Poetical Pictures of the Great War Suitable for Recitation. First Series ... Second Series ... Third Series ... Fourth Series. By Mackenzie Bell |
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 | Poetical Pictures of the Great War |  |
Second Series
Second Thonsand.
“THE COMRADE IN WHITE.”
[_]
It is said, especially in the French lines, that after many encounters a man in white has been seen succouring the wounded. The French call him “The Comrade in White.”
Adown the long, long avenues of fight
Dark Jean and Pierre beheld Him come. He looked,
Said they, as though indeed, He were, in truth,
Incarnate deathless Courage; yet withal
Calm with eternal calmness. Much they told
About Him. Yet, I smiled, and wondered if
Their toil and weariness made them distraught.
Dark Jean and Pierre beheld Him come. He looked,
Said they, as though indeed, He were, in truth,
Incarnate deathless Courage; yet withal
Calm with eternal calmness. Much they told
About Him. Yet, I smiled, and wondered if
Their toil and weariness made them distraught.
One night the order came; our company
Was bidden to advance. At first it seemed
That all was well, the thunder of our guns
Had opened, so appeared to us, a way
To win the point desired. Then suddenly
We saw that all was lost. A soldier fell
To right and left of me. I was alone;
A moment more, and, I dropt, wounded, then
No more I knew; nor was aware until
The night was here.
When I came to myself
The stars were shining, and clear was the night.
I lay in a small hollow. Soon, too soon
The firing re-commenced. Lo! then a step
Majestic, slow, (how calm and unafraid)
Approached. At first, so little did I dream
Of Who He was, that, when I saw the white,
Pure texture of His raiment, 'twas, methought,
Some woman, full of strange forgetfulness,
Or, haply, some poor peasant, whose white smock
Casts shadows thus. He raised His arms aloft
Unfearing whirling bullets, as though He
Were now in act to bless, and spake sweet words,
Old and familiar. Then He raised me up,
And bore me hence, to where soft waters flowed—
Me, tall, large-limbed, and, there, He washed my wounds,
And bound them. Great, great was my agony
Of body; yet, when He but touched me, lo!
Mine inmost soul was bathed in very bliss.
Was bidden to advance. At first it seemed
That all was well, the thunder of our guns
Had opened, so appeared to us, a way
To win the point desired. Then suddenly
We saw that all was lost. A soldier fell
To right and left of me. I was alone;
A moment more, and, I dropt, wounded, then
No more I knew; nor was aware until
The night was here.
When I came to myself
The stars were shining, and clear was the night.
I lay in a small hollow. Soon, too soon
The firing re-commenced. Lo! then a step
Majestic, slow, (how calm and unafraid)
Approached. At first, so little did I dream
Pure texture of His raiment, 'twas, methought,
Some woman, full of strange forgetfulness,
Or, haply, some poor peasant, whose white smock
Casts shadows thus. He raised His arms aloft
Unfearing whirling bullets, as though He
Were now in act to bless, and spake sweet words,
Old and familiar. Then He raised me up,
And bore me hence, to where soft waters flowed—
Me, tall, large-limbed, and, there, He washed my wounds,
And bound them. Great, great was my agony
Of body; yet, when He but touched me, lo!
Mine inmost soul was bathed in very bliss.
I slept; and, when I woke, around I looked,
The Friend was with me still. He stood apart
As if in prayer. Anon, with hand outstretched,
Toward me He gazed. Mine eyes beheld a wound
Upon that hand. “Wounded you, likewise, are,”
I murmured low. Perchance He heard, perchance
The look upon my face told Him my meaning.
“Old is my wound,” He said, “and, yet, it hath
Troubled Me much of late.” Swiftly He rose,
“Lie there, beside the water, for to-day,”
He told me, “and, to-morrow, I will come,
Of you I have much need.” And, so I lie
Lonely and weak, my pain increasing, yet
Anchored in joy because He comes to-morrow.
The Friend was with me still. He stood apart
As if in prayer. Anon, with hand outstretched,
Toward me He gazed. Mine eyes beheld a wound
Upon that hand. “Wounded you, likewise, are,”
I murmured low. Perchance He heard, perchance
The look upon my face told Him my meaning.
“Old is my wound,” He said, “and, yet, it hath
Troubled Me much of late.” Swiftly He rose,
“Lie there, beside the water, for to-day,”
He told me, “and, to-morrow, I will come,
Of you I have much need.” And, so I lie
Lonely and weak, my pain increasing, yet
Anchored in joy because He comes to-morrow.
June 18, 1915. Centenary of Waterloo.
IN THE FRENCH TRENCHES.
[_]
It is said that a French private soldier, colloquially “un poilu” of volatile disposition, bought a small Bible one day, soon after the war began, on one of the Quais at Paris; and that, when in subsequent danger and fear, he opened it in the trenches, almost inadvertently he found the words: “Be strong, fear not,” and was impelled thereby to do his duty. The Legion of Honour is usually designated merely as “The Legion.”
Strange is my Paris, here and now,
My Paris once so gay,
No heart have I to sit and drink
An absinthe here to-day.
My Paris once so gay,
No heart have I to sit and drink
An absinthe here to-day.
Achille is gone, and tall Jean, too,
And where we used to sit,
At Père Odette's, why, there I see
Scarce one, when lights are lit.
And where we used to sit,
At Père Odette's, why, there I see
Scarce one, when lights are lit.
At noontide where we used to play
Vive l'Amour in the shade
Talk they of wounds, talk they of death,
Or how the shells are made.
Vive l'Amour in the shade
Talk they of wounds, talk they of death,
Or how the shells are made.
I'm glad that I'm “un poilu” now,
I'm glad that I must go,
For naught can check “the vapours” like
Swift marching to and fro.
I'm glad that I must go,
For naught can check “the vapours” like
Swift marching to and fro.
Cold is the night, cold is my heart,
And yet no coward I;
Yet cold it is to sit and think,
And cold 'tis here to lie.
And yet no coward I;
Yet cold it is to sit and think,
And cold 'tis here to lie.
Cold is my heart for tall Jean's sake
'Twas here, just here, he died;
Cold is my heart for Achille's sake,
Here, bleeding, by my side.
'Twas here, just here, he died;
Cold is my heart for Achille's sake,
Here, bleeding, by my side.
Cheerless it is, and gloomy, too,
As breaks the heavy day.
I'll read the Book I bought erewhile
To wile the hour away.
As breaks the heavy day.
I'll read the Book I bought erewhile
To wile the hour away.
Ah! here it is: never before
Have I read such a Book,
At such a time little it recks
In what I read, or look.
Have I read such a Book,
At such a time little it recks
In what I read, or look.
I turn the page: “Be strong, fear not,”
The very word for me,
For lo! the cannonade begins,
The shot fall heavily.
The very word for me,
For lo! the cannonade begins,
The shot fall heavily.
“Be strong, fear not!” Where am I now?
This place, large-roomed, high-walled,
Brings back no memories; yet they say
'Twas mine, when Duty called
This place, large-roomed, high-walled,
Brings back no memories; yet they say
'Twas mine, when Duty called
To hurl the Boches rearward; and they say
That, while I lie at rest,
“Mon Général” will come and pin
“The Legion” on my breast.
That, while I lie at rest,
“Mon Général” will come and pin
“The Legion” on my breast.
France's Day, 1915.
THE DESERTER.
“There is a soul of goodness in things evil.”
Shakespeare.
Shakespeare.
“He showed no grace till the hour he died.”—
Dante Rossetti.
Dante Rossetti.
“I can smoke a cigar to the glory of God.”—
Charles Haddon Spurgeon.
Charles Haddon Spurgeon.
A British private soldier served at the Front for some time. He was given to drink, however, and other bad influences, and, at last deserted. In about two months he was caught. Then he was tried, and sentenced to be shot. On the night before the execution a minister of religion came to offer him spiritual consolation. On leaving he asked whether he could do anything for him. The man desired tobacco, and, on receiving four cigarettes, all the enquirer had, he bestowed two on the sentinel guarding him.
As, seen by inner sight, there flits
Through some strange and obscuring haze,
Vague visions of his dull, past days.
His life, one long, dull tragedy
Before him lay; 'twas well that he
Felt not as others would have felt.
Of gentler nurture, few had dealt
With him in kindness. Now, alas!
Short were the hours 'twere his to pass
On earth. Scarce thought he of his crime
Save with one slow regret; the time
Moved grimly; a well-meaning man
Repentance talked—a stupid plan
Did he crave aught. It had not tasked
The fancy of the prisoner,
To crave one boon, and, now, lay there
Within his hand, four cigarettes.
“Poor bloke,” cried he, his vain regrets
All gone, “the bloke who guards me here
Wants two, as well as me, no fear,”
And holding out a friendly hand,
He makes the other understand.
THE WISE HORSE.
(A True Story of 1914.)
Ere the trench warfare is begun,
And men change post ere rise of sun,
A troop of our best cavalry
Are called to charge the enemy.
Onward! with faces all a-glow
With martial ardour, now they go,
No man in bearing seems to err,
No gallant steed deserves the spur,
One moment sees their proud advance,
With whirling sword or glittering lance.
The next beholds a bursting shell
Fall in their midst—a bolt of Hell.
And men change post ere rise of sun,
A troop of our best cavalry
Are called to charge the enemy.
Onward! with faces all a-glow
With martial ardour, now they go,
No man in bearing seems to err,
No gallant steed deserves the spur,
One moment sees their proud advance,
With whirling sword or glittering lance.
The next beholds a bursting shell
Fall in their midst—a bolt of Hell.
A soldier, wounded nigh to death,
Drops slowly, panting now for breath,
Seeing him fall, his faithful horse
With bent neck, looks, then checks his course,
Once more he looks, looks yet again,
Sure is it, now, he knows the pain,
Then, by kind instinct gentle made,
He bends, and seeks to render aid.
The man's torn raiment holding fast,
He lifts him up; and gallops past
All danger: then, and not till then,
Amid a picket of our men,
From his kind mouth he loosed his load
And softly neighed for help, nor strode
Away although that help had come.
Drops slowly, panting now for breath,
Seeing him fall, his faithful horse
With bent neck, looks, then checks his course,
Sure is it, now, he knows the pain,
Then, by kind instinct gentle made,
He bends, and seeks to render aid.
The man's torn raiment holding fast,
He lifts him up; and gallops past
All danger: then, and not till then,
Amid a picket of our men,
From his kind mouth he loosed his load
And softly neighed for help, nor strode
Away although that help had come.
Later, amid the gathering hum
Of friendly tones, and friendly hands,
He looks; he knows; he understands;
And takes his sugar quietly,
While men say, for his bravery,
Now he deserves the famed V.C.
Of friendly tones, and friendly hands,
He looks; he knows; he understands;
And takes his sugar quietly,
While men say, for his bravery,
Now he deserves the famed V.C.
THE FAITHFUL DOG.
(A French Soldier's True Tale.)
Slowly I come from poignant dreams of pain,
Wounded how sorely. Weak yet all too weak
To know my weakness, once, and yet again,
Something stirs near me, though it does not speak.
Wounded how sorely. Weak yet all too weak
To know my weakness, once, and yet again,
Something stirs near me, though it does not speak.
Grievous are my dire hurts. A piece of shell
Is lodged within my arm; a sabre thrust
Has wounded now my head; and, lo! as well
A rifle ball is in my cheek. I must
Is lodged within my arm; a sabre thrust
Has wounded now my head; and, lo! as well
A rifle ball is in my cheek. I must
Lie prone among the dead, yet life is sweet,
Yea, sweet, despite mine agony. Methought
Anon some living thing has touched me,—meet
To render aid—Oh! helplessness unsought
Yea, sweet, despite mine agony. Methought
Anon some living thing has touched me,—meet
To render aid—Oh! helplessness unsought
Which leaves me thus to suffer 'mid the dead
Bearing mine anguish, anguish constant, sore
Would, would, that I could rouse me, if instead
Of death, there comes the kindly touch once more.
Bearing mine anguish, anguish constant, sore
Would, would, that I could rouse me, if instead
Of death, there comes the kindly touch once more.
Once more comes the soft touch. With opened eyes
I see it is our faithful dog who comes
To aid his wounded friends. With sad surprise
He sees me in this dreadful case. The drums
I see it is our faithful dog who comes
To aid his wounded friends. With sad surprise
He sees me in this dreadful case. The drums
Were beating “the attack” when last we met,
And triumph seemed in sight. How different now!
Yet he may save me. I will not regret
My pain in calling him should Fate allow
And triumph seemed in sight. How different now!
Yet he may save me. I will not regret
My pain in calling him should Fate allow
This much of good. He sees. He understands.
He goes to call my comrades. Not too late
Perchance they yet may reach me,—gentle hands
May raise me, or with drink my thirst abate.
He goes to call my comrades. Not too late
Perchance they yet may reach me,—gentle hands
May raise me, or with drink my thirst abate.
I hear, I hear at last the measured tread
Of hurrying footsteps! Soon will they be here.
Thank God I shall not perish 'mid the dead,
Living, may yet His holy name revere.
Of hurrying footsteps! Soon will they be here.
Thank God I shall not perish 'mid the dead,
Living, may yet His holy name revere.
WHY WE DO NOT WIN THE WAR.
[_]
The three pictures sought to be depicted in this poem are the expression of the strong feeling raised in me by what I have recently heard and seen.
The first is a general picture of a condition of affairs known to all of us—the picture of men willingly sacrificing life, or suffering mutilation, for pure and selfless love of country. The second was inspired by a very recent occurrence at a London Hospital, where the visiting of the wounded has lost its early popularity as a Sunday duty. The third picture describes the disgust with which I, having occasion of late to visit a fashionable hotel in the South of England, witnessed the extravagant living of well-dressed, well-to-do people, amidst the poverty around, and at a time when poor people are being urged to economise.
“Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord.”
Rudyard Kipling.
Rudyard Kipling.
“There He could do no mighty works because of their unbelief.”
—
The New Testament.
The New Testament.
“The British Army is an army of lions led by asses.”
A French proverb, adapted from a saying of Napoleon I.
A French proverb, adapted from a saying of Napoleon I.
I. The Trenches.
Is it, oh, is it, that our countrymenBorn of the people, loyally and well,
Have given their bodies in their country's cause,
Have suffered wounds, disablement, and hurts
Worse far than death itself? It is! It is!
II. The Hospital.
Is it, oh, is it, that one autumn Sunday,Lately, in London's central heart there stood
Two days before it had received a load
Of maimed and helpless ones: part of the fruit,
The ghastly fruit—of one week's work in Flanders.
Yet, on that autumn Sunday, came there not
One single visitor to soothe or cheer,
Despite the parrot cry of “Brotherhood”
Uttered in churches—can it be sincere?
Churches, alas! where Caste still reigns, although
Christ died upon the Cross to thrust out Caste.
Can this be true? Yea, it is even so.
III. The Hotel.
Is it, oh, is it, that one autumn Sunday,In one fair hostel, all embowered in trees,
Foul gluttony there was of men and women,
For there, they lived to eat, not ate to live?
Alas! Alas! Yea, it is even so.
Oct. 29, 1915.
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