Chapter 2
America and France walk hand in hand; As one, their hearts beat through the coming years: One is the aim and purpose of each land, Baptized with holy water of their tears. To-day they worship with one faith, and know Grief’s first Communion in God’s House of Woe.
Great Liberty, the Goddess at our gates, And great Jeanne d’Arc, are fused into one soul: A host of Angels on that soul awaits To lead it up to triumph at the goal. Along the path of Victory they tread, Moves the majestic cortège of our dead.
_Flowers of France in the Spring_, _Your growth is a beautiful thing_; _But give us your fragrance and bloom_— _Yea_, _give us your lives in truth_, _Give us your sweetness and grace_ _To brighten the resting-place_ _Of the flower of manhood and youth_, _Gone into the dust of the tomb_.
OUR ATLAS
Not Atlas, with his shoulders bent beneath the weighty world, Bore such a burden as this man, on whom the Gods have hurled The evils of old festering lands—yea, hurled them in their might And left him standing all alone, to set the wrong things right.
It is the way the Fates have done since first Time’s race began! They open up Pandora’s box before some chosen man; And then, aloof, they wait and watch, to see if he will find And wake the slumbering God that dwells in every mortal’s mind.
Erect, our modern Atlas stands, with brave uplifted head, And there is courage in his eyes, if in his heart be dread. Not dread of foes, but dread of friends, who may not pull together, To bring the lurching ship of State safe through the stormy weather.
Oh, never were there wilder waves or more stupendous seas, Or rougher rocks or bleaker winds, or darker days than these. Not Washington, not Lincoln knew so grave an hour of Time As he who now stands face to face with War’s world-shaking crime.
His brain is clear, his soul is brave, his heart is just and right, He asks no honours of the earth, but favour in God’s sight; His aim is not to wear a crown or win imperial power, But to use wisely for the race life’s terrible great hour.
O Liberty, who lights the world with rays that come from God, Shine on Columbia’s troubled track, and make it bright and broad; Shine on each heart, and give it strength to meet its pains and losses, And give supernal strength to one who bears the whole world’s crosses; Take from his thought the fear of friends who may not pull together, And bring the glorious ship of State safe through wild waves and weather.
CAMP FOLLOWERS
In the old wars of the world there were camp followers, Women of ancient sins who gave themselves for hire, Women of weak wills and strong desire. And, like the poison ivy in the woods That winds itself about tall virile trees Until it smothers them, so these Ruined the bodies and the souls of men. More evil were they than Red War itself, Or Pestilence, or Famine. Now in this war— This last most awful carnage of the world— All the old wickedness exists as then:
But as a foul stream from a festering fen Is met and scattered by a mountain brook Leaping along its beautiful, bright course, So now the force Of these new Followers of the camp has come Straight from God’s Source To cleanse the world and cleanse the minds of men. Good women, of great courage and large hearts, Women whose slogan is self-sacrifice, Willing to pay the price God asks of pioneers, now play their parts In this stupendous drama of the age As Followers of the Camps.
They come in the name of God our Father, They come in the name of Christ our Brother, They come in the name of All Humanity, To give their gold, their labour, and their love To help the suffering souls in this war-riddled earth, The New Women of the Race— The New Camp Followers— The Centuries shall do honour to their names.
COME BACK CLEAN
This is the song for a soldier To sing as he rides from home To the fields afar where the battles are Or over the ocean’s foam: ‘Whatever the dangers waiting In the lands I have not seen, If I do not fall—if I come back at all, Then I will come back clean.
‘I may lie in the mud of the trenches, I may reek with blood and mire, But I will control, by the God in my soul, The might of my man’s desire. I will fight my foe in the open, But my sword shall be sharp and keen For the foe within who would lure me to sin, And I will come back clean.
‘I may not leave for my children Brave medals that I have worn, But the blood in my veins shall leave no stains On bride or on babes unborn; And the scars that my body may carry Shall not be from deeds obscene, For my will shall say to the beast, _Obey_! And I will come back clean.
‘Oh, not on the fields of slaughter And not in the prison-cell, Or in hunger and cold is the story told By war, of its darkest hell. But the old, old sin of the senses Can tell what that word may mean To the soldiers’ wives and to innocent lives, And I will come back clean.’
CAMOUFLAGE
Camouflage is all the rage. Ladies in their fight with age— Soldiers in their fight with foes— Demagogues who mask and pose In the guise of statesmen—girls Black of eyes with golden curls— Politicians, votes in mind, Smiling, affable and kind, All use camouflage to-day. As you go upon your way, Walk with caution, move with care; Camouflage is everywhere!
THE AWAKENING
I said, ‘I will place my heart, my heart all broken, Beside the world’s torn heart, that it may know The comradeship of sorrow that is not spoken, But is carried on wings of all the winds that blow. I will go homeless into homes of grieving, And find my own grief easier to be borne.’ So over menacing seas I went, believing Where all was mourning, I would cease to mourn.
And now I am here, close to the great world-sorrow, Here where each heart some mighty grief has known; But from each suffering soul I seem to borrow A poignant pain that but augments my own. The earth is like one vast tempestuous ocean, Where struggling beings fight for light and breath: I feel their anguish, feel each keen emotion— Yet through it all, _I know there is no death_.
And as we toss on billows red with slaughter, Unto each tortured, anguished soul I cry, ‘There are green lands beyond this raging water, We shall come into harbour by and by. Our dead dwell near, life is a thing eternal: And I have talked with One from that fair shore. We are but passing through a dream infernal; We shall awake, we shall be glad once more.’
THE KHAKI BOYS WHO WERE NOT AT THE FRONT
Oh! it is not just the men who face the guns, Not the fighters at the Front alone, to-day Who will bring the longed-for close to the bloody fray, for those Could not carry on that fray without the ones Who are working at war’s problems far away.
You are _all_ our splendid heroes in the strife, And we class you with the warriors maimed and scarred, Though you never have been near enough the battle din to hear, While you laboured in the dull routine of life In your khaki suits with sleeves that are not barred.
You have offered up yourselves to save the world; You have felt the abnegation of the Christ: And whatever work you do is a noble work and true; Though it be not done with banners all unfurled, You will find it has, in sight of God, sufficed.
While you carry back no medals when you go, Not without you had the fighters borne war’s brunt: So just lift your heads uncowed, for your country will be proud And its lasting love and honour will bestow On the khaki boys who were not at the Front.
TIME’S HYMN OF HATE
_Oh_, _boastful_, _wicked land_, _that once was beautiful and great_, _How bitter and how black must be your self-invited fate_, _While Time goes down the centuries and sings his hymn of hate_!
Time’s voice is just. His words ring true. For as the past recedes, The clear-eyed Future slowly writes the story of its deeds; And as Time toward the Infinite his ceaseless flight is winging He shall go singing The hymn of hate, of men and gods, for all your deeds of lust, For all your acts of cruelty and hell-concocted schemes (More hideous than the darkest plot of which a devil dreams) Which sprang from your Medusa head before it touched the dust.
Beneath the strangling hand of Fate That strident voice of yours Shall hush to silence, soon or late That Justice that endures Will mobilise its mighty ranks and free the human race, Then shall all Space, Yea, all the chains of sphere on sphere, With that loud hymn be ringing, Which Time goes singing His far flight winging And all the cherubims of God that dwell in regions o’er us Shall swell the chorus.
_Oh_, _boastful_, _wicked land_, _that once was beautiful and great_, _How desolate and dark must be your self-invited fate_, _While Time goes down the centuries and sings his hymn of hate_!
DEAR MOTHERLAND OF FRANCE
DEDICATED TO THE MEN AND WOMEN OF FRANCE
Our Motherland, dear Motherland, The source of beauty and of Art, Who but thy children understand The love which permeates each heart! We see, through rainbow-tints of tears, Thy glory of a thousand years. O country of the Great and Free, We live for thee, we live for thee, Dear Motherland of France.
O Motherland, both blithe and brave, What magic lies in thy name—France! Yet can thy radiant mien be grave, And stern thy ever-smiling glance. And when thy sons and daughters know That enemies would lay thee low And dim thy fame on land and sea, We fight for thee, we fight for thee, Dear Motherland of France.
Dear Motherland of joy and mirth, Dear Motherland of faith divine, A thousand years the wondering earth Has seen thy star in splendour shine. Still shall it see that star of France Its splendour and its light enhance. Dear Motherland, when it need be We die for thee, we die for thee, Dear Motherland of France.
THE SPIRIT OF GREAT JOAN
Back of each soldier who fights for France, Ay, back of each woman and man Who toils and prays through these long tense days, Is the spirit of Great Joan. For the love she gave, and the life she gave, In the eyes of God sufficed To crown her with light, and power, and might, That made her second to Christ.
And so in that hour at the Marne she came, To the seeing eyes of men; And the blind of view still felt and knew That her spirit had come again. And she will come in each crucial hour And joy shall follow despair, For Joan sees her France on its knees And she hears the voice of its prayer.
There is no hate in the heart of France, But a mighty moral force That takes its stand for her worshipped land, And cannot be swerved from its course. For this is the way with France to-day, Her courage comes from faith, And she bends her knee ere she straightens her arm; In her forward rush toward death.
A jungle of beasts in the heart of the Hun— War to the world laid bare. And war has revealed, that France concealed, Only the lion’s lair. A lioness fighting to save her own, She fights as a lioness can, And strength to the end shall the Unseen send, In the spirit of Great Joan.
SPEAK
Obscured the sun, the world is dark; Maid of Orleans, Joan of Arc, Send down thy spark.
Let every heart in France be stirred, By such an all-compelling word As thou once heard.
Say to each soul, ‘Lo! I am near; My voice still speaks in accents clear. Be still and hear.
‘The France I saved can not be lost; Though tempest-torn and terror-tossed, Count not the cost.
‘Give as the maid of Domrémy Gave all—gave life itself to see Her country free.
‘Back of great France my spirit towers To aid her through the darkest hours With God’s own powers!’
Maid of Orleans, Joan of Arc, Shine through the night, speak through the dark The while we hark.
THE GIRL OF THE U.S.A.
Oh! the maidens of France are certainly fine, And I think every fellow will state That the ‘what-you-may-call-it’ coiffured way They put up their hair is great! And they know how to dress, and they wear their clothes In a fetching, Frenchy way; And yet to me, there is just one girl— The girl of the U.S.A.
I like to listen when French girls talk, Though I’m weak in the ‘parlez-vous’ game; But the language of youth in every land Is somehow about the same, And I’ve learned a regular code of shrugs, And they seem to know what I say! But the girl whose voice goes straight to my heart Is the girl of the U.S.A.
I haven’t a word but words of praise For these dear little girls of France; And I will confess that I’ve felt a thrill As I faced their line of advance! But I haven’t been taken a prisoner yet, And I won’t be, until the day When I carry my colours to lay at the feet Of a girl of the U.S.A.
PASSING THE BUCK
Whatever the task that comes your way, Just take it as part of your luck. Look it right square in the eyes, and say, ‘This is _my_ task, I’ll do it to-day’: Don’t pass the buck.
Oh! whether you cook, or whether you fight, Or whether you trundle a truck, Just tackle your job and do it right: Don’t pass the buck.
The wheels of the earth have gone, alack! Deep into war’s mire and muck. If you want to put it again on its track, Don’t shift your load on another man’s back: Don’t pass the buck.
SONG OF THE AVIATOR
You may thrill with the speed of your thoroughbred steed, You may laugh with delight as you ride the ocean, You may rush afar in your touring car, Leaping, sweeping, by things that are creeping— But you never will know the joy of motion Till you rise up over the earth some day, And soar like an eagle, away—away.
High and higher above each spire, Till lost to sight is the tallest steeple, With the winds you chase in a valiant race, Looping, swooping, where mountains are grouping, Hailing them comrades, in place of people. Oh! vast is the rapture the birdman knows, As into the ether he mounts and goes. He is over the sphere of human fear; He has come into touch with things supernal. At each man’s gate death stands await; And dying, flying, were better than lying In sick-beds, crying for life eternal. Better to fly half-way to God Than to burrow too long like a worm in the sod.
THE STEVEDORES
We are the army stevedores, lusty and virile and strong, We are given the hardest work of the war, and the hours are long. We handle the heavy boxes, and shovel the dirty coal; While soldiers and sailors work in the light, we burrow below like a mole. But somebody has to do this work, or the soldiers could not fight! And whatever work is given a man, is good if he does it right.
We are the army stevedores, and we are volunteers. We did not wait for the draft to come, to put aside our fears; We flung them away on the winds of fate, at the very first call of our land, And each of us offered a willing heart and the strength of a brawny hand. We are the army stevedores, and work as we must and may, The cross of honour will never be ours to proudly wear away.
But the men at the Front could never be there, And the battles could not be won, If the stevedores stopped in their dull routine And left their work undone. Somebody has to do this work; be glad that it isn’t you! We are the army stevedores—give us our due!
A SONG OF HOME
I am singing a song to the boys to-day, A song of the home that is far away. And I know that an echo the word is waking In many a heart that is secretly aching, Yes, almost breaking, thinking of Home, dear Home. But thought, dear boys, is a carrier dove, And it flies straight into the hearts you love.
You picture the days of your youthful joys, The old home circle, the girls and boys You knew in that wonderful world of pleasure, When life danced on to a lilting measure; Each scene you treasure, thinking of Home, dear Home. And here is a thought that is sweet and true— The ones you long for are longing for you. You picture the day when the war is done, The duty accomplished, the victory won, And over the billows our ships go leaping, Into our beautiful harbour sweeping, And with laughter and weeping, you go back Home, Home, Home. On the walls of your heart you must hang with care This beautiful picture, framed in prayer.
Thinking of Home, you are blazing a trail For that glorious day when our ships shall sail; Where the Goddess of Liberty lights the water To guide you back from the fields of slaughter, Fair Freedom’s daughter, who welcomes us Home, Home, Home. So hold your vision, and work and pray, As you dream of the Home that is far away.
THE SWAN OF DIJON
I was in Dijon when the war’s wild blast Was at its loudest; when there was no sound From dawn to dawn, save soldiers marching past, Or rattle of their wagons in the street. When every engine whistle would repeat Persistently, with meaning tense, profound, ‘We carry men to slaughter’ or ‘we bring Remnants of men back as war’s offering.’
And there in Dijon, the out-gazing eye Grew weary of the strife-suggesting scene; But, searching, found one quiet spot hard by Where war was not; a little lake whereon Moved leisurely a stately, tranquil swan, Majestic and imposing, yet serene.
I was in Dijon, when no sound or sight Woke thoughts of peace, save this one speck of white, Sailing ’neath skies of menace, unafraid While silver fountains for his pleasure played. Dear Swan of Dijon, it was your good part To rest a tired heart.
VEILS
Veils, everywhere float veils; veils long and black, Framing white faces, oft-times young and fair, But, like a rose touched by untimely frost, Showing the blighting marks of sorrow’s track.
Veils, veils, veils everywhere. They tell the cost Of man-made war. They show the awful toll Paid by the hearts of women for the crimes, The age-old crimes by selfishness ill-named ‘Justice’ and ‘Honour’ and ‘The call of Fate’— High words men use to hide their low estate. About the joy and beauty of this world A long black veil is furled. Even the face of Heaven itself seems lost Behind a veil. It takes a fervent soul In these tense times To visualise a God so long defamed By insolent lips, that send out prayers, and prate Of God’s collaboration in dark deeds, So foul they put to shame the fiends of hell.
Yet One _does_ dwell In Secret Centres of the Universe— The Mighty Maker; and He hears and heeds The still small voice of soulful, selfless faith; And He is lifting now the veil of death, So long down-dropped between those worlds and earth. Yea! He is giving faith a great new birth By letting echoes from the hidden places Where dwell our dead, fall on love’s listening ear. Hearken, and you shall hear The messages which come from those star-spaces! That is the reason why God let so many die; That the vast hordes of suffering hearts might wake Mighty vibrations, and the silence break Between the neighbouring worlds, and lift the veil ’Twixt life on earth, and life Beyond. All hail To great Jehovah, Who has given life Eternal, everlasting, after strife!
Veils, long black veils, you shall be bridal white. Eyes, blind with tears, you shall receive your sight, And see your dead alive in Worlds of Light.
IN FRANCE I SAW A HILL
In France I saw a hill—a gentle slope Rising above old tombs to greet the gleam From soft spring skies. Beyond these skies dwells hope, But those green graves bespeak a broken dream.
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 rôle 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, HELLO!
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, hello!’ ‘Hello, American boys, Luck to you, and life’s best joys! American boys, hello!’
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 ‘Hello, hello, American boy!’ But here it’s just a joy, As we pass along in the stranger throng, To call out, ‘Boys, hello!’
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, hello!’ ‘Hello, American boys, Luck to you, and life’s best joys! American boys, hello!’
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 Shines 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 passing of kings.
THE BLASPHEMY OF GUNS