University of Virginia Library



Fourth Series



[Marylebone Presbyterian Church, Home Sunday School, Christmas Carol Service, Sunday, December 23rd, 1917, at 3.15 p.m.]

CHRISTMAS IN THE TRENCHES AND AT HOME.

[_]

The famous hymn “There came upon the midnight clear,” sung at a Parade Service in the Trenches brings visions of Home.

“There came upon the midnight clear

The glorious song of old”—
The words brought to a soldier's eyes,
His lad, amid the cold:
Ay, gloom and cold had passed away
When now, how suddenly,
He saw his little girl at prayer
Beside her mother's knee.
[_]

The famous hymn, sung at a Children's Service, brings visions of the Trenches.

“There came upon the midnight clear
The glorious song of old”—
The words brought to that lad's kind eyes
His father, 'mid the cold—
The words brought to that daughter's heart
A true, if child-like prayer
That God, the Father of us all,
Would keep him safe while there.
O Christ, who looks upon Thy earth!
Which once Thou foundest “good,”
Cleanse Thou our eyes that we may see,
Restrain each savage mood—


Cleanse Thou our eyes that we may see—
Restrain from foolish fear,—
So, all Thy children, young and old,
May know that Thou art near.
December, 1917.

HOW WE REWARD OUR HEROES.

(A true story of personal experience).

[_]

A crippled soldier speaks.

[_]

[Written at the request of my friend, Mr. Charles Vernon, for March 4th, 1918, and recited by him].

Keen is the wind, although the sun is bright,
But where's the sun for me! It seems the day
On which I won my Lucy. As we walked
Home from the village church life was a-glow
With love, and health, and peace. Then comes this war,
And I am forced to go, leaving behind
My wife and babes—to face the world alone.
Soon am I wounded—feel the stinging pain
And swoon. When consciousness comes back to me
Maimed am I all my days. Soon am I told
No longer am I needed—that a pittance
Is graciously bestowed, but at the pleasure
Of those above me. Stand I here, ay, here,
Craving mutely for alms. I who have given
More than my life to keep my Britain free!


Yon carriage splashes me! My betters say
Not by their words, but by their deeds, 'tis right
That I endure in silence! Yet my lord
Who drives, had not been here this afternoon
In splendour and in comfort, were it not
For me and such as me;—yon gay, young lady
Who walks erstwhile, caressing her pet dog,
Looks on me coldly! Then, like to the man,
Of whom the Bible, in its candour, speaks,
Passes upon the other side! Well! Well!
I'd rather face the hail of hostile bullets!
Death would I rather face, than life! if life
Brings me such cruelty, such bitter scorn!

TRAFALGAR.

[_]

Written in 1913 at the request of my friend, Mr. William Miles, and given by him at his recitals.

It is a fortunate circumstance, even for the imperishable and world-wide renown of Nelson, that it is enshrined in two such masterpieces of English prose as the Lives by Robert Southey, and by Admiral Mahan, of the American Navy. If the advisability of allusion in this ballad to certain incidents in Nelson's career be questioned, it may, at least, be said, that such allusions are an inseparable part of both the biographies aforenamed, right up to the very end. The metaphor of the “feet of clay” in one of the stanzas is taken from a Biblical passage (the book of Daniel, chapter ii. verse 33). The phrases “Nelson,—the faithful sailor's friend,” and “Nelson, the just, and kind,” are no mere generalities. The touching anecdote respecting the “faithful sailor” can be read in the second volume of Admiral Mahan's work, page 360; and why Nelson was “just” and “kind,” i.e. humane, is set forth at pages 374 and 381 of the same narrative. Owing to Nelson's battle-scheme,



the British ships had to come close to their enemies before they were allowed to reply to their cannonade.

In reference to the line “Bold Hardy come again” it may be said that the epithet “Bold” is used advisedly, as no other epithet adequately describes Flag-Captain Hardy from the time of Nelson receiving his death-wound to that Admiral's death. For it must be recollected that he would not relinquish the command to Vice-Admiral Collingwood, and his conduct placed Hardy in much difficulty. Hardy visited twice his striken commander and life-long friend lying in the cockpit of his flagship, and it was on the latter occasion that the pathetic occurrence mentioned took place.

In my opinion it is a striking testimony to the unity of America and Great Britain in essentials, that Nelson's most satisfying biographer should be a distinguished American officer. For, great as are the merits of Southey, he has not the fulness of detail, or of accuracy, possessed by Admiral Mahan. The latter has not only the immeasurable advantage of writing in the temper of a later age, when evidence could be more readily and more convincingly sifted, but has, also, much wider knowledge. In very early life I knew intimately the son of a man who had served under Nelson during his last seven years, and, consequently, had been in the Victory at Trafalgar. I was never weary of the old man's stories, and for this, and other reasons, have always taken a deep interest in the events, memorable or otherwise, of the first Napoleonic period.

Why do we dream of Nelson still?
Why dream of Trafalgar?
Swift moves the world; and oftentimes
Dim seem these days afar.
No longer have we “wooden walls,”
Seldom we plough the seas,
With roods of sail,—nor are we now
The slaves of every breeze.


Is it because our British tars
Are staunch,—yea, staunch as then;
Such are they. But that is not why
We dream, and dream again.
Is it because for us they died?
For us that there they bled?
Is it because for Britain's might
High poop and deck ran red?
Is it because our Nelson's fame
Never shall pass away?
And yet, methinks, we see him now
With “feet” of common “clay.”
“Enough! enough!” here one exclaims,
“Why Nelson's fame assail?”
“Enough!” would we reply, “his Judge
Shall see the right prevail.”
What'er his faults, where'er his face
And war-worn form were seen,
'Twas as if Bravery's very self
Had donned man's garb and mien.
Britons will dream of Trafalgar
Oft as they call to mind
Nelson,—the faithful sailor's friend—
Nelson, the just and kind.


Perchance, some day (may it be soon!),
Grim War at last may cease,
And trumpets sound, but to proclaim
The halcyon years of peace.
Yet while, in human life, abides
Some unredeeméd wrong,—
While matchless courage still we love,
Or theme of stirring song—
Still shall we see him hurl his fleet
Nigher, and yet more nigh
Towards the foe's relentless fire,
Silent—without reply.
Yea,—almost feel—oh, fearful pause!
These forty moments flee.
The Victory fires not:—and her men
Perish—all silently!
Still shall we hear his deathless words
Of praise, which tell us how,
Never before, in all his fights,
His men face Death as now.
Yea—almost—shall our deafened ears
Hear that appalling roar,—
His ships first broadside—almost see
Him fall, to rise no more.


Still see (as though before our eyes),
Amid his cruel pain,
His care for others:—almost see
Bold Hardy come again
And touch his chieftain's ghastly brow,
And kiss his pallid cheek,
With touch, as soft as woman's touch,
Too tender to be weak.
Still shall we see, with inner sight,
Across the sunset wave,
The battle won; and then at length,
The burial of the brave.