of ease; To bear in silence though our hearts may bleed; To spend ourselves, and never count the cost, For others' greater need;--

To go our quiet ways, subdued and sane; To hush all vulgar clamour of the street; With level calm to face alike the strain Of triumph or defeat;

This be our part, for so we serve you best, So best confirm their prowess and their pride, Your warrior sons, to whom in this high test Our fortunes we confide.

_Owen Seaman_

_August 12, 1914_

LINES WRITTEN IN SURREY, 1917

A sudden swirl of song in the bright sky-- The little lark adoring his lord the sun; Across the corn the lazy ripples run; Under the eaves, conferring drowsily,

Doves droop or amble; the agile waterfly Wrinkles the pool; and flowers, gay and dun, Rose, bluebell, rhododendron, one by one, The buccaneering bees prove busily.

Ah, who may trace this tranquil loveliness In verse felicitous?--no measure tells; But gazing on her bosom we can guess Why men strike hard for England in red hells, Falling on dreams, 'mid Death's extreme caress, Of English daisies dancing in English dells.

_George Herbert Clarke_

FRANCE

Because for once the sword broke in her hand, The words she spoke seemed perished for a space; All wrong was brazen, and in every land The tyrants walked abroad with naked face.

The waters turned to blood, as rose the Star Of evil Fate denying all release. The rulers smote, the feeble crying "War!" The usurers robbed, the naked crying "Peace!"

And her own feet were caught in nets of gold, And her own soul profaned by sects that squirm, And little men climbed her high seats and sold Her honour to the vulture and the worm.

And she seemed broken and they thought her dead, The Overmen, so brave against the weak. Has your last word of sophistry been said, O cult of slaves? Then it is hers to speak.

Clear the slow mists from her half-darkened eyes, As slow mists parted over Valmy fell, As once again her hands in high surprise Take hold upon the battlements of Hell.

_Cecil Chesterton_

THE NAME OF FRANCE