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61
WAR TONES
63
RÉVEILLÉ
(1915)
Britons, awake! Can nothing blast your dream—
This deadly atrophy of will and brain?
Beyond your narrow streak of ocean-stream
The Nightmare of the Centuries looms again.
This deadly atrophy of will and brain?
Beyond your narrow streak of ocean-stream
The Nightmare of the Centuries looms again.
Splendeur de Dex! What Norman William dared
May Teuton William not again assay?
Huddling like sheep for slaughter, unprepared,
Shall we still loiter when hath dawned “the Day?”
May Teuton William not again assay?
Huddling like sheep for slaughter, unprepared,
Shall we still loiter when hath dawned “the Day?”
Nay, rather let the vanguard of the flood
Whereon the legend of our Glory rides
Shatter the ramparts of her recreant brood,
And whelm us, like Atlantis, with her tides!
Whereon the legend of our Glory rides
Shatter the ramparts of her recreant brood,
And whelm us, like Atlantis, with her tides!
Is there no lash insensate hides to sting?
Must the young Whelps storm home from lands afar
To die for crowds that line a Football ring,
And cravens skulking from the fields of War?
Must the young Whelps storm home from lands afar
To die for crowds that line a Football ring,
And cravens skulking from the fields of War?
Even thus the infatuate lords of Babylon
Went feasting till the Persian glaives swept home;
Thus in the Circus rang the shouting on
Till Alaric burst the ill-guarded gates of Rome.
Went feasting till the Persian glaives swept home;
Thus in the Circus rang the shouting on
Till Alaric burst the ill-guarded gates of Rome.
Britons, awake! Today the die is cast:
Today at least we grip our destinies—
The peace our Fathers wrung out of the Past.
Tomorrows are too late for Fools to seize!
Today at least we grip our destinies—
The peace our Fathers wrung out of the Past.
Tomorrows are too late for Fools to seize!
64
MARCHING SONG
(1915)
'Tis up and awake and away
As the breath of the dawn blows sweet,
And our bugles forestall the day
In the dusk of the village street;
And the song of the marching files
Rings out as we shatter the miles
That lead at last where the flaming brands
Of battle flash in our foemen's hands.
As the breath of the dawn blows sweet,
And our bugles forestall the day
In the dusk of the village street;
And the song of the marching files
Rings out as we shatter the miles
That lead at last where the flaming brands
Of battle flash in our foemen's hands.
At windows under the thatch
The children cluster and call,
And fling us roses to catch;
Ruddy with sleep are they all.
But the roses shall redder grow,
And ruddier blood shall flow
From the gaping lips of the wounds of those
We leave to sleep ere the day's stern close.
The children cluster and call,
And fling us roses to catch;
Ruddy with sleep are they all.
But the roses shall redder grow,
And ruddier blood shall flow
From the gaping lips of the wounds of those
We leave to sleep ere the day's stern close.
Morning to noon has sped;
Rearward the shadow runs—
What's that? In the mist ahead
The sullen boom of the guns!
War-clouds brood on the hill.
Hearts up! Stride wary and still.
Steady, lads, steady! There's time to spare
For lots of fighting: We'll soon be there!
Rearward the shadow runs—
What's that? In the mist ahead
The sullen boom of the guns!
War-clouds brood on the hill.
Hearts up! Stride wary and still.
Steady, lads, steady! There's time to spare
For lots of fighting: We'll soon be there!
'Tis ever to keep the rank
Till the last long mile's bestrode,
And we're smashing in on the flank
At the red, grim mouth of the road,
Where the men of blood shall reel
From the rip of the naked steel—
Their ruthless Junkers writhe in the dust
From the straight, keen spit of the bayonet thrust.
Till the last long mile's bestrode,
And we're smashing in on the flank
At the red, grim mouth of the road,
Where the men of blood shall reel
From the rip of the naked steel—
Their ruthless Junkers writhe in the dust
From the straight, keen spit of the bayonet thrust.
65
For our tramping feet are shod
With vengeance dour and dire,
And a wind of the wrath of God
Leaps ahead of us like fire,
And a freshet of blood shall rain
On the faces of the slain;
Their bastard eagles on crippled wings
Stream off to hide with their Kaiser-Kings!
With vengeance dour and dire,
And a wind of the wrath of God
Leaps ahead of us like fire,
And a freshet of blood shall rain
On the faces of the slain;
Their bastard eagles on crippled wings
Stream off to hide with their Kaiser-Kings!
66
IN MEMORIAM R. A. J. WARNEFORD, V.C.
(22nd June 1915)
Warneford, strong, victorious soul, his lonely pathway winging
Sunward past the gate of Death, a flame in air and wind,
Up beyond the storm of war in radiant spirals springing,
Are our voices aught but breath, aught the praise that swells behind?
Sunward past the gate of Death, a flame in air and wind,
Up beyond the storm of war in radiant spirals springing,
Are our voices aught but breath, aught the praise that swells behind?
Twenty years of life, and then one splendid hour of living,
Hurling, mid the songs of Dawn, the War-bird from the sky!
Fame was his and all that men appraise as worth the giving;
But the Gods avenge their vultures; he had slain them—he must die.
Hurling, mid the songs of Dawn, the War-bird from the sky!
Fame was his and all that men appraise as worth the giving;
But the Gods avenge their vultures; he had slain them—he must die.
Wherefore Fate with sudden thrust tripped him through the portal—
Him who rode the thunderbolt, swooped and smashed the Hun.
Home, to blend with heroes' dust, bring the new Immortal;
Warding him who warded thee, heart of Britain, hold thy son!
Him who rode the thunderbolt, swooped and smashed the Hun.
Home, to blend with heroes' dust, bring the new Immortal;
Warding him who warded thee, heart of Britain, hold thy son!
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Dead he passes to his place, amid the tears of nations,
In his dawn of glory dead, new-struck his dazzling stroke.
Boom above his heedless ears the Battle's salutations;
Twine about his coffined head France's myrtle, England's oak.
In his dawn of glory dead, new-struck his dazzling stroke.
Boom above his heedless ears the Battle's salutations;
Twine about his coffined head France's myrtle, England's oak.
68
LOST FROM THE S.S. “SUSSEX” To T. W. J.
(24th March 1916)
Once in a Thracian forest, legends say,
A herdsman hid, intent with daring eyes
The Dionysiac revels to surprise.
He saw the Fauns, the Satyrs, pass his way,
The monstrous God, the Mænad disarray;
Heard the mad cymbals clashing to the skies.
Then Death leapt at him with a thousand cries,
And tossed him to the leopards for a prey.
A herdsman hid, intent with daring eyes
The Dionysiac revels to surprise.
He saw the Fauns, the Satyrs, pass his way,
The monstrous God, the Mænad disarray;
Heard the mad cymbals clashing to the skies.
Then Death leapt at him with a thousand cries,
And tossed him to the leopards for a prey.
Even so, on thee, from thy fair lawns of peace
Lured toward the crater of new worlds in birth,
Sprang Destiny and dragged thee down from sight.
Now lost amid the welter of the Earth,
Or drifting in the eddies of the Seas,
Farewell, thou one more memory of the Night.
Lured toward the crater of new worlds in birth,
Sprang Destiny and dragged thee down from sight.
Now lost amid the welter of the Earth,
Or drifting in the eddies of the Seas,
Farewell, thou one more memory of the Night.
69
DOMINE, QUAMDIU?
(May, 1917)
Last night I dreamed the War was over,
And mute the guns that roared so long:—
The coasts from John O'Groat's to Dover
Reverberant with victorious song.
And mute the guns that roared so long:—
The coasts from John O'Groat's to Dover
Reverberant with victorious song.
From every sea the stalwart-hearted
Streamed homeward, shouting to the wind,
Above the thousand wrecks uncharted,
To greet their women, fain and kind.
Streamed homeward, shouting to the wind,
Above the thousand wrecks uncharted,
To greet their women, fain and kind.
And crowds besieged them in the Stations,
And cheered and crushed them in the street,
Where, mid a storm of jubilations,
Tramped by their thunderous, marching feet.
And cheered and crushed them in the street,
Where, mid a storm of jubilations,
Tramped by their thunderous, marching feet.
After the drum-fire of the Ridges,—
The race with Death on shell-scorched plains,—
The trout-stream spanned with rocking bridges;
The cuckoo challenge down the lanes.
The race with Death on shell-scorched plains,—
The trout-stream spanned with rocking bridges;
The cuckoo challenge down the lanes.
Back out of Khaki into hodden;
Back from the blood-grip to the Game;
The round of peaceful life retrodden,
Yet to be never more the same,
Back from the blood-grip to the Game;
The round of peaceful life retrodden,
Yet to be never more the same,
For over them by Hell's red hammer
Battered white-hot, asperged, annealed,
Life broods malignant, stripped of glamour,
With every festering sore revealed.
Battered white-hot, asperged, annealed,
Life broods malignant, stripped of glamour,
With every festering sore revealed.
70
Only a dream that dare not linger;
Still Death intones his orisons.—
Is there no God can lift a finger
And stop the roaring of the guns?
Still Death intones his orisons.—
Is there no God can lift a finger
And stop the roaring of the guns?
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