O’er ruined road past draggled field,O’er twisted stones of shaken street,Marches an army terrible,The army of the bleeding feet,—Of skirted feet that now first leaveImmaculate field and kitchen floor,—Old feet that slept beside the hearth,Wee feet that twinkled by the door.To strange world past the parish line(More strange with sound and sight to-day),Recruited fast at every hedge,The gathering army takes its way.Commanders? Aye, they trudge ahead,—Not badge but babe on every breast.The troops? They straggle at her skirt,From tot to crone, in ranks ill-drest.And uniformed—in rusty bestFrom cedarn chests and linen bags;Ah, rough the roads and chill the windsTo sabots split and sudden rags!Equipment? Aye, ’tis furnished well,This army of the old and young,—On shoulder bent a bundle small,A doll from little fingers swung!Almost complete—it only lacksThe battle oath and cheer and song;Save infant fret and agèd sigh,Now dumbly marches it along.Past gaping window, roof and sillIt fares to red horizon’s edge,Past blackened furrow, hearth and fane,—And fast it grows at every hedge!
O’er ruined road past draggled field,O’er twisted stones of shaken street,Marches an army terrible,The army of the bleeding feet,—Of skirted feet that now first leaveImmaculate field and kitchen floor,—Old feet that slept beside the hearth,Wee feet that twinkled by the door.To strange world past the parish line(More strange with sound and sight to-day),Recruited fast at every hedge,The gathering army takes its way.Commanders? Aye, they trudge ahead,—Not badge but babe on every breast.The troops? They straggle at her skirt,From tot to crone, in ranks ill-drest.And uniformed—in rusty bestFrom cedarn chests and linen bags;Ah, rough the roads and chill the windsTo sabots split and sudden rags!Equipment? Aye, ’tis furnished well,This army of the old and young,—On shoulder bent a bundle small,A doll from little fingers swung!Almost complete—it only lacksThe battle oath and cheer and song;Save infant fret and agèd sigh,Now dumbly marches it along.Past gaping window, roof and sillIt fares to red horizon’s edge,Past blackened furrow, hearth and fane,—And fast it grows at every hedge!
O’er ruined road past draggled field,O’er twisted stones of shaken street,Marches an army terrible,The army of the bleeding feet,—
Of skirted feet that now first leaveImmaculate field and kitchen floor,—Old feet that slept beside the hearth,Wee feet that twinkled by the door.
To strange world past the parish line(More strange with sound and sight to-day),Recruited fast at every hedge,The gathering army takes its way.
Commanders? Aye, they trudge ahead,—Not badge but babe on every breast.The troops? They straggle at her skirt,From tot to crone, in ranks ill-drest.
And uniformed—in rusty bestFrom cedarn chests and linen bags;Ah, rough the roads and chill the windsTo sabots split and sudden rags!
Equipment? Aye, ’tis furnished well,This army of the old and young,—On shoulder bent a bundle small,A doll from little fingers swung!
Almost complete—it only lacksThe battle oath and cheer and song;Save infant fret and agèd sigh,Now dumbly marches it along.
Past gaping window, roof and sillIt fares to red horizon’s edge,Past blackened furrow, hearth and fane,—And fast it grows at every hedge!
Boston News Bureau.Bartholomew F. Griffin
Oh calling, and calling, at the rising of the sun,Hark the bugle clearly singing with the swallows widely wingingIn the morning just begun.“You are going to the flowing of the traffic-roaring street,“To the toiling and turmoiling, and though toil for man be meet,“Is it all, is it all, thus to plod and feed and crawl,“Is there not a thought to stray from your task from day to day?“Ah, December follows May; leaves will fall!“For the glory gone before you,“For the mother-breast bent o’er you,“The good earth that bore you,“I call, I call!”Oh calling, and calling, as the morning mists unfold,Hark the bugle’s keen upbraiding that true hearts are more than tradingAnd that steel is more than gold.“Is there seeming in your dreaming of an endless golden day?“Ne’er were powers, ne’er were towers, but uncherished would decay.“Follow through, follow through, foaming wake and throbbing screw,“All your fair and broad dominions with the seagull’s waving pinions,“What but swords that did them win once, holds them all?“For the thousand years behind you,“For the slothful cords that bind you,“The future that may find you,“I call, I call!”Oh calling, and calling, when the twilight stars are born,Hark the bugle’s fierce complaining—“Labor—labor—still sustaining,“Unrequited, laughed to scorn!“Wheels are humming, you are coming to your fire-lit warmth and ease,“Ask the teachers, ask the preachers who declaim of ‘love’ and ‘peace,’“What to do, what to do, if no more my signal blew“By the Northern ocean-strands, on the scorching desert sands,“Or beneath the tropic lands’ steamy pall?“For your plenteous bin and board, now“For ‘all things in order stored,’ now,“For Right, for the Lord, now,“I call, I call!”Oh calling, and calling, when the dark is closing down,Hark the bugle clearly crying of the fame beyond all dying,And the laurel, and the crown.“Heroes sworded—splendors hoarded by enshrining centuries,“Life or living—theirs the giving—greater love had none than these!“Can it be, can it be, sons of steel on land and sea,“Song and story weft of war-woof, blood and breed from sires of war-proof,“That ye stand to such a lore proof, one and all?“For the glory gone before you,“For the mother-breast bent o’er you,“The good earth that bore you,“I call, I call!”
Oh calling, and calling, at the rising of the sun,Hark the bugle clearly singing with the swallows widely wingingIn the morning just begun.“You are going to the flowing of the traffic-roaring street,“To the toiling and turmoiling, and though toil for man be meet,“Is it all, is it all, thus to plod and feed and crawl,“Is there not a thought to stray from your task from day to day?“Ah, December follows May; leaves will fall!“For the glory gone before you,“For the mother-breast bent o’er you,“The good earth that bore you,“I call, I call!”Oh calling, and calling, as the morning mists unfold,Hark the bugle’s keen upbraiding that true hearts are more than tradingAnd that steel is more than gold.“Is there seeming in your dreaming of an endless golden day?“Ne’er were powers, ne’er were towers, but uncherished would decay.“Follow through, follow through, foaming wake and throbbing screw,“All your fair and broad dominions with the seagull’s waving pinions,“What but swords that did them win once, holds them all?“For the thousand years behind you,“For the slothful cords that bind you,“The future that may find you,“I call, I call!”Oh calling, and calling, when the twilight stars are born,Hark the bugle’s fierce complaining—“Labor—labor—still sustaining,“Unrequited, laughed to scorn!“Wheels are humming, you are coming to your fire-lit warmth and ease,“Ask the teachers, ask the preachers who declaim of ‘love’ and ‘peace,’“What to do, what to do, if no more my signal blew“By the Northern ocean-strands, on the scorching desert sands,“Or beneath the tropic lands’ steamy pall?“For your plenteous bin and board, now“For ‘all things in order stored,’ now,“For Right, for the Lord, now,“I call, I call!”Oh calling, and calling, when the dark is closing down,Hark the bugle clearly crying of the fame beyond all dying,And the laurel, and the crown.“Heroes sworded—splendors hoarded by enshrining centuries,“Life or living—theirs the giving—greater love had none than these!“Can it be, can it be, sons of steel on land and sea,“Song and story weft of war-woof, blood and breed from sires of war-proof,“That ye stand to such a lore proof, one and all?“For the glory gone before you,“For the mother-breast bent o’er you,“The good earth that bore you,“I call, I call!”
Oh calling, and calling, at the rising of the sun,Hark the bugle clearly singing with the swallows widely wingingIn the morning just begun.“You are going to the flowing of the traffic-roaring street,“To the toiling and turmoiling, and though toil for man be meet,“Is it all, is it all, thus to plod and feed and crawl,“Is there not a thought to stray from your task from day to day?“Ah, December follows May; leaves will fall!“For the glory gone before you,“For the mother-breast bent o’er you,“The good earth that bore you,“I call, I call!”
Oh calling, and calling, as the morning mists unfold,Hark the bugle’s keen upbraiding that true hearts are more than tradingAnd that steel is more than gold.“Is there seeming in your dreaming of an endless golden day?“Ne’er were powers, ne’er were towers, but uncherished would decay.“Follow through, follow through, foaming wake and throbbing screw,“All your fair and broad dominions with the seagull’s waving pinions,“What but swords that did them win once, holds them all?“For the thousand years behind you,“For the slothful cords that bind you,“The future that may find you,“I call, I call!”
Oh calling, and calling, when the twilight stars are born,Hark the bugle’s fierce complaining—“Labor—labor—still sustaining,“Unrequited, laughed to scorn!“Wheels are humming, you are coming to your fire-lit warmth and ease,“Ask the teachers, ask the preachers who declaim of ‘love’ and ‘peace,’“What to do, what to do, if no more my signal blew“By the Northern ocean-strands, on the scorching desert sands,“Or beneath the tropic lands’ steamy pall?“For your plenteous bin and board, now“For ‘all things in order stored,’ now,“For Right, for the Lord, now,“I call, I call!”
Oh calling, and calling, when the dark is closing down,Hark the bugle clearly crying of the fame beyond all dying,And the laurel, and the crown.“Heroes sworded—splendors hoarded by enshrining centuries,“Life or living—theirs the giving—greater love had none than these!“Can it be, can it be, sons of steel on land and sea,“Song and story weft of war-woof, blood and breed from sires of war-proof,“That ye stand to such a lore proof, one and all?“For the glory gone before you,“For the mother-breast bent o’er you,“The good earth that bore you,“I call, I call!”
Infantry JournalE. Sutton
He marched away with a blithe young score of himWith the first volunteers,Clear-eyed and clean and sound to the core of him,Blushing under the cheers.They were fine, new flags that swung a-flying there,Oh, the pretty girls he glimpsed a-crying there,Pelting him with pinks and with roses—Billy, the Soldier Boy!Not very clear in the kind young heart of himWhat the fuss was about,But the flowers and the flags seemed part of him—The music drowned his doubt.It’s a fine, brave sight they were a-coming thereTo the gay, bold tune they kept a-drumming there,While the boasting fifes shrilled jauntily—Billy, the Soldier Boy!Soon he is one with the blinding smoke of it—Volley and curse and groan:Then he has done with the knightly joke of it—It’s rending flesh and bone.There are pain-crazed animals a-shrieking thereAnd a warm blood stench that is a-reeking there;He fights like a rat in a corner—Billy, the Soldier Boy!There he lies now, like a ghoulish score of him,Left on the field for dead:The ground all round is smeared with the gore of him—Even the leaves are red.The Thing that was Billy lies a-dying there,Writhing and a-twisting and a-crying there;A sickening sun grins down on him—Billy, the Soldier Boy!Still not quite clear in the poor, wrung heart of himWhat the fuss was about,See where he lies—or a ghastly part of him—While life is oozing out:There are loathsome things he sees a-crawling there;There are hoarse-voiced crows he hears a-calling there,Eager for the foul feast spread for them—Billy, the Soldier Boy!How much longer, O lord, shall we bear it all?How many more red years?Story it and glory it and share it all,In seas of blood and tears?They are braggart attitudes we’ve worn so long;They are tinsel platitudes we’ve sworn so long—We who have turned the Devil’s Grindstone,Borne with the hell called War!
He marched away with a blithe young score of himWith the first volunteers,Clear-eyed and clean and sound to the core of him,Blushing under the cheers.They were fine, new flags that swung a-flying there,Oh, the pretty girls he glimpsed a-crying there,Pelting him with pinks and with roses—Billy, the Soldier Boy!Not very clear in the kind young heart of himWhat the fuss was about,But the flowers and the flags seemed part of him—The music drowned his doubt.It’s a fine, brave sight they were a-coming thereTo the gay, bold tune they kept a-drumming there,While the boasting fifes shrilled jauntily—Billy, the Soldier Boy!Soon he is one with the blinding smoke of it—Volley and curse and groan:Then he has done with the knightly joke of it—It’s rending flesh and bone.There are pain-crazed animals a-shrieking thereAnd a warm blood stench that is a-reeking there;He fights like a rat in a corner—Billy, the Soldier Boy!There he lies now, like a ghoulish score of him,Left on the field for dead:The ground all round is smeared with the gore of him—Even the leaves are red.The Thing that was Billy lies a-dying there,Writhing and a-twisting and a-crying there;A sickening sun grins down on him—Billy, the Soldier Boy!Still not quite clear in the poor, wrung heart of himWhat the fuss was about,See where he lies—or a ghastly part of him—While life is oozing out:There are loathsome things he sees a-crawling there;There are hoarse-voiced crows he hears a-calling there,Eager for the foul feast spread for them—Billy, the Soldier Boy!How much longer, O lord, shall we bear it all?How many more red years?Story it and glory it and share it all,In seas of blood and tears?They are braggart attitudes we’ve worn so long;They are tinsel platitudes we’ve sworn so long—We who have turned the Devil’s Grindstone,Borne with the hell called War!
He marched away with a blithe young score of himWith the first volunteers,Clear-eyed and clean and sound to the core of him,Blushing under the cheers.They were fine, new flags that swung a-flying there,Oh, the pretty girls he glimpsed a-crying there,Pelting him with pinks and with roses—Billy, the Soldier Boy!
Not very clear in the kind young heart of himWhat the fuss was about,But the flowers and the flags seemed part of him—The music drowned his doubt.It’s a fine, brave sight they were a-coming thereTo the gay, bold tune they kept a-drumming there,While the boasting fifes shrilled jauntily—Billy, the Soldier Boy!
Soon he is one with the blinding smoke of it—Volley and curse and groan:Then he has done with the knightly joke of it—It’s rending flesh and bone.There are pain-crazed animals a-shrieking thereAnd a warm blood stench that is a-reeking there;He fights like a rat in a corner—Billy, the Soldier Boy!
There he lies now, like a ghoulish score of him,Left on the field for dead:The ground all round is smeared with the gore of him—Even the leaves are red.The Thing that was Billy lies a-dying there,Writhing and a-twisting and a-crying there;A sickening sun grins down on him—Billy, the Soldier Boy!
Still not quite clear in the poor, wrung heart of himWhat the fuss was about,See where he lies—or a ghastly part of him—While life is oozing out:There are loathsome things he sees a-crawling there;There are hoarse-voiced crows he hears a-calling there,Eager for the foul feast spread for them—Billy, the Soldier Boy!
How much longer, O lord, shall we bear it all?How many more red years?Story it and glory it and share it all,In seas of blood and tears?They are braggart attitudes we’ve worn so long;They are tinsel platitudes we’ve sworn so long—We who have turned the Devil’s Grindstone,Borne with the hell called War!
Smart SetRuth Comfort Mitchell
Singer of England’s ire across the sea,Your austere voice, electric from the deep,Speaks our own yearning, and our spirits sweepTo Europe’s allied honor.—Painfully,Bowed with a planet’s lonely burden, weHeld our hot hearts in leash, but now they leapTheir ban, like young hounds belling from their keep,To bait the Teuton wolf of tyranny.What! Would he throw us sops of sugared artAnd poisoned commerce, snarling: “So! lie stillTill I have shown my fangs, and torn the heartOf half the world, and gorged my sanguine fill!”—Now, England, let him see: Rage as he will,He cannot tear our plighted souls apart.
Singer of England’s ire across the sea,Your austere voice, electric from the deep,Speaks our own yearning, and our spirits sweepTo Europe’s allied honor.—Painfully,Bowed with a planet’s lonely burden, weHeld our hot hearts in leash, but now they leapTheir ban, like young hounds belling from their keep,To bait the Teuton wolf of tyranny.What! Would he throw us sops of sugared artAnd poisoned commerce, snarling: “So! lie stillTill I have shown my fangs, and torn the heartOf half the world, and gorged my sanguine fill!”—Now, England, let him see: Rage as he will,He cannot tear our plighted souls apart.
Singer of England’s ire across the sea,Your austere voice, electric from the deep,Speaks our own yearning, and our spirits sweepTo Europe’s allied honor.—Painfully,Bowed with a planet’s lonely burden, weHeld our hot hearts in leash, but now they leapTheir ban, like young hounds belling from their keep,To bait the Teuton wolf of tyranny.
What! Would he throw us sops of sugared artAnd poisoned commerce, snarling: “So! lie stillTill I have shown my fangs, and torn the heartOf half the world, and gorged my sanguine fill!”—Now, England, let him see: Rage as he will,He cannot tear our plighted souls apart.
How shall we keep an armed neutralityWith our own souls? Our souls belie our lips,That seek to hold our passion in eclipseAnd hide the wound of our sharp sympathy,Saying: “One’s neighbor differs; he might beKindled to wrath, were one to wield the whipsOf Truth.” Great God! A red ApocalypseFlames on the blinded world: and what do we?Peace!do we cry? Peace is the godlike planWe love and dedicate our children to;Yet England’s cause is ours: The rights of man,Which little Belgium battles for anew,Shallwerecant? No!—Being American,Our souls cannot keep neutral and keep true.
How shall we keep an armed neutralityWith our own souls? Our souls belie our lips,That seek to hold our passion in eclipseAnd hide the wound of our sharp sympathy,Saying: “One’s neighbor differs; he might beKindled to wrath, were one to wield the whipsOf Truth.” Great God! A red ApocalypseFlames on the blinded world: and what do we?Peace!do we cry? Peace is the godlike planWe love and dedicate our children to;Yet England’s cause is ours: The rights of man,Which little Belgium battles for anew,Shallwerecant? No!—Being American,Our souls cannot keep neutral and keep true.
How shall we keep an armed neutralityWith our own souls? Our souls belie our lips,That seek to hold our passion in eclipseAnd hide the wound of our sharp sympathy,Saying: “One’s neighbor differs; he might beKindled to wrath, were one to wield the whipsOf Truth.” Great God! A red ApocalypseFlames on the blinded world: and what do we?
Peace!do we cry? Peace is the godlike planWe love and dedicate our children to;Yet England’s cause is ours: The rights of man,Which little Belgium battles for anew,Shallwerecant? No!—Being American,Our souls cannot keep neutral and keep true.
Peace!—But there is no peace. To hug the thoughtIs but to clasp a lover who thinks lies.Go: look your earnest neighbor in the eyesAnd read the answer there. Peace is not boughtBy distance from the fight. Peace must be foughtAnd bled for: ’tis a dream whose horrid priceIs haggled for by dread realities;Peace is not paid till dreamers are distraught.Would we not close our ears against these ills,Urging our hearts: “Be calm! AmericaIs called soon to rebuild a world.”—But ah!How shall we nobly build with neutral wills?Can we be calm while Belgian anguish thrills?Or would we crown with peace—Caligula?
Peace!—But there is no peace. To hug the thoughtIs but to clasp a lover who thinks lies.Go: look your earnest neighbor in the eyesAnd read the answer there. Peace is not boughtBy distance from the fight. Peace must be foughtAnd bled for: ’tis a dream whose horrid priceIs haggled for by dread realities;Peace is not paid till dreamers are distraught.Would we not close our ears against these ills,Urging our hearts: “Be calm! AmericaIs called soon to rebuild a world.”—But ah!How shall we nobly build with neutral wills?Can we be calm while Belgian anguish thrills?Or would we crown with peace—Caligula?
Peace!—But there is no peace. To hug the thoughtIs but to clasp a lover who thinks lies.Go: look your earnest neighbor in the eyesAnd read the answer there. Peace is not boughtBy distance from the fight. Peace must be foughtAnd bled for: ’tis a dream whose horrid priceIs haggled for by dread realities;Peace is not paid till dreamers are distraught.
Would we not close our ears against these ills,Urging our hearts: “Be calm! AmericaIs called soon to rebuild a world.”—But ah!How shall we nobly build with neutral wills?Can we be calm while Belgian anguish thrills?Or would we crown with peace—Caligula?
Patience—but peace of heart we cannot choose;Nor would he wish us cravenly to keepAloof in soul, who—large in statesmanshipAnd justice—sent our ships to Vera Cruz.Patience must wring our hearts, while we refuseTo launch our country on that crimson deepWhich breaks the dikes of Europe, but we sleepWatchful, still waiting by the awful fuse.Wisdom he counsels, and he counsels wellWhose patient fortitude against the fretAnd sneer of time has stood inviolableWe love his goodness and will not forget.With him we pause beside the mouth of hell:—The wolf of Europe has not triumphed yet.
Patience—but peace of heart we cannot choose;Nor would he wish us cravenly to keepAloof in soul, who—large in statesmanshipAnd justice—sent our ships to Vera Cruz.Patience must wring our hearts, while we refuseTo launch our country on that crimson deepWhich breaks the dikes of Europe, but we sleepWatchful, still waiting by the awful fuse.Wisdom he counsels, and he counsels wellWhose patient fortitude against the fretAnd sneer of time has stood inviolableWe love his goodness and will not forget.With him we pause beside the mouth of hell:—The wolf of Europe has not triumphed yet.
Patience—but peace of heart we cannot choose;Nor would he wish us cravenly to keepAloof in soul, who—large in statesmanshipAnd justice—sent our ships to Vera Cruz.Patience must wring our hearts, while we refuseTo launch our country on that crimson deepWhich breaks the dikes of Europe, but we sleepWatchful, still waiting by the awful fuse.
Wisdom he counsels, and he counsels wellWhose patient fortitude against the fretAnd sneer of time has stood inviolableWe love his goodness and will not forget.With him we pause beside the mouth of hell:—The wolf of Europe has not triumphed yet.
Crowned on the twilight battlefield, there bendsA crooked iron dwarf, and delves for gold,Chuckling: “One hundred thousand gatlings—sold!”And the moon rises, and a moaning rendsThe mangled living, and the dead distends,And a child cowers on the chartless wold,Where, searching in his safety vault of mold,The kobold kaiser cuts his dividends.We, who still wage his battles, are his thralls,And dying do him homage: yea, and giveDaily our living souls to be enticedInto his power. So long as on war’s wallsWe build engines of death that he may live,So long shall we serve Krupp instead of Christ.
Crowned on the twilight battlefield, there bendsA crooked iron dwarf, and delves for gold,Chuckling: “One hundred thousand gatlings—sold!”And the moon rises, and a moaning rendsThe mangled living, and the dead distends,And a child cowers on the chartless wold,Where, searching in his safety vault of mold,The kobold kaiser cuts his dividends.We, who still wage his battles, are his thralls,And dying do him homage: yea, and giveDaily our living souls to be enticedInto his power. So long as on war’s wallsWe build engines of death that he may live,So long shall we serve Krupp instead of Christ.
Crowned on the twilight battlefield, there bendsA crooked iron dwarf, and delves for gold,Chuckling: “One hundred thousand gatlings—sold!”And the moon rises, and a moaning rendsThe mangled living, and the dead distends,And a child cowers on the chartless wold,Where, searching in his safety vault of mold,The kobold kaiser cuts his dividends.
We, who still wage his battles, are his thralls,And dying do him homage: yea, and giveDaily our living souls to be enticedInto his power. So long as on war’s wallsWe build engines of death that he may live,So long shall we serve Krupp instead of Christ.
Bismarck—or rapt Beethoven with his dreams:Ah, which was blind? Or which bespoke his race?—That breed which nurtured Heine’s haunting grace,And Goethe, mastering Olympic themesOf meditation, Mozart’s golden gleams,And Leibnitz charting realms of time and space,Great-hearted Schiller, and that fairy braceOf brothers who first trailed the goblin streams.Bismarck for these builded an iron tomb,And clanged the door, and turned a kaiser’s key;And simple folk that once danced merrilyTheir May-ring rites, march now in roaring gloomToward that renascent dawn when the black wombOf buried guns gives birth to Germany.
Bismarck—or rapt Beethoven with his dreams:Ah, which was blind? Or which bespoke his race?—That breed which nurtured Heine’s haunting grace,And Goethe, mastering Olympic themesOf meditation, Mozart’s golden gleams,And Leibnitz charting realms of time and space,Great-hearted Schiller, and that fairy braceOf brothers who first trailed the goblin streams.Bismarck for these builded an iron tomb,And clanged the door, and turned a kaiser’s key;And simple folk that once danced merrilyTheir May-ring rites, march now in roaring gloomToward that renascent dawn when the black wombOf buried guns gives birth to Germany.
Bismarck—or rapt Beethoven with his dreams:Ah, which was blind? Or which bespoke his race?—That breed which nurtured Heine’s haunting grace,And Goethe, mastering Olympic themesOf meditation, Mozart’s golden gleams,And Leibnitz charting realms of time and space,Great-hearted Schiller, and that fairy braceOf brothers who first trailed the goblin streams.
Bismarck for these builded an iron tomb,And clanged the door, and turned a kaiser’s key;And simple folk that once danced merrilyTheir May-ring rites, march now in roaring gloomToward that renascent dawn when the black wombOf buried guns gives birth to Germany.
Boston TranscriptPercy MacKaye
The nations shall rush like the rushing of many waters... and shall be chased before the wind.—Isaiah.
Aeons of old were wandering down the seas,When Homer sang at Chios—and the sweetTranquillity of marching silencesWas broken at my feet.Great dawns have shown the wayWhen we have wandered.God, in the battle sway,What have we squandered?
Aeons of old were wandering down the seas,When Homer sang at Chios—and the sweetTranquillity of marching silencesWas broken at my feet.Great dawns have shown the wayWhen we have wandered.God, in the battle sway,What have we squandered?
Aeons of old were wandering down the seas,When Homer sang at Chios—and the sweetTranquillity of marching silencesWas broken at my feet.
Great dawns have shown the wayWhen we have wandered.God, in the battle sway,What have we squandered?
Avid and Roman born in soul and sense,Master of all else but myself was I,When, bound by silken cords of indolence,I saw the world go by.
Avid and Roman born in soul and sense,Master of all else but myself was I,When, bound by silken cords of indolence,I saw the world go by.
Avid and Roman born in soul and sense,Master of all else but myself was I,When, bound by silken cords of indolence,I saw the world go by.
Ravaging, roystering and repenting—saveIn story and the regions of romance,Rises the moon on whom more mad and brave,Or beautiful than France?
Ravaging, roystering and repenting—saveIn story and the regions of romance,Rises the moon on whom more mad and brave,Or beautiful than France?
Ravaging, roystering and repenting—saveIn story and the regions of romance,Rises the moon on whom more mad and brave,Or beautiful than France?
Once German arms and German armies hurledThunders on Rome. Than mine no readier handWould wake the violin and woo the world,Were it a fairyland.
Once German arms and German armies hurledThunders on Rome. Than mine no readier handWould wake the violin and woo the world,Were it a fairyland.
Once German arms and German armies hurledThunders on Rome. Than mine no readier handWould wake the violin and woo the world,Were it a fairyland.
Mine is a house divided but upheldBy the sheer force of many hemming powers.Ages, like forests, have been hewn and felledTo build my crumbling towers.
Mine is a house divided but upheldBy the sheer force of many hemming powers.Ages, like forests, have been hewn and felledTo build my crumbling towers.
Mine is a house divided but upheldBy the sheer force of many hemming powers.Ages, like forests, have been hewn and felledTo build my crumbling towers.
Gray winters flourish and old empires fail;And still the starry watchmen sally forthAs wardens, with me, of the frozen grailAnd ramparts of the north.
Gray winters flourish and old empires fail;And still the starry watchmen sally forthAs wardens, with me, of the frozen grailAnd ramparts of the north.
Gray winters flourish and old empires fail;And still the starry watchmen sally forthAs wardens, with me, of the frozen grailAnd ramparts of the north.
Stabbing the skies for stars and air in whichTo bask awhile and breathe—shall we remainSimply the little brothers of the rich?God! have we fought in vain?
Stabbing the skies for stars and air in whichTo bask awhile and breathe—shall we remainSimply the little brothers of the rich?God! have we fought in vain?
Stabbing the skies for stars and air in whichTo bask awhile and breathe—shall we remainSimply the little brothers of the rich?God! have we fought in vain?
Strong was my soul in war and wise in peace.On whom else was the Moslem vanguard hurled?O but for me had any GenoeseSailed and brought back a world?
Strong was my soul in war and wise in peace.On whom else was the Moslem vanguard hurled?O but for me had any GenoeseSailed and brought back a world?
Strong was my soul in war and wise in peace.On whom else was the Moslem vanguard hurled?O but for me had any GenoeseSailed and brought back a world?
High noons and sunsets pass while I repeatThe world-old secret of the endless quest;And with the nations ageing at my feet,I overlook the west.
High noons and sunsets pass while I repeatThe world-old secret of the endless quest;And with the nations ageing at my feet,I overlook the west.
High noons and sunsets pass while I repeatThe world-old secret of the endless quest;And with the nations ageing at my feet,I overlook the west.
Flecking the seas where war and tempest brew,And biding till the gonfalons are furled,My British sails have dared and driven throughThunders that shook the world.
Flecking the seas where war and tempest brew,And biding till the gonfalons are furled,My British sails have dared and driven throughThunders that shook the world.
Flecking the seas where war and tempest brew,And biding till the gonfalons are furled,My British sails have dared and driven throughThunders that shook the world.
Westward the tide of empire ebbs and flows:And westward where the new-world torches riseAnd rout the night, the Great Day dawning glowsAnd kindles in my eyes.
Westward the tide of empire ebbs and flows:And westward where the new-world torches riseAnd rout the night, the Great Day dawning glowsAnd kindles in my eyes.
Westward the tide of empire ebbs and flows:And westward where the new-world torches riseAnd rout the night, the Great Day dawning glowsAnd kindles in my eyes.
Amid the warring peoples I that sleptAnd dreamt of wide dominion—confident,Ambitious, urging, conquering—have steptOut from the orient.
Amid the warring peoples I that sleptAnd dreamt of wide dominion—confident,Ambitious, urging, conquering—have steptOut from the orient.
Amid the warring peoples I that sleptAnd dreamt of wide dominion—confident,Ambitious, urging, conquering—have steptOut from the orient.
Glory and power for ages had been mine,Until upon me fell a sudden night,Such as makes beacon-star republics shine:And my eyes saw the light.
Glory and power for ages had been mine,Until upon me fell a sudden night,Such as makes beacon-star republics shine:And my eyes saw the light.
Glory and power for ages had been mine,Until upon me fell a sudden night,Such as makes beacon-star republics shine:And my eyes saw the light.
In infidel debate on whence and why,They hiss my God, and know not whether haleAnd wise, or worn and withering am I,Behind the crimson veil.Great dawns have shown the wayWhen we have wandered.God, in the battle sway,What have we squandered?
In infidel debate on whence and why,They hiss my God, and know not whether haleAnd wise, or worn and withering am I,Behind the crimson veil.Great dawns have shown the wayWhen we have wandered.God, in the battle sway,What have we squandered?
In infidel debate on whence and why,They hiss my God, and know not whether haleAnd wise, or worn and withering am I,Behind the crimson veil.
Great dawns have shown the wayWhen we have wandered.God, in the battle sway,What have we squandered?
The InternationalWilliam Griffith
(After reading of the affectionate desire of Germany “to getcloser to France,” expressed by the German Secretary of State tothe British Ambassador at Berlin, as published in the British White Papers.)
With love are you gone mad, O lover of France,That you should be embracing with your armsHer gory body for the gore that warmsOnly a monster in his dalliance?Alas! she is alive with her alarms,Unwilling yet for the enraged romance.Assault her sacredness of Paris, lanceHer flank with such a wound as has its charms.For you who want for your obscene amoursThe body of a soul that is not yours,For you who want a wound to enter by,For you who want a corpse upon your heart.Coupling with France if France would only die,Not yours the human vow: “Till death us part!”
With love are you gone mad, O lover of France,That you should be embracing with your armsHer gory body for the gore that warmsOnly a monster in his dalliance?Alas! she is alive with her alarms,Unwilling yet for the enraged romance.Assault her sacredness of Paris, lanceHer flank with such a wound as has its charms.For you who want for your obscene amoursThe body of a soul that is not yours,For you who want a wound to enter by,For you who want a corpse upon your heart.Coupling with France if France would only die,Not yours the human vow: “Till death us part!”
With love are you gone mad, O lover of France,That you should be embracing with your armsHer gory body for the gore that warmsOnly a monster in his dalliance?Alas! she is alive with her alarms,Unwilling yet for the enraged romance.Assault her sacredness of Paris, lanceHer flank with such a wound as has its charms.
For you who want for your obscene amoursThe body of a soul that is not yours,For you who want a wound to enter by,For you who want a corpse upon your heart.Coupling with France if France would only die,Not yours the human vow: “Till death us part!”
The TrendWalter Conrad Arensberg
Bleeding and torn, ravished with sword and flame,By that blasphemer prince, who with the nameOf God upon his lips betrayed the stateHe falsely swore to hold inviolate,Made mad by pride and reckless of the rod,Shaking his mailed fist in the face of God.But not in vain her martyrdom. Louvain,Like the brave maid of France shall rise again;Above her clotted hair a crown shall shine,From her dark ashes rise a hallowed shrineWhere pilgrims from far lands shall heal their pain,Shrived by the sacred sorrow of Louvain.
Bleeding and torn, ravished with sword and flame,By that blasphemer prince, who with the nameOf God upon his lips betrayed the stateHe falsely swore to hold inviolate,Made mad by pride and reckless of the rod,Shaking his mailed fist in the face of God.But not in vain her martyrdom. Louvain,Like the brave maid of France shall rise again;Above her clotted hair a crown shall shine,From her dark ashes rise a hallowed shrineWhere pilgrims from far lands shall heal their pain,Shrived by the sacred sorrow of Louvain.
Bleeding and torn, ravished with sword and flame,By that blasphemer prince, who with the nameOf God upon his lips betrayed the stateHe falsely swore to hold inviolate,Made mad by pride and reckless of the rod,Shaking his mailed fist in the face of God.But not in vain her martyrdom. Louvain,Like the brave maid of France shall rise again;Above her clotted hair a crown shall shine,From her dark ashes rise a hallowed shrineWhere pilgrims from far lands shall heal their pain,Shrived by the sacred sorrow of Louvain.
Harper’s WeeklyOliver Herford
Ye dead and gone great armies of the world,Sweet gleam the fields where ye were used to pass,With Death for leader, legioned like the grass,Day after day by dews of morning pearled.Ye dead and gone great armies, ye were hurled’Gainst other armies, great and dead and gone,In awful dark: ye died before the dawn,Ne’er knowing how your flags in peace are furled!Ye are the tall fair forests that were felledTo build a pyre for strife that it might cease;Ye are the white lambs slaughtered to bring peace;Ye are the sweet ships sunk that storm be quelled;And ye are lilies plucked and set like starsAbout the blood-stained shrine of bygone wars!
Ye dead and gone great armies of the world,Sweet gleam the fields where ye were used to pass,With Death for leader, legioned like the grass,Day after day by dews of morning pearled.Ye dead and gone great armies, ye were hurled’Gainst other armies, great and dead and gone,In awful dark: ye died before the dawn,Ne’er knowing how your flags in peace are furled!Ye are the tall fair forests that were felledTo build a pyre for strife that it might cease;Ye are the white lambs slaughtered to bring peace;Ye are the sweet ships sunk that storm be quelled;And ye are lilies plucked and set like starsAbout the blood-stained shrine of bygone wars!
Ye dead and gone great armies of the world,Sweet gleam the fields where ye were used to pass,With Death for leader, legioned like the grass,Day after day by dews of morning pearled.
Ye dead and gone great armies, ye were hurled’Gainst other armies, great and dead and gone,In awful dark: ye died before the dawn,Ne’er knowing how your flags in peace are furled!
Ye are the tall fair forests that were felledTo build a pyre for strife that it might cease;Ye are the white lambs slaughtered to bring peace;
Ye are the sweet ships sunk that storm be quelled;And ye are lilies plucked and set like starsAbout the blood-stained shrine of bygone wars!
The BellmanMahlon Leonard Fisher
Do ye hear ’em sternly soundin’ through the noises of the street,O heart from the heather overseas?Do ye leap up to greet ’em, does your pulse skip a beat?There’s a lad with a plaid and naked knees.Here where all is strange and foreign to the swing of kilt and sporran,With his head proud and high and a lightin’ in his eye,He’s skirlin’ ’em, he’s dirlin’ ’em, he’s blowin’ like a storm—O pipes of the North, O the pibroch pourin’ forth,You’re fierce and loud as Winter but ye make the blood run warm!All the battle-names of story, all the jewel-names of songDown the spate of the clangor swing and reel,And the claymores come a-flashin’ for a thousand years alongFrom Can-More to bonnie Charlie and Lochiel.Though the high-singin’ bugle and the brazen crashin’ fugue’ll—With the drum and the fife—wake the trampin’ lines to life,But neighin’ ’em, and brayin’ ’em, and shatterin’ all the air,O pipes of the North, when the legions thunder forthThere’s naught like ye to lift ’em on to death or glory there!Now he tunes an ancient ditty for the leal Highland lover,A rill of the mountain clear and pure,How the bee is in the blossom and the peewit passin’ overAnd the cloud-shadows chasin’ on the moor.Hark the carol of the chanter rollickin’ a skeltin’ canter,And the hum of the drones with their “wind-arisin’”tones!He’s flightin’ ’em, he’s kitin’ ’em, he’s flingin’ gay and free—O pipes of the North, when the reel comes tumblin’ forth’Tis the breeze amid the bracken or the wavelets on the sea!Now hark the wrenchin’ sob of it, the “wild with all regret,”O heart from the heather overseas,For the homeland of your fathers, though you’ve never known it yet,’Tween Tay and the outer Hebrides.O the rugged misty Highlands, O the grim and lonely islands,And the solemn fir and pine, and the grey tormented brine—He’s trailin’ ’em, he’s wailin’ ’em, to tear your bosom’s core!O pipes of the North, when the long lament goes forthNo sorrow’s left to utter, for the tongue can say no more!Oh, Breton pipes are clear and strong, and Irish pipes are sweetAnd soft upon the heather overseas,But Scottish aye can take your throat or make ye swing your feet,O hark the lad a-paddlin’ on the keys!See him footin’ straight and proud through the wonder-gawkin’ crowd,With his feathered Glengarry like a gun at the carry;He’s bellin’ ’em, he’s yellin’ ’em, he’s skirlin’ high to you—O pipes of the North, O the wild notes rushin’ forth,Ye’re sure the wings of Gaelic souls as far as blood is true!
Do ye hear ’em sternly soundin’ through the noises of the street,O heart from the heather overseas?Do ye leap up to greet ’em, does your pulse skip a beat?There’s a lad with a plaid and naked knees.Here where all is strange and foreign to the swing of kilt and sporran,With his head proud and high and a lightin’ in his eye,He’s skirlin’ ’em, he’s dirlin’ ’em, he’s blowin’ like a storm—O pipes of the North, O the pibroch pourin’ forth,You’re fierce and loud as Winter but ye make the blood run warm!All the battle-names of story, all the jewel-names of songDown the spate of the clangor swing and reel,And the claymores come a-flashin’ for a thousand years alongFrom Can-More to bonnie Charlie and Lochiel.Though the high-singin’ bugle and the brazen crashin’ fugue’ll—With the drum and the fife—wake the trampin’ lines to life,But neighin’ ’em, and brayin’ ’em, and shatterin’ all the air,O pipes of the North, when the legions thunder forthThere’s naught like ye to lift ’em on to death or glory there!Now he tunes an ancient ditty for the leal Highland lover,A rill of the mountain clear and pure,How the bee is in the blossom and the peewit passin’ overAnd the cloud-shadows chasin’ on the moor.Hark the carol of the chanter rollickin’ a skeltin’ canter,And the hum of the drones with their “wind-arisin’”tones!He’s flightin’ ’em, he’s kitin’ ’em, he’s flingin’ gay and free—O pipes of the North, when the reel comes tumblin’ forth’Tis the breeze amid the bracken or the wavelets on the sea!Now hark the wrenchin’ sob of it, the “wild with all regret,”O heart from the heather overseas,For the homeland of your fathers, though you’ve never known it yet,’Tween Tay and the outer Hebrides.O the rugged misty Highlands, O the grim and lonely islands,And the solemn fir and pine, and the grey tormented brine—He’s trailin’ ’em, he’s wailin’ ’em, to tear your bosom’s core!O pipes of the North, when the long lament goes forthNo sorrow’s left to utter, for the tongue can say no more!Oh, Breton pipes are clear and strong, and Irish pipes are sweetAnd soft upon the heather overseas,But Scottish aye can take your throat or make ye swing your feet,O hark the lad a-paddlin’ on the keys!See him footin’ straight and proud through the wonder-gawkin’ crowd,With his feathered Glengarry like a gun at the carry;He’s bellin’ ’em, he’s yellin’ ’em, he’s skirlin’ high to you—O pipes of the North, O the wild notes rushin’ forth,Ye’re sure the wings of Gaelic souls as far as blood is true!
Do ye hear ’em sternly soundin’ through the noises of the street,O heart from the heather overseas?Do ye leap up to greet ’em, does your pulse skip a beat?There’s a lad with a plaid and naked knees.Here where all is strange and foreign to the swing of kilt and sporran,With his head proud and high and a lightin’ in his eye,He’s skirlin’ ’em, he’s dirlin’ ’em, he’s blowin’ like a storm—O pipes of the North, O the pibroch pourin’ forth,You’re fierce and loud as Winter but ye make the blood run warm!
All the battle-names of story, all the jewel-names of songDown the spate of the clangor swing and reel,And the claymores come a-flashin’ for a thousand years alongFrom Can-More to bonnie Charlie and Lochiel.Though the high-singin’ bugle and the brazen crashin’ fugue’ll—With the drum and the fife—wake the trampin’ lines to life,But neighin’ ’em, and brayin’ ’em, and shatterin’ all the air,O pipes of the North, when the legions thunder forthThere’s naught like ye to lift ’em on to death or glory there!
Now he tunes an ancient ditty for the leal Highland lover,A rill of the mountain clear and pure,How the bee is in the blossom and the peewit passin’ overAnd the cloud-shadows chasin’ on the moor.Hark the carol of the chanter rollickin’ a skeltin’ canter,And the hum of the drones with their “wind-arisin’”tones!He’s flightin’ ’em, he’s kitin’ ’em, he’s flingin’ gay and free—O pipes of the North, when the reel comes tumblin’ forth’Tis the breeze amid the bracken or the wavelets on the sea!
Now hark the wrenchin’ sob of it, the “wild with all regret,”O heart from the heather overseas,For the homeland of your fathers, though you’ve never known it yet,’Tween Tay and the outer Hebrides.O the rugged misty Highlands, O the grim and lonely islands,And the solemn fir and pine, and the grey tormented brine—He’s trailin’ ’em, he’s wailin’ ’em, to tear your bosom’s core!O pipes of the North, when the long lament goes forthNo sorrow’s left to utter, for the tongue can say no more!
Oh, Breton pipes are clear and strong, and Irish pipes are sweetAnd soft upon the heather overseas,But Scottish aye can take your throat or make ye swing your feet,O hark the lad a-paddlin’ on the keys!See him footin’ straight and proud through the wonder-gawkin’ crowd,With his feathered Glengarry like a gun at the carry;He’s bellin’ ’em, he’s yellin’ ’em, he’s skirlin’ high to you—O pipes of the North, O the wild notes rushin’ forth,Ye’re sure the wings of Gaelic souls as far as blood is true!
Scribner’s MagazineE. Sutton
As I stole out of Babylon beyond the stolid warders,(My soul that dwelt in Babylon long, long ago!)The sound of cymbals and of lutes, of viols and recorders,Came up from khan and caravan, loud and low.As I crept out of Babylon, the clangor and the babel,The strife of life, the haggling in the square and mart,Of the men who went in saffron and the men who went in sable,It tore me and it wore me, yea, it wore my heart.As I fled out of Babylon, the cubits of the towersThey seemed in very mockery to bar my way;The incense of the altars, and the hanging-garden flowers,They lured me with their glamour, but I would not stay.We still flee out of Babylon, its vending and its vying,Its crying up to Mammon, its bowing down to Baal;We still flee out of Babylon, its sobbing and its sighing,Where the strong grow ever stronger, and the weary fail!We still flee out of Babylon, the feverish, the fretful,That saps the sweetness of the soul and leaves but a rind;We still flee out of Babylon, and fain would be forgetfulOf all within that thrall of wall threatening behind!Oh, Babylon, oh, Babylon, your toiling and your teeming,Your canyons and your wonder-wealth,—not for such as we!We who have fled from Babylon contented are with dreaming,—Dreaming of earth’s loveliness, happy to be free!
As I stole out of Babylon beyond the stolid warders,(My soul that dwelt in Babylon long, long ago!)The sound of cymbals and of lutes, of viols and recorders,Came up from khan and caravan, loud and low.As I crept out of Babylon, the clangor and the babel,The strife of life, the haggling in the square and mart,Of the men who went in saffron and the men who went in sable,It tore me and it wore me, yea, it wore my heart.As I fled out of Babylon, the cubits of the towersThey seemed in very mockery to bar my way;The incense of the altars, and the hanging-garden flowers,They lured me with their glamour, but I would not stay.We still flee out of Babylon, its vending and its vying,Its crying up to Mammon, its bowing down to Baal;We still flee out of Babylon, its sobbing and its sighing,Where the strong grow ever stronger, and the weary fail!We still flee out of Babylon, the feverish, the fretful,That saps the sweetness of the soul and leaves but a rind;We still flee out of Babylon, and fain would be forgetfulOf all within that thrall of wall threatening behind!Oh, Babylon, oh, Babylon, your toiling and your teeming,Your canyons and your wonder-wealth,—not for such as we!We who have fled from Babylon contented are with dreaming,—Dreaming of earth’s loveliness, happy to be free!
As I stole out of Babylon beyond the stolid warders,(My soul that dwelt in Babylon long, long ago!)The sound of cymbals and of lutes, of viols and recorders,Came up from khan and caravan, loud and low.
As I crept out of Babylon, the clangor and the babel,The strife of life, the haggling in the square and mart,Of the men who went in saffron and the men who went in sable,It tore me and it wore me, yea, it wore my heart.
As I fled out of Babylon, the cubits of the towersThey seemed in very mockery to bar my way;The incense of the altars, and the hanging-garden flowers,They lured me with their glamour, but I would not stay.
We still flee out of Babylon, its vending and its vying,Its crying up to Mammon, its bowing down to Baal;We still flee out of Babylon, its sobbing and its sighing,Where the strong grow ever stronger, and the weary fail!
We still flee out of Babylon, the feverish, the fretful,That saps the sweetness of the soul and leaves but a rind;We still flee out of Babylon, and fain would be forgetfulOf all within that thrall of wall threatening behind!
Oh, Babylon, oh, Babylon, your toiling and your teeming,Your canyons and your wonder-wealth,—not for such as we!We who have fled from Babylon contented are with dreaming,—Dreaming of earth’s loveliness, happy to be free!
The BellmanClinton Scollard
(Written by Giosué Carducci at the death of hislittle son Dante, and addressed to his brother Dante,who had taken his own life years before.)
O thou among the Tuscan hills asleep,Laid with our father in one grassy bed,Faintly, through the green sod above thy head,Hast thou not heard a plaintive child’s voice weep?It is my little son—at thy dark keepHe knocketh, he who wore thy name, thy dreadAnd sacred name; he too this life hath fled,Whose ways, my brother, thou didst find so steep.Among the flower-borders as he played,By sunny, childish visions smiled upon,The Shadow caught him to that world how other,—Thy world long since! So now to that chill shade,Oh, welcome him! as backward toward the sunHe turns his head, to look, and call his mother.
O thou among the Tuscan hills asleep,Laid with our father in one grassy bed,Faintly, through the green sod above thy head,Hast thou not heard a plaintive child’s voice weep?It is my little son—at thy dark keepHe knocketh, he who wore thy name, thy dreadAnd sacred name; he too this life hath fled,Whose ways, my brother, thou didst find so steep.Among the flower-borders as he played,By sunny, childish visions smiled upon,The Shadow caught him to that world how other,—Thy world long since! So now to that chill shade,Oh, welcome him! as backward toward the sunHe turns his head, to look, and call his mother.
O thou among the Tuscan hills asleep,Laid with our father in one grassy bed,Faintly, through the green sod above thy head,Hast thou not heard a plaintive child’s voice weep?It is my little son—at thy dark keepHe knocketh, he who wore thy name, thy dreadAnd sacred name; he too this life hath fled,Whose ways, my brother, thou didst find so steep.Among the flower-borders as he played,By sunny, childish visions smiled upon,The Shadow caught him to that world how other,—Thy world long since! So now to that chill shade,Oh, welcome him! as backward toward the sunHe turns his head, to look, and call his mother.
The BellmanRuth Shepard Phelps
There was a day when death to me meant tears,And tearful takings-leave that had to be,And awed embarkings on an unshored sea,And sudden disarrangement of the years.But now I know that nothing interferesWith the fixed forces when a tired man dies;That death is only answerings and replies,The chiming of a bell which no one hears,The casual slanting of a half-spent sun,The soft recessional of noise and coil,The coveted something time nor age can spoil;I know it is a fabric finely spunBetween the stars and dark; to seize and keep,Such glad romances as we read in sleep.
There was a day when death to me meant tears,And tearful takings-leave that had to be,And awed embarkings on an unshored sea,And sudden disarrangement of the years.But now I know that nothing interferesWith the fixed forces when a tired man dies;That death is only answerings and replies,The chiming of a bell which no one hears,The casual slanting of a half-spent sun,The soft recessional of noise and coil,The coveted something time nor age can spoil;I know it is a fabric finely spunBetween the stars and dark; to seize and keep,Such glad romances as we read in sleep.
There was a day when death to me meant tears,And tearful takings-leave that had to be,And awed embarkings on an unshored sea,And sudden disarrangement of the years.But now I know that nothing interferesWith the fixed forces when a tired man dies;That death is only answerings and replies,The chiming of a bell which no one hears,The casual slanting of a half-spent sun,The soft recessional of noise and coil,The coveted something time nor age can spoil;I know it is a fabric finely spunBetween the stars and dark; to seize and keep,Such glad romances as we read in sleep.
Boston TranscriptMahlon Leonard Fisher
Go, little sorrows! From the evening woodFaint odors rise, that touch the heart like tearsWith inarticulate comfort. Lo, she bearsA weary load—small cares that drug the blood,Small envies, sick desires for lesser good,—All day, till now the evening re-appears,They drop away, and she with wonder rearsHer aching height from needless servitude.The tree-tops are all music; light and softThe brook’s small feet go tinkling toward the seaBearing the little day’s distress afar;While yonder, in the stillness set aloft,My one great Grief, still glimmering down on me,Smiles tremulous as a bereavèd Star.
Go, little sorrows! From the evening woodFaint odors rise, that touch the heart like tearsWith inarticulate comfort. Lo, she bearsA weary load—small cares that drug the blood,Small envies, sick desires for lesser good,—All day, till now the evening re-appears,They drop away, and she with wonder rearsHer aching height from needless servitude.The tree-tops are all music; light and softThe brook’s small feet go tinkling toward the seaBearing the little day’s distress afar;While yonder, in the stillness set aloft,My one great Grief, still glimmering down on me,Smiles tremulous as a bereavèd Star.
Go, little sorrows! From the evening woodFaint odors rise, that touch the heart like tearsWith inarticulate comfort. Lo, she bearsA weary load—small cares that drug the blood,Small envies, sick desires for lesser good,—All day, till now the evening re-appears,They drop away, and she with wonder rearsHer aching height from needless servitude.The tree-tops are all music; light and softThe brook’s small feet go tinkling toward the seaBearing the little day’s distress afar;While yonder, in the stillness set aloft,My one great Grief, still glimmering down on me,Smiles tremulous as a bereavèd Star.
Yale ReviewCharlotte Wilson
Some for the sadness and sweetness of far evening bells,Seeming to call a tryst,Yet, for my choice, all the comfort and kindness that wellsFrom lights through the mist.In the dim dusk so unreal that it seems like a dreamHard for the heart to resist,Mellowing the pain of the close-drawing darkness, they stream,Lights through the mist.Blurred to new beauty, the blues and the browns and the graysShimmer with soft amethyst;Then God’s own glory of gold as it shines through the haze,Lights through the mist!
Some for the sadness and sweetness of far evening bells,Seeming to call a tryst,Yet, for my choice, all the comfort and kindness that wellsFrom lights through the mist.In the dim dusk so unreal that it seems like a dreamHard for the heart to resist,Mellowing the pain of the close-drawing darkness, they stream,Lights through the mist.Blurred to new beauty, the blues and the browns and the graysShimmer with soft amethyst;Then God’s own glory of gold as it shines through the haze,Lights through the mist!
Some for the sadness and sweetness of far evening bells,Seeming to call a tryst,Yet, for my choice, all the comfort and kindness that wellsFrom lights through the mist.
In the dim dusk so unreal that it seems like a dreamHard for the heart to resist,Mellowing the pain of the close-drawing darkness, they stream,Lights through the mist.
Blurred to new beauty, the blues and the browns and the graysShimmer with soft amethyst;Then God’s own glory of gold as it shines through the haze,Lights through the mist!
CenturyWilliam Rose Benét
Within the Jersey City shedThe engine coughs and shakes its head.The smoke, a plume of red and white,Waves madly in the face of night.And now the grave, incurious starsGleam on the groaning, hurrying cars.Against the kind and awful reignOf darkness, this our angry train,A noisy little rebel, poutsIts brief defiance, flames and shouts—And passes on, and leaves no trace.For darkness holds its ancient place,Serene and absolute, the kingUnchanged, of every living thing.The houses lie obscure and stillIn Rutherford and Carlton Hill.Our lamps intensify the darkOf slumbering Passaic Park.And quiet holds the weary feetThat daily tramp through Prospect Street.What though we clang and clank and roarThrough all Passaic’s streets? No doorWill open, not an eye will seeWho this loud vagabond may be.Upon my crimson cushioned seat,In manufactured light and heat,I feel unnatural and mean.Outside the towns are cool and clean;Curtained awhile from sound and sightThey take God’s gracious gift of night.The stars are watchful over them.On Clifton as on BethlehemThe angels, leaning down the sky,Shed peace and gentled dreams. And I—I ride, I blasphemously rideThrough all the silent countryside.The engine’s shriek, the headlight’s glare,Pollute the still nocturnal air.The cottages of Lake View sighAnd sleeping, frown as we pass by.Why, even strident PatersonRests quietly as any nun.Her foolish warring children keepThe grateful armistice of sleep.For what tremendous errand’s sakeAre we so blatantly awake?What precious secret is our freight?What king must be abroad so late?Perhaps Death roams the hills to-nightAnd we rush forth to give him fight.Or else, perhaps, we speed his wayTo some remote unthinking prey.Perhaps a woman writhes in painAnd listens—listens for the train!The train, that like an angel sings,The train, with healing on its wings.Now “Hawthorne!” the conductor cries.My neighbor starts and rubs his eyes.He hurries yawning through the carAnd steps out where the houses are.This is the reason of our quest!Not wantonly we break the restOf town and village, nor do weLightly profane night’s sanctity.What Love commands the train fulfils,And beautiful upon the hillsAre these our feet of burnished steel.Subtly and certainly I feelThat Glen Rock welcomes us to herAnd silent Ridgewood seems to stirAnd smile, because she knows the trainHas brought her children back again.We carry people home—and soGod speeds us, wheresoe’er we go.Hohokus, Waldwick, AllendaleLift sleepy heads to give us hail.In Ramsey, Mahwah, Suffern, standHouses that wistfully demandA father—son—some human thingThat this, the midnight train, may bring.The trains that travel in the dayThey hurry folks to work or play.The midnight train is slow and oldBut of it let this thing be told,To its high honor be it said,It carries people home to bed.My cottage lamp shines white and clear.God bless the train that brought me here!
Within the Jersey City shedThe engine coughs and shakes its head.The smoke, a plume of red and white,Waves madly in the face of night.And now the grave, incurious starsGleam on the groaning, hurrying cars.Against the kind and awful reignOf darkness, this our angry train,A noisy little rebel, poutsIts brief defiance, flames and shouts—And passes on, and leaves no trace.For darkness holds its ancient place,Serene and absolute, the kingUnchanged, of every living thing.The houses lie obscure and stillIn Rutherford and Carlton Hill.Our lamps intensify the darkOf slumbering Passaic Park.And quiet holds the weary feetThat daily tramp through Prospect Street.What though we clang and clank and roarThrough all Passaic’s streets? No doorWill open, not an eye will seeWho this loud vagabond may be.Upon my crimson cushioned seat,In manufactured light and heat,I feel unnatural and mean.Outside the towns are cool and clean;Curtained awhile from sound and sightThey take God’s gracious gift of night.The stars are watchful over them.On Clifton as on BethlehemThe angels, leaning down the sky,Shed peace and gentled dreams. And I—I ride, I blasphemously rideThrough all the silent countryside.The engine’s shriek, the headlight’s glare,Pollute the still nocturnal air.The cottages of Lake View sighAnd sleeping, frown as we pass by.Why, even strident PatersonRests quietly as any nun.Her foolish warring children keepThe grateful armistice of sleep.For what tremendous errand’s sakeAre we so blatantly awake?What precious secret is our freight?What king must be abroad so late?Perhaps Death roams the hills to-nightAnd we rush forth to give him fight.Or else, perhaps, we speed his wayTo some remote unthinking prey.Perhaps a woman writhes in painAnd listens—listens for the train!The train, that like an angel sings,The train, with healing on its wings.Now “Hawthorne!” the conductor cries.My neighbor starts and rubs his eyes.He hurries yawning through the carAnd steps out where the houses are.This is the reason of our quest!Not wantonly we break the restOf town and village, nor do weLightly profane night’s sanctity.What Love commands the train fulfils,And beautiful upon the hillsAre these our feet of burnished steel.Subtly and certainly I feelThat Glen Rock welcomes us to herAnd silent Ridgewood seems to stirAnd smile, because she knows the trainHas brought her children back again.We carry people home—and soGod speeds us, wheresoe’er we go.Hohokus, Waldwick, AllendaleLift sleepy heads to give us hail.In Ramsey, Mahwah, Suffern, standHouses that wistfully demandA father—son—some human thingThat this, the midnight train, may bring.The trains that travel in the dayThey hurry folks to work or play.The midnight train is slow and oldBut of it let this thing be told,To its high honor be it said,It carries people home to bed.My cottage lamp shines white and clear.God bless the train that brought me here!
Within the Jersey City shedThe engine coughs and shakes its head.The smoke, a plume of red and white,Waves madly in the face of night.And now the grave, incurious starsGleam on the groaning, hurrying cars.Against the kind and awful reignOf darkness, this our angry train,A noisy little rebel, poutsIts brief defiance, flames and shouts—And passes on, and leaves no trace.For darkness holds its ancient place,Serene and absolute, the kingUnchanged, of every living thing.The houses lie obscure and stillIn Rutherford and Carlton Hill.Our lamps intensify the darkOf slumbering Passaic Park.And quiet holds the weary feetThat daily tramp through Prospect Street.What though we clang and clank and roarThrough all Passaic’s streets? No doorWill open, not an eye will seeWho this loud vagabond may be.Upon my crimson cushioned seat,In manufactured light and heat,I feel unnatural and mean.Outside the towns are cool and clean;Curtained awhile from sound and sightThey take God’s gracious gift of night.The stars are watchful over them.On Clifton as on BethlehemThe angels, leaning down the sky,Shed peace and gentled dreams. And I—I ride, I blasphemously rideThrough all the silent countryside.The engine’s shriek, the headlight’s glare,Pollute the still nocturnal air.The cottages of Lake View sighAnd sleeping, frown as we pass by.Why, even strident PatersonRests quietly as any nun.Her foolish warring children keepThe grateful armistice of sleep.For what tremendous errand’s sakeAre we so blatantly awake?What precious secret is our freight?What king must be abroad so late?Perhaps Death roams the hills to-nightAnd we rush forth to give him fight.Or else, perhaps, we speed his wayTo some remote unthinking prey.Perhaps a woman writhes in painAnd listens—listens for the train!The train, that like an angel sings,The train, with healing on its wings.Now “Hawthorne!” the conductor cries.My neighbor starts and rubs his eyes.He hurries yawning through the carAnd steps out where the houses are.This is the reason of our quest!Not wantonly we break the restOf town and village, nor do weLightly profane night’s sanctity.What Love commands the train fulfils,And beautiful upon the hillsAre these our feet of burnished steel.Subtly and certainly I feelThat Glen Rock welcomes us to herAnd silent Ridgewood seems to stirAnd smile, because she knows the trainHas brought her children back again.We carry people home—and soGod speeds us, wheresoe’er we go.Hohokus, Waldwick, AllendaleLift sleepy heads to give us hail.In Ramsey, Mahwah, Suffern, standHouses that wistfully demandA father—son—some human thingThat this, the midnight train, may bring.The trains that travel in the dayThey hurry folks to work or play.The midnight train is slow and oldBut of it let this thing be told,To its high honor be it said,It carries people home to bed.My cottage lamp shines white and clear.God bless the train that brought me here!
Smart SetJoyce Kilmer