Part 6

I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple blossoms fill the air. I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath; It may be I shall pass him, still, I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow flowers appear.

God knows ’twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear. But I’ve a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true. I shall not fail that rendezvous.

Lieut. Col. John McCrae was a Canadian physician who served in the South African war as an artilleryman. He was on his way to Canada when the war began in 1914, and immediately upon landing he entered the Val Cartier training camp and was commissioned a Captain. Later he joined the McGill Hospital corps and went with it to France, where he rose to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel, and died in service, January 28, 1918.

His poem, “In Flanders’ Fields,” was written on the Flanders front in the Spring of 1915. Its inspiration is thus explained by Sergeant Charles E. Bisset, of the 19th Battalion, 1st Brigade, Canadian Infantry:

“On the Flanders front in the early Spring of 1915, when the war had settled down to trench fighting, two of the most noticeable features of the field were, first, the luxuriant growth of red poppies appearing among the graves of the fallen soldiers, and second, that only one species of bird--the larks--remained on the field during the fighting. As soon as the cannonading ceased, they would rise in the air, singing.”

IN FLANDERS’ FIELDS

In Flanders’ fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place, and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead! Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders’ fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe! To you from failing hands we throw The Torch. Be yours to hold it high! If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow, In Flanders’ fields.

Rupert Brooke, a brilliant, impassioned young Englishman, was one of the first to take arms when Great Britain went to war. He died in the Dardanelles expedition, April 23, 1915. A few days before, he had sent from the Ægean Sea to the English-speaking peoples the poem by which he is best known:

THE SOLDIER[2]

If I should die, think only this of me: That there’s some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed, A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England’s breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Lieutenant Brooke was a rare poet, having a serene faith, a knowledge of life as continuous. His bent of thought, the manner of his feeling, shine most clearly in this sonnet:

NOT WITH VAIN TEARS

Not with vain tears, when we’re beyond the sun, We’ll beat on the substantial doors, nor tread Those dusty highroads of the aimless dead, Plaintive for Earth; but rather turn and run Down some close-covered byway of the air, Some low, sweet alley between wind and wind, Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, find Some whispering, ghost-forgotten nook, and there Spend in pure converse our eternal day; Think each in each, immediately wise; Learn all we lacked before; hear, know and say What this tumultuous body now denies; And feel, who have laid our groping hands away; And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.

All of Rupert Brooke’s work has been collected and issued, a rich though slender sheaf. The book is fervently commended to people whose own souls are in the key that responds to notes so spiritually fine and clear as those he sounds in all his lines.

* * * * *

“But a Short Time to Live” was written by Serg’t Leslie Coulson, whose “little hour” came to an end at Arras, in France, October 7, 1916:

BUT A SHORT TIME TO LIVE

Our little hour--how swift it flies-- When poppies flare and lilies smile; How soon the fleeting minute dies, Leaving us but a little while To dream our dreams, to sing our song, To pick the fruit, to pluck the flower. The gods--they do not give us long-- One little hour.

* * * * *

Our little hour--how soon it dies; How short a time to tell our beads, To chant our feeble litanies, To think sweet thoughts, to do good deeds. The altar lights grow pale and dim, The bells hang silent in the tower-- So passes with the dying hymn Our little hour.

These songs, with others that have lilted so bravely, so gravely, through the world’s most bitter years of travail, will live long in literature, with many more as strong or as sweet. Had all the writers lived, we would have had a wealth of splendid gifts from them, especially, maybe, from that “poor bird-hearted singer of a day,” Francis Ledwidge, who fell in battle in Flanders, July 31, 1917. Ledwidge was discovered by Lord Dunsany, himself a soldier-poet and a patron of poets. He was lance corporal in Lord Dunsany’s company in the 5th Battalion of the Royal Inniskillen Fusileers. He wrote quite touchingly to a friend shortly before the end, “I mean to do something great if I am spared, but out here one may at any moment be hurled out of life.” There is no doubt he would have done “something great,” for here is a swan song not unworthy to bear his name to later times:

THE LOST ONES

Somewhere is music from the linnets’ bills, And through the sunny flowers the bee wings drone, And white bells of convolvulus on hills Of quiet May make silent ringing blown Hither and thither by the wind of showers, And somewhere all the wandering birds have flown; And the brown breath of Autumn chills the flowers. But where are all the loves of long ago?

O little twilight ship blown up the tide, Where are the faces laughing in the glow Of morning years, the lost ones scattered wide? Give me your hand, O brother; let us go Crying about the dark for those who died.

THE FLAG SPEAKS

WALTER E. PECK

IN THE HAMILTON LITERARY MAGAZINE

Ribbons of white in the flag of our land, Say, shall we live in fear? Speak! For I wait for the word from your lips Wet with the brine of the sea-going ships; Speak! Shall we cringe ’neath an Attila’s whips? Speak! For I wait to hear!

“This is our word,” said the ribbons of white; “This is the course to steer-- Peace is our haven for foul or for fair-- Won as a maiden and kept as an heir, Peace with the sunlight of God on her hair, Peace, with an honor clear!”

Ribbons of red in the flag of our land, Bought for a price full dear, Speak! For ’tis Man that is asking Man, Churl in the centuries’ caravan, Speak! For he waits for your bold “I can!” Speak! For he waits to hear!

“This is our word,” said the ribbons of red, Slowly, with gaze austere, “War if we must in humanity’s name, Shielding a sister from sorrow and shame; War upon beasts with the sword and with flame! War--till the Judge appear!”

Stars in a field of the sky’s own blue, Light of a midnight year, Speak! For the spirit of Man awakes, Shoulders the cross, and his couch forsakes, Whispers a prayer, and the long way takes, Speak! For he waits to hear!

“This is our word,” said a star of white, Set in the silken mere, “Right against Might on the land, on the sea! Little and Great are the same to me! Only for Truth and for Liberty Strike! For the hour is here!”

THE CALL

(FRANCE, AUGUST 1ST, 1914)

ROBERT W. SERVICE

From “Rhymes of a Red Cross Man,” a book of fine poems by Mr. Service. Published and copyright, 1916, by Barse & Hopkins, New York. Special permission to insert in this book.

Far and near, high and clear, Hark to the call of War! Over the gorse and the golden dells, Ringing and swinging of clamorous bells, Praying and saying of wild farewells: War! War! War!

High and low, all must go: Hark to the shout of War! Leave to the women the harvest yield; Gird ye, men, for the sinister field; A sabre instead of a scythe to wield. War! Red war!

Rich and poor, lord and boor, Hark to the blast of War! Tinker and tailor and millionaire, Actor in triumph and priest in prayer, Comrades now in the hell out there, Sweep to the fire of War!

Prince and page, sot and sage, Hark to the roar of War! Poet, professor and circus clown, Chimney-sweeper and fop o’ the town, Into the pot and be melted down Into the pot of War!

Women all, hear the call, The pitiless call of War! Look your last on your dearest ones, Brothers and husbands, fathers, sons: Swift they go to the ravenous guns, The gluttonous guns of War!

Everywhere thrill the air The maniac bells of War! There will be little of sleeping tonight; There will be wailing and weeping tonight; Death’s red sickle is reaping tonight: War! War! War!

THE CRUTCHES’ TUNE

ELIZABETH R. STONER

IN EVERYBODY’S MAGAZINE

Down the street, with a lilting swing, Each so bright that never a thing Seemed to harass, so proud were they; One leg gone, but their hearts were gay.

Clickety clack, went the crutches’ tune. God! How can they be brave so soon! Brave, when I can not keep back the tears, Thinking ahead of the crippled years.

With a rhythmic swing they passed me by, And although, at first, I wanted to cry, I didn’t, because on each smiling face Was the peace of God and the pride of race.

And the splendid pair, each with one leg gone, Swung out of sight to the crutches’ song. And I thought I would give all my future joys To feel just like those Canadian boys.

All night long, like an ancient rune, Rang through my dreams the crutches’ tune. I shall never forget, though I’m old and gray, The song that the crutches sang that day.

THE ANXIOUS DEAD

LIEUT. COL. JOHN McCRAE

IN THE LONDON SPECTATOR

O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear Above their heads the legions pressing on! (These fought their fight in time of bitter fear And died not knowing how the day had gone.)

O flashing muzzles, pause and let them see The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar! Then let your mighty chorus witness be To them, and Cæsar, that we still make war.

Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call; That we have sworn and will not turn aside; That we will onward till we win or fall; That we will keep the faith for which they died.

Bid them be patient, and some day, anon, They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep-- Shall greet in wonderment the quiet dawn, And in content may turn them to their sleep.

HOME

REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN

From Mr. Kauffman’s book of poems, “Little Old Belgium.” Henry Altemus Company, Publishers, Philadelphia. Copyright, 1914. Reproduced in this book by special permission.

At a pillaged hamlet near Termonde, I asked a dying peasant woman into which of the houses still standing I should assist her--which was her home? She pressed a withered hand to her bayonet-pierced side and answered: “The Germans have taken one home from me; but, without knowing it, they have given me another. I am going there now.”

My house that I so soon shall own Is builded in a silent place, Not uncompanioned or alone, But shared by almost all my race; No landscape from its windows rolls A picture of the earth’s increase; But, oh, for all our stricken souls, Within its sturdy walls is--Peace.

The other house I used to love Before they burnt it overhead; My slaughtered man; the memory of Our daughter screaming in the red Embrace of Uhlans at my door, Her shrieks all silenced by their shout Of drunken fury--that was war, And my new home will shut it out.

I shall not see the German hands That tear the baby from the breast; I shall not hear the plundering bands Laughing at murder: I shall rest. There Joy shall never riot in Nor robber sorrow find his way; Those shutters bar the call of Sin, And Duty has no debt to pay.

So much I shall be heedless of, Serene, secure, dispassionate; _There_ is not anything to love; _There_ is not anything to hate. So in my house I shall forget All of the orgies and the strife, And find, past memory and regret, The Resurrection and the Life.

TO HAPPIER DAYS

MABEL McELLIOTT

IN THE CHICAGO SUNDAY TRIBUNE

Against the shabby house I pass each day (The town is strange, and all so new to see) Pink hollyhocks made friendly sport of me, With nod and smile and endless courtesy Enlive the lonely sameness of my way. Slim little maids in rosy morning frocks, They make a splash of color on the gray-- The sun so bright--a pity not to play, But this old world is sadly work-a-day, And I must hasten on, my hollyhocks!

I like to think that somewhere, overseas, Perhaps in some neglected garden place, Shy flowers from home lean out with wayward grace-- Blue iris and the valley lilies’ lace-- Reminding them of happier times than these, ... Of happy times that are so soon to be, When they come marching home to us--our men-- The world’s work done, the land made clean again!

YOUR LAD, AND MY LAD

RANDALL PARRISH

IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE

Down toward the deep-blue water, marching to throb of drum, From city street and country lane the lines of khaki come; The rumbling guns, the sturdy tread, are full of grim appeal, While rays of western sunshine flash back from burnished steel. With eager eyes and cheeks aflame the serried ranks advance; And your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.

A sob clings choking in the throat, as file on file sweep by, Between those cheering multitudes, to where the great ships lie; The batteries halt, the columns wheel, to clear-toned bugle-call. With shoulders squared and faces front they stand a khaki wall. Tears shine on every watcher’s cheek, love speaks in every glance; For your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.

Before them, through a mist of years, in soldier buff or blue, Brave comrades from a thousand fields watch now in proud review; The same old Flag, the same old Faith,--the Freedom of the World-- Spells Duty in those flapping folds above long ranks unfurled. Strong are the hearts which bear along Democracy’s advance, As your dear lad, and my dear lad, go on their way to France.

The word rings out; a million feet tramp forward on the road, Along that path of sacrifice o’er which their fathers strode. With eager eyes and cheeks aflame, with cheers on smiling lips, These fighting men of ’17 move onward to their ships. Nor even love may hold them back, nor halt that stern advance, As your dear lad, and my dear lad, go on their way to France.

“AS SHE IS SPOKE”

BOSTON TRANSCRIPT

I’ve heard a half a dozen times Folks call it Reims. That isn’t right, though, so it seems, Perhaps it’s Reims. Poor city ruined now by flames-- Can it be Reims?-- That once was one of France’s gems-- More likely Reims. I’ll get it right sometime, perchance; I’m told it’s Reims.

THE SPIRES OF OXFORD

(SEEN FROM THE TRAIN)

WINIFRED M. LETTS

From “The Spires of Oxford and Other Poems,” by Winifred M. Letts, published and copyright, 1917, by E. P. Dutton & Company, New York. Special permission to reproduce in this book.

I saw the spires of Oxford As I was passing by, The gray spires of Oxford Against a pearl-gray sky. My heart was with the Oxford men Who went abroad to die.

The years go fast in Oxford, The golden years and gay, The hoary colleges look down On careless boys at play. But when the bugles sounded--War! They put their games away.

They left the peaceful river, The cricket field, the quad, The shaven lawns of Oxford To seek a bloody sod-- They gave their merry youth away For country and for God.

God rest you, happy gentlemen, Who laid your good lives down, Who took the khaki and the gun Instead of cap and gown. God bring you to a fairer place Than even Oxford town.

THE GENTLEMEN OF OXFORD

NORAH M. HOLLAND

IN EVERYWOMAN’S WORLD

The sunny streets of Oxford Are lying still and bare. No sound of voice or laughter Rings through the golden air; And, chiming from her belfry, No longer Christchurch calls The eager, boyish faces To gather in her halls.

The colleges are empty. Only the sun and wind Make merry in the places The lads have left behind. But, when the trooping shadows Have put the day to flight, The Gentlemen of Oxford Come homing through the night.

From France they come, and Flanders, From Mons, and Marne and Aisne. From Greece and from Gallipoli They come to her again; From the North Sea’s grey waters, From many a grave unknown, The Gentlemen of Oxford Come back to claim their own.

The dark is full of laughter, Boy laughter, glad and young. They tell the old-time stories, The old-time songs are sung; They linger in her cloisters, They throng her dewy meads, Till Isis hears their calling And laughs among her reeds.

But, when the east is whitening To greet the rising sun, And slowly, over Carfax, The stars fade, one by one, Then, when the dawn-wind whispers Along the Isis shore, The Gentlemen of Oxford Must seek their graves once more.

WITH THE SAME PRIDE

THEODOSIA GARRISON

IN EVERYBODY’S MAGAZINE

Permission to reproduce in this book

One star for all she had, And in her heart One wound--yet is she glad For all its smart As they are glad who bear The pangs of birth That a new soul and fair May come to earth, Seeing she, too, was one Who from Death’s strife Granted her first-born son Proudly to Life. Now with that very faith Life justified, She grants a son to Death With the same pride.

ACELDAMA

DR. GEORGE F. BUTLER

IN THE SCOOP, THE CHICAGO PRESS CLUB’S MAGAZINE

Still breaks the Holy morn, to soothe the care And labor of the world; hushed is the grove, And overhead the vireo’s note of love Floats like a joyful utterance of prayer. Soft insect murmurs fill the enchanted air. Into a fairer day earth seems to move, And statelier thoughts lift mortal sense above Life’s sin and pain; the sorrow and despair. But hark! where now the noonday beams are shed In sorrowing Europe, trembles a sound Of thunder, and the land with dews of blood Is drenched; while o’er the dying and the dead Fate turns to weep o’er every pleading wound-- Can earth o’ercome the evil with the good?

But yesterday two monarchs, held in check Like bloodhounds in the leash, broke forth before The eyes of Christendom, and in the roar Of lurid conflict heard not the wild shriek Of outraged millions--now again the wreck Of crushed humanity must strew death’s shore With ghastly ruin crying evermore, “Shame! Wretch of mortal form and vulture’s beak-- To ask God’s aid and Christ’s! O, hour of woe! Cover, O night of ages, the dread birth Of man’s Imperial hate! Let kings go down That peoples may aspire and live and own A holier stature, and this crimsoned earth Drink the pure light of Freedom’s afterglow!”

Sunday in August, 1914

THE LONELY GARDEN

EDGAR A. GUEST

Copyright, 1918, by Edgar A. Guest. Special permission to reproduce in this book.

I wonder what the trees will say, The trees that used to share his play, An’ knew him as the little lad Who used to wander with his dad. They’ve watched him grow from year to year Since first the good Lord sent him here; This shag-bark hick’ry, many a time, The little fellow tried t’ climb; An’ never a spring has come but he Has called upon his favorite tree. I wonder what they all will say When they are told he’s marched away.

I wonder what the birds will say, The swallow an’ the chatterin’ jay, The robin an’ the kildeer, too. For every one o’ them he knew, An’ every one o’ them knew him, Waited each spring t’ tell him all They’d done and seen since ’way last fall. He was the first to greet ’em here An’ hoppin’ there from limb t’ limb, As they returned from year t’ year; An’ now I wonder what they’ll say When they are told he’s marched away.

I wonder how the roses there Will get along without his care, An’ how the lilac bush will face The loneliness about th’ place, For ev’ry spring an’ summer he Has been the chum o’ plant an’ tree, An’ every livin’ thing has known A comradeship that’s finer grown By havin’ him from year t’ year. Now very soon they’ll all be here, An’ I’m wonderin’ what they’ll say When they find out he’s marched away.

THE BRITISH ARMY OF 1914

ALFRED W. POLLARD

IN WESTMINSTER GAZETTE

Let us praise God for the Dead: the Dead who died in our cause. They went forth a little army: all its men were as true as steel. The hordes of the enemy were hurled against them: they fell back, but their hearts failed not. They went forward again and held their ground: though their foes were as five to one. They gave time for our host to muster: the most of the men who never thought to fight. A great host and a mighty: worthy of the men who died to gain them time. Let us praise God for these men: let us remember them before Him all our days. Let us care for the widows and orphans: and for the men who came home maimed. Truly God has been with us: these things were not done without His help. O Lord our God, be Thou still our helper: make us worthy of those who died.

MORITURI TE SALUTANT

P. H. B. L.

IN THE LONDON SPECTATOR

In this last hour, before the bugles blare The summons of the dawn, we turn again To you, dear country, you whom unaware, Through summer years of idle selfishness, We still have loved--who loved us none the less, Knowing the destined hour would find us men.