Poetical Pictures of the Great War Suitable for Recitation. First Series ... Second Series ... Third Series ... Fourth Series. By Mackenzie Bell |
First Series.
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Poetical Pictures of the Great War | ||
First Series.
Second Thousand.
PREFATORY NOTE.
When I suggested to the poet a few prefatory words to the second thousand of this First Series, he suggested playfully that I should write one myself as publisher, so here it is:
To things the author wished to teach when penning lines to you.
Such teaching is scarce needed here, the lessons are so clear;
Inspiring every thoughtful man to hold as things most dear
Such actions as shall help the right and overcome the wrong,
Bring comfort to the sorrowful and make the weak man strong.
AUGUST, 1914.
A vision of the present. Line on line
Of brown-clad listening men, with eyes aflame,
Stood waiting, brows intent, to hear the sign
Full many a good man dropped, and, writhing, fell,
For lo! I saw,—I saw, as in a glass,
Foe slain by unseen foe—a glimpse of Hell.
In yonder villages, where rolling smoke
Showed where large shells had burst, while far and nigh
Women clasped tight their babes, who ne'er awoke.
Futile for human food, while ravening strife
Made earth Gehenna. Gaunt-eyed Famine hushed
Myriads of silent mothers, worn with life.
A vision of the future. Gone for aye
Were “war-lords,' and the peoples bowed to those
Who worshipped calm-eyed Peace, and only they.
BRITAIN'S APPEAL TO HER MEN.
Yours, not for self, to speak the word,
Duty—which leads, perchance, to death,
Ay, self-less death, your mortal breath
Is doubly glorified, thereby;
'Tis ever thus that heroes die.
Awakened from inglorious ease,
Your call has come at length,
Floats now your flag in every breeze,
Put on, put on, your strength!
Dream, stalwart Scotsmen, once again
Of old oppression; ye from Wales
Think how a little State prevails
When just. Let sons of Ireland feel
For Belgium 'neath the foeman's heel.
Let each, awakening from his ease,
Hear his “clear call” at length,
Behold his flag in every breeze,
And so put forth his strength.
What! though amid the balmy air
Of August nights your comrades died
Retreating. Let it be your pride
Aye to outshine them—till at last
War's lurid stormclouds all are past.
Awakened from inglorious ease
Here sounds your call at length!
There! floats your flag o'er lands and seas!
Be glad! put forth your strength!
SOLDIER'S SONG.
Not dreaming of the morrow;
While all is well, let well suffice,
Why should we dream of sorrow?
Faces alert and bright,
Remembering, aye, that all we do
Helps Britain and the right.
I fear he lies in pain,
'Tis sad, no doubt, yet sooner now
He'll see his Bess again.
Still on, still on, with backs unbowed,
And give another blow;
Aim straight! strike hard! nor think of self,
Faces toward the foe.
So, when the night is here,
Mayhap we'll sleep, though autumn mist
Makes trenches cold and drear—
Mayhap we'll sleep, yet wake to fight,
To fight, and, once more fight,
Remembering, aye, that all we do
Helps Britain and the right.
A SONG FOR BELGIUM.
To the sight of the dire desolation!
Of our wretched and down-trodden nation!
And in scarce-spoken words we are heard to declare,
War hath made us well-nigh broken-hearted,
Ah! often, alas! we are fain to despair
Since joy from our land hath departed.
Retribution is certainly waiting,
Still strive with the foemen who work us such ill
'Mid their bland hypocritical prating.
Keep our nation awake! though down-trodden she lies!
Not a moment be longer down-hearted!
And rejoicing will come if fair Belgium arise,
And her freedom return which departed.
AUTUMN, 1914
On friend, on foe, ere set of sun,
But still went on till dawn of light.
The rouse of battle passed away.
Alas! that eyes should see what they did.
Cumbered, good God, with maimed and slain.
Tending rare flowers his home employ.
Near is his dead horse, smeared with mud.
Even Death itself hath brought no grace.
By Nature built on her kindly plan,
And yet,—and yet,—life lingers on!
Painfully heaves he breath after breath.
Of what now cumbers hill and dale?
Heaven's light, amid War's sin and crimes.
Mortally wounded, and, soon, to die.
Feels all the pangs of a feverish thirst;
Makes even the heart of his foeman feel,
“Where we are going is no more war.”
He bent and kissed his foeman's hand.
Here, on this grisly field, with Christ?
THE CHIEF RABBI OF LYONS.
Creeps the slow agony of War's mischance;
And, day by day, more villagers awake
To find their homesteads, wrapt in battle, quake;
To find their low, ridged terraces of vines,
On which, it seems to them, the kind sun shines
In countless autumns past, so lovingly,
Are trampled by the surge of cavalry.
The charge and counter-charge 'mid sulphurous haze.
Yet, hourly, hourly, men of mercy stir
With gentle touch to tend the wounded there,
Men of kind hearts, though differing as to creed.
A rabbi here, bravest of these brave souls,
Who know no fear although War's thunder rolls,
Happily, hitherto, untouched by scathe,
Still cheers and comforts those of his own faith.
To him, faint yet distinct, there comes a sound
Of piteous entreaty, and he sees,
A little way removed among the trees,
A soldier dying. He deceived, perchance,
By grievous pain, or by a fleeting glance,
The rabbi, in his dark-hued garb, mistakes
For some good curé, and, with voice which quakes
With death on-coming, asks before his eyes
The crucifix be held. Without surprise
The rabbi does his bidding. O wise man!
To rank Humanity above the ban
Of dogma. Shall not this be thy reward
Thy soul made happy by thy high soul's Lord?
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.”
My Paris once so gay,
No heart have I to sit and drink
An absinthe here to-day.
And where we used to sit,
At Père Odette's, why, there I see
Scarce one, when lights are lit.
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 must go,
For naught can check “the vapours” like
Swift marching to and fro.
And yet no coward I;
Yet cold it is to sit and think,
And cold 'tis here to lie.
'Twas here, just here, he died;
Cold is my heart for Achille's sake,
Here, bleeding, by my side.
As breaks the heavy day.
I'll read the Book I bought erewhile
To wile the hour away.
Have I read such a Book,
At such a time little it recks
In what I read, or look.
The very word for me,
For lo! the cannonade begins,
The shot fall heavily.
This place, large-roomed, high-walled,
Brings back no memories; yet they say
'Twas mine, when Duty called
That, while I lie at rest,
“Mon Général” will come and pin
“The Legion” on my breast.
THE DESERTER.
Shakespeare.
Dante Rossetti.
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.)
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.
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.
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.)
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.
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
Yea, sweet, despite mine agony. Methought
Anon some living thing has touched me,—meet
To render aid—Oh! helplessness unsought
Bearing mine anguish, anguish constant, sore
Would, would, that I could rouse me, if instead
Of death, there comes the kindly touch once more.
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
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
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.
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.
Rudyard Kipling.
The New Testament.
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.
Third Series.
PRAISE TO THE BRAVE.
Sweet and fitting is it to die for the fatherland.
Old Roman Proverb.
If England to herself remain but true.”
Shakespeare.
A quotation which, I think, peculiarly appropriate to the national circumstances of his country at this, his third centenary.
Police Constable Alexander Dundas, T Division of the Metropolitan Force, stationed at Teddington, was a very
That aye, 'mid joy or ruth,
Worthy are ye of such a one
In constancy and truth.
Wherever Duty calls him, and to nerve
His soul to truth. At first a sailor's life
Is his, with many a pleasant change how rife!
In changeless circuits of a London “beat.”
When war's fierce stormcloud bursts, how suddenly!
To him there comes once more the call to sea.
Then, ever brave, he leaves his much-loved home
To fight for Britain on the northern foam.
One day on him there dawns a sense of harm,
He knows not why,—a subtle, vague alarm,
Though, like young Nelson, “never saw” he “Fear,”
His inmost soul is thrilled by danger near.
His is the watch. Eager he scans the deep
With eyes all vigilant, and sees, up-creep
A periscope. It is! it is the foe!
'Tis instant now to strike ere yet below
The dread torpedo speeds. He fires his gun,
And saves his ship. What then? What he has done
He lacks an order for, so speedily
Behold him made a prisoner, but when he
At length, hath justice, gone is dire disgrace,
His mates are called, and, now, before his face,
He hears himself high praised, and, for the rest,
The D.S.M. he wears upon his breast.
One day a seeming merchantman drew nigh
His ship, the “Alcantara,” which was sent
To search for contraband. Swiftly she went
To take the searchers. Scarce is that a-float
(Dundas is in her) than all suddenly
False bulwarks dropt are by the enemy,
A broadside, winged with death, booms o'er the wave,
Striking the boat, and slaying all the brave
Therein.
But puissant Death can never put to rout
Courage like his. It lives from age to age,
A glorious, mighty, deathless heritage.
Britain shall live long as her sons can say
“Our mother still exults in ‘heroes of to-day.’”
That aye, 'mid joy or ruth,
Worthy are ye of such a one
In constancy and truth.
OUR BROTHERS AT THE FRONT
The Brotherhood Federation was much cheered by hearing of Brotherhood gatherings in the trenches, and the following hymn was written by me in response to a special request for a hymn which could be sung both at the meetings at home, and at those in the trenches, and be one more proof to our brothers at the front that they are all, ever and always, in our loving memory. Of set purpose I used the familiar common metre so that the words would lend themselves to many tunes long much loved, and at the Brotherhood connected with the Marylebone Presbyterian Church, London, “Belmont” has been employed, Sunday by Sunday, for several months with marked acceptance.
But must when Sunday comes
While musing, in our homes at peace,
On you, where roll the drums.
We see your vacant place,
We were not brothers did not gloom
Fall on our hearts a space.
By faith can surely meet,
And re-unite our sundered souls,
Before the mercy-seat.
There shall we watch and pray,
There shall we keep our courage up,
Till dawns the happy day
When, home from sea or shore,
With joy that war at last is o'er
With you we meet once more.
AT SANTA CRUZ DE TENERIFE.
Whatever view may be taken about War, and, personally I agree with Tolstoi both as to its horror and its inherent futility, nothing but contempt ought to be felt for the smug hyprocrisy which would condemn selfless courage, even if, sometimes, mistaken. Very early in life I stayed at this most interesting spot, during what I thought, then, to be the permanent ascendency of “The Manchester School” as it was called, or “the peace-at-any-price party,” and wrote the stanzas which follow:—
The heroes of the war were wrong—
That they who formed our Britain's sway,
And made her Empire firm and strong,
Who joyed in war for slaughter's sake;
Who yearned to banish happiness;
Who loved with blood their thirst to slake.
Land on this shore, which years ago
Saw from its crag-encircled bay
Our Nelson's only overthrow,
And by their lights our heroes try,
Perform their life-tasks more than those
Whose task is but “to do or die”?
A VETERAN OF 1870.
(In the Basse Plante, Pau, France.)
Within a sheltered wood,
To make its friends and strangers gay,
And please them, if it could.
Now tender, low, and sweet,
Now surely meant to banish care,
With martial fire replete—
With scarce a note of pain,
Of trophies ta'en, of arms laid down,
Of heroes home again.
Are pacing up and down,
And “ladies fair,” with graceful pride,
Show each to each their gown.
Against an agèd tree,
I see his thread-bare blouse is clean,
Despite his poverty.
Had learnt how to endure,
God grant him still the steadfast heart;
For him there is no cure.
Of the fierce joys of war?
Would he now—gaily near their brink,
Or shun them evermore?
THE CHARGE.
(A real incident.)
Whatever view may be held as to the taking of alcohol in normal circumstances, few, one would suppose, would justify, on moral grounds, its being served out, neat, just before deadly combat, to men, mostly young, and many of whom are, unfortunately, totally unacquainted with its effects.
And is it thus we slay? I will not drink.
[Pours out the contents.]
An Officer.
Then why degrade the splendid trade of war
By usage like to this?
Who fought, and bled, and won, at Waterloo,
And many a hard-fought field before and since,
Are not the cravens basely thus to need “Dutch courage.”
A colour-sergeant of the swash-buckler variety,
(gulping down his liquor.)
“See! what come of all the cant
Of ‘temperance’ to win the war, when now
Rum, and such rum! is given to make us fight.
“GOOD-BYE, OLD MAN.”
(An actual occurrence.)
A battery of Field Artillery is ordered into action with a call of extreme urgency. As it advances at the gallop the favourite horse of one of the gunners is wounded mortally, and falls, helpless, on the ground. Instinctively, almost involuntarily, and quick as lightning, the soldier who loves it leaps from his limber and rushes to its help. Disentangling the harness, and unloosing the collar, he relieves somewhat its sufferings. Then he encircles the poor head, with its piteous eyes, in his affectionate arms; and, kissing the forehead, exclaims, “Good-bye, old man.” At the same instant, a ruined cottage, ten yards to the left, is struck by a shell, whose bursting fragments illumine the sky and air, and a sergeant, observing his absence, though already far ahead, beckons him, imperatively, to rejoin.
The meadow where, how quietly,
You grazed, at first, a happy foal
Harmless in happiness. The whole
Creature more joyous—gladsome brother
To streams, and winds, and soaring-birds.
Of mine could paint my Nellie's ride
With laughing eyes, and legs a-stride,
Her first ride on your friendly back.
E'en now I see yon woodland track,
Soft with the fallen russet leaves.
Alack! alack! my poor heart grieves
To quit you, tortured. By what right
Are you made victim in a fight
It is not yours to comprehend?
Yea; men are hard; some day, good friend,
May we judge differently; and think;
May we judge differently; and shrink,
From torture given without appeal.
For me, I know not; yet can feel.
For you, I crave that only boon,—
And, yet, another would I seek;
May no dog scent, afar, your sleek
And well-kept flesh before you die,
Lest he, with hungry eyes, draw nigh,
And, with his hot and famished breath,
Pollute you in the pangs of death.
Fourth Series
CHRISTMAS IN THE TRENCHES AND AT HOME.
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 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.
Which once Thou foundest “good,”
Cleanse Thou our eyes that we may see,
Restrain each savage mood—
Restrain from foolish fear,—
So, all Thy children, young and old,
May know that Thou art near.
HOW WE REWARD OUR HEROES.
(A true story of personal experience).
[Written at the request of my friend, Mr. Charles Vernon, for March 4th, 1918, and recited by him].
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!
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,
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 dream of Trafalgar?
Swift moves the world; and oftentimes
Dim seem these days afar.
Seldom we plough the seas,
With roods of sail,—nor are we now
The slaves of every breeze.
Are staunch,—yea, staunch as then;
Such are they. But that is not why
We dream, and dream again.
For us that there they bled?
Is it because for Britain's might
High poop and deck ran red?
Never shall pass away?
And yet, methinks, we see him now
With “feet” of common “clay.”
“Why Nelson's fame assail?”
“Enough!” would we reply, “his Judge
Shall see the right prevail.”
And war-worn form were seen,
'Twas as if Bravery's very self
Had donned man's garb and mien.
Oft as they call to mind
Nelson,—the faithful sailor's friend—
Nelson, the just and kind.
Grim War at last may cease,
And trumpets sound, but to proclaim
The halcyon years of peace.
Some unredeeméd wrong,—
While matchless courage still we love,
Or theme of stirring song—
Nigher, and yet more nigh
Towards the foe's relentless fire,
Silent—without reply.
These forty moments flee.
The Victory fires not:—and her men
Perish—all silently!
Of praise, which tell us how,
Never before, in all his fights,
His men face Death as now.
Hear that appalling roar,—
His ships first broadside—almost see
Him fall, to rise no more.
Amid his cruel pain,
His care for others:—almost see
Bold Hardy come again
And kiss his pallid cheek,
With touch, as soft as woman's touch,
Too tender to be weak.
Across the sunset wave,
The battle won; and then at length,
The burial of the brave.
Poetical Pictures of the Great War | ||