The Poetical Works of George Barlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

When the centuries' tasks are finished, and the light of judgment gleams
Crowning the lonely fighters, making an end of dreams,
Great will be our days' glory, that our century overthrew
The devil of vivisection, whose red hand laughed as it slew.

II

Now, when woman arises, beautiful, pure-souled, strong,
Eager to save the creatures whose moment of life we wrong,—
Now that the hope in her glances brings new hope to the race,
She, the divine crusader, in the war takes glorious place.

III

This is a quest for woman, for love is her soul's chief might,
Love of the God of the sunshine, scorn of the devil of night,
Hate of the hand that tortures, love of the skill that heals,
But not by a butcher's study of a nerve that quivers and feels.

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IV

This is a woman's question, if ever a question grew
Large and pressing for woman, urgent, imminent, new.
For our young girl-students suffer. Is it wise, is it safe, is it well
To teach that the road to knowledge leads straight through the pit of hell?

V

How can woman be mother of love and of hope and of life
If her heart be inured to the torture, her hands be trained to the knife?
Harden the hearts of your maidens, and all the world turns grey:
The sun grows dim in the heavens, the stars' crowns vanish away.

VI

Tear from the heart of a woman the tender and pitiful dream
And you snatch from the skies their glory, you darken the moon's white gleam:
You ruffle the souls of the roses, you ravish their scent from these,

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And you silence the voice of the summer that sounds in the song of the trees.

VII

To-day the word of the nations through the nobler womanhood speaks.
Away with the darkling horror that flushes with shame the cheeks
When we think that moment by moment, in London, day after day,
Keen knives are athirst for the helpless, and brute hands ready to slay!

VIII

The thing is obscene, un-English; hateful, cowardly, base.
The man who would visit his mother, or look his wife in the face,
His red hand smelling of slaughter, his fingers foul from the crime,
Is not the man whom a woman deems lord of the world and of time.

IX

Man is a god, deems woman—her sweet heart breaks when she knows

347

That the brother she loved and prayed for was counting a torn frog's throes
In some hellish hospital dungeon, watching it quiver and swerve,
Or carving a bound live rabbit, dissecting muscle and nerve.

X

That was the work of the student, medical, masculine, grand,
An honour to English science, the scalpel's gift to the land,
While the student's wiser sister, with a knowledge nobler far,
Found Christ's love in a flower, watched God's face in a star.

XI

But the thing must end for ever, the days of horror must close.
A vast pure current of pity through the dawning century flows.
Ever in woman's footsteps the angels of heaven have trod
For the anger of love in a woman is the sternest anger of God.

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XII

Yes: the anger of woman at an innocent child's deep wrong
Or a coward's thrust at the creature that sought us with love or with song
Is the wrath of Christ and his Father, the flash of the sun's keen sword,
And the softest hand of woman deals the strongest stroke of the Lord.

XIII

All true souls in accordance here are firm and at one,
Stern to resolve and determine that a royal deed be done.
Here can nation and nation, man and woman, agree:
Rulers of plains or of mountains, princes of land or sea.

XIV

Long and strange is the battle, patience and prayer we need:
Faith in the hearts that follow, strength in the souls that lead.
Eager and brave girl-soldier, here is a sword for your hand:
And you use that sword for England, for love is the life of the land!

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XV

Vast are the world's grim armies; millions trained to obey
Wait but some general's orders to unsheathe wild swords and slay.
But behind the men and women who follow love as a star
Are unseen armies vaster, and a Leader mightier far.