CHAPTER VII

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!Sail on, O Union, strong and great!Humanity with all its fears,With all the hopes of future years,Is hanging breathless on thy fate!We know what Master laid thy keel,What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,What anvils rang, what hammers beat,In what a forge and what a heatWere shaped the anchors of thy hope!Fear not each sudden sound and shock,'Tis of the wave and not the rock;'Tis but the flapping of the sail,And not a rent made by the gale!In spite of rock and tempest's roar,In spite of false lights on the shore,Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,Are all with thee,—are all with thee!Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

THE WORLD WAR

For generations Americans had been taught by the provincially minded to glory in their "splendid isolation," but the more discerning perceived that steam and electricity were making the world smaller and smaller, and that economic causes were drawing its nations more and more closely together. They perceived, too, that the democratic theory of government to which America was consecrated had two staunch champions in western Europe, France and England, and two implacable enemies, Germany and Austria; and when, on August 1, 1914, the rulers of these two empires decreed the war which they hoped would lead to world power, many Americans felt most keenly that their country's place was by the side of France and England in their battle for human freedom.

SONNETS WRITTEN IN THE FALL OF 1914

Awake, ye nations, slumbering supine,Who round enring the European fray!Heard ye the trumpet sound? "The Day! the Day!The last that shall on England's empire shine!The Parliament that broke the Right DivineShall see her realm of reason swept away,And lesser nations shall the sword obey—The sword o'er all carve the great world's design!"So on the English Channel boasts the foeOn whose imperial brow death's helmet nods.Look where his hosts o'er bloody Belgium go,And mix a nation's past with blazing sods!A kingdom's waste! a people's homeless woe!Man's broken Word, and violated gods!Far fall the day when England's realm shall seeThe sunset of dominion! Her increaseAbolishes the man-dividing seas,And frames the brotherhood on earth to be!She, in free peoples planting sovereignty,Orbs half the civil world in British peace;And though time dispossess her, and she cease,Rome-like she greatens in man's memory.Oh, many a crown shall sink in war's turmoil,And many a new republic light the sky,Fleets sweep the ocean, nations till the soil,Genius be born and generations die,Orient and Occident together toil,Ere such a mighty work man rears on high!Hearken, the feet of the Destroyer treadThe wine-press of the nations; fast the bloodPours from the side of Europe; in full floodOn the Septentrional watershedThe rivers of fair France are running red!England, the mother-eyrie of our brood,That on the summit of dominion stood,Shakes in the blast: heaven battles overhead!Lift up thy head, O Rheims, of ages heirThat treasured up in thee their glorious sum;Upon whose brow, prophetically fair,Flamed the great morrow of the world to come;Haunt with thy beauty this volcanic airEre yet thou close, O Flower of Christendom!As when the shadow of the sun's eclipseSweeps on the earth, and spreads a spectral air,As if the universe were dying there,On continent and isle the darkness dips,Unwonted gloom, and on the Atlantic slips;So in the night the Belgian cities flareHorizon-wide; the wandering people fareAlong the roads, and load the fleeing ships.And westward borne that planetary sweep,Darkening o'er England and her times to be,Already steps upon the ocean-deep!Watch well, my country, that unearthly sea,Lest when thou thinkest not, and in thy sleep,Unapt for war, that gloom enshadow thee!George Edward Woodberry.

Far fall the day when England's realm shall seeThe sunset of dominion! Her increaseAbolishes the man-dividing seas,And frames the brotherhood on earth to be!She, in free peoples planting sovereignty,Orbs half the civil world in British peace;And though time dispossess her, and she cease,Rome-like she greatens in man's memory.Oh, many a crown shall sink in war's turmoil,And many a new republic light the sky,Fleets sweep the ocean, nations till the soil,Genius be born and generations die,Orient and Occident together toil,Ere such a mighty work man rears on high!

Hearken, the feet of the Destroyer treadThe wine-press of the nations; fast the bloodPours from the side of Europe; in full floodOn the Septentrional watershedThe rivers of fair France are running red!England, the mother-eyrie of our brood,That on the summit of dominion stood,Shakes in the blast: heaven battles overhead!Lift up thy head, O Rheims, of ages heirThat treasured up in thee their glorious sum;Upon whose brow, prophetically fair,Flamed the great morrow of the world to come;Haunt with thy beauty this volcanic airEre yet thou close, O Flower of Christendom!

As when the shadow of the sun's eclipseSweeps on the earth, and spreads a spectral air,As if the universe were dying there,On continent and isle the darkness dips,Unwonted gloom, and on the Atlantic slips;So in the night the Belgian cities flareHorizon-wide; the wandering people fareAlong the roads, and load the fleeing ships.And westward borne that planetary sweep,Darkening o'er England and her times to be,Already steps upon the ocean-deep!Watch well, my country, that unearthly sea,Lest when thou thinkest not, and in thy sleep,Unapt for war, that gloom enshadow thee!

George Edward Woodberry.

American opinion was especially aroused by Germany's cynical disregard of her pledge to preserve the neutrality of Belgium, and by the outrages which crimsoned every step of the invasion of that little kingdom.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN WALKS AT MIDNIGHT

[In Springfield, Illinois]

It is portentous, and a thing of stateThat here at midnight, in our little town,A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,Near the old court-house pacing up and down.Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yardsHe lingers where his children used to play;Or through the market, on the well-worn stonesHe stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black,A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawlMake him the quaint great figure that men love,The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.He is among us:—as in times before!And we who toss and lie awake for longBreathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?Too many peasants fight, they know not why,Too many homesteads in black terror weep.The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders nowThe bitterness, the folly and the pain.He cannot rest until a spirit-dawnShall come;—the shining hope of Europe free:The league of sober folk, the Workers' EarthBringing long peace to Cornland, Alp, and Sea.It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,That all his hours of travail here for menSeem yet in vain. And who will bring white peaceThat he may sleep upon his hill again?Vachel Lindsay.

It is portentous, and a thing of stateThat here at midnight, in our little town,A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,Near the old court-house pacing up and down.

Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yardsHe lingers where his children used to play;Or through the market, on the well-worn stonesHe stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.

A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black,A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawlMake him the quaint great figure that men love,The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.

He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.He is among us:—as in times before!And we who toss and lie awake for longBreathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?Too many peasants fight, they know not why,Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders nowThe bitterness, the folly and the pain.

He cannot rest until a spirit-dawnShall come;—the shining hope of Europe free:The league of sober folk, the Workers' EarthBringing long peace to Cornland, Alp, and Sea.

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,That all his hours of travail here for menSeem yet in vain. And who will bring white peaceThat he may sleep upon his hill again?

Vachel Lindsay.

On sea, as well as on land, the same policy of "frightfulness" was followed, and German submarines and raiders, finding it dangerous to attack British battleships, turned their attention to unarmed merchantmen. On February 28, 1915, an American vessel, the William P. Frye, carrying wheat from Seattle to Queenstown, was sunk by a German raider in the South Atlantic.

THE "WILLIAM P. FRYE"

[February 28, 1915]

I saw her first abreast the Boston LightAt anchor; she had just come in, turned head,And sent her hawsers creaking, clattering down.I was so near to where the hawse-pipes fedThe cable out from her careening bow,I moved up on the swell, shut steam and layHove to in my old launch to look at her.She'd come in light, a-skimming up the BayLike a white ghost with topsails bellying full;And all her noble lines from bow to sternMade music in the wind; it seemed she rodeThe morning air like those thin clouds that turnInto tall ships when sunrise lifts the cloudsFrom calm sea-courses.There, in smoke-smudged coats,Lay funnelled liners, dirty fishing craft,Blunt cargo-luggers, tugs, and ferry-boats.Oh, it was good in that black-scuttled lotTo see the Frye come lording on her wayLike some old queen that we had half forgotCome to her own. A little up the BayThe Fort lay green, for it was springtime then;The wind was fresh, rich with the spicy bloomOf the New England coast that tardilyEscapes, late April, from an icy tomb.The State-House glittered on old Beacon Hill,Gold in the sun.... 'Twas all so fair awhile;But she was fairest—this great square-rigged shipThat had blown in from some far happy isleOr from the shores of the Hesperides.They caught her in a South Atlantic roadBecalmed, and found her hold brimmed up with wheat;"Wheat's contraband," they said, and blew her hullTo pieces, murdered one of our staunch fleet,Fast dwindling, of the big old sailing shipsThat carry trade for us on the high seaAnd warped out of each harbor in the States.It wasn't law, so it seems strange to me—A big mistake. Her keel's struck bottom nowAnd her four masts sunk fathoms, fathoms deepTo Davy Jones. The dank seaweed will rootOn her oozed decks, and the cross-surges sweepThrough the set sails; but never, never moreHer crew will stand away to brace and trim,Nor sea-blown petrels meet her thrashing upTo windward on the Gulf Stream's stormy rim;Never again she'll head a no'theast gale,Or like a spirit loom up, sliding dumb,And ride in safe beyond the Boston Light,To make the harbor glad because she's come.Jeanne Robert Foster.

There, in smoke-smudged coats,Lay funnelled liners, dirty fishing craft,Blunt cargo-luggers, tugs, and ferry-boats.Oh, it was good in that black-scuttled lotTo see the Frye come lording on her wayLike some old queen that we had half forgotCome to her own. A little up the BayThe Fort lay green, for it was springtime then;The wind was fresh, rich with the spicy bloomOf the New England coast that tardilyEscapes, late April, from an icy tomb.The State-House glittered on old Beacon Hill,Gold in the sun.... 'Twas all so fair awhile;But she was fairest—this great square-rigged shipThat had blown in from some far happy isleOr from the shores of the Hesperides.

They caught her in a South Atlantic roadBecalmed, and found her hold brimmed up with wheat;"Wheat's contraband," they said, and blew her hullTo pieces, murdered one of our staunch fleet,Fast dwindling, of the big old sailing shipsThat carry trade for us on the high seaAnd warped out of each harbor in the States.It wasn't law, so it seems strange to me—A big mistake. Her keel's struck bottom nowAnd her four masts sunk fathoms, fathoms deepTo Davy Jones. The dank seaweed will rootOn her oozed decks, and the cross-surges sweepThrough the set sails; but never, never moreHer crew will stand away to brace and trim,Nor sea-blown petrels meet her thrashing upTo windward on the Gulf Stream's stormy rim;Never again she'll head a no'theast gale,Or like a spirit loom up, sliding dumb,And ride in safe beyond the Boston Light,To make the harbor glad because she's come.

Jeanne Robert Foster.

The crowning outrage came on May 7, 1915, when the great Cunard steamship Lusitania was torpedoed without warning off the coast of Ireland, and 1153 men, women, and children drowned. Of these, 114 were Americans.

THE WHITE SHIPS AND THE RED

[May 7, 1915]

With drooping sail and pennantThat never a wind may reach,They float in sunless watersBeside a sunless beach.Their mighty masts and funnelsAre white as driven snow,And with a pallid radianceTheir ghostly bulwarks glow.Here is a Spanish galleonThat once with gold was gay,Here is a Roman triremeWhose hues outshone the day.But Tyrian dyes have faded,And prows that once were brightWith rainbow stains wear onlyDeath's livid, dreadful white.White as the ice that clove herThat unforgotten day,Among her pallid sistersThe grim Titanic lay.And through the leagues above herShe looked aghast, and said:"What is this living ship that comesWhere every ship is dead?"The ghostly vessels trembledFrom ruined stern to prow;What was this thing of terrorThat broke their vigil now?Down through the startled oceanA mighty vessel came,Not white, as all dead ships must be,But red, like living flame!The pale green waves about herWere swiftly, strangely dyed,By the great scarlet stream that flowedFrom out her wounded side.And all her decks were scarletAnd all her shattered crew.She sank among the white ghost shipsAnd stained them through and through.The grim Titanic greeted her."And who art thou?" she said;"Why dost thou join our ghostly fleetArrayed in living red?We are the ships of sorrowWho spend the weary night,Until the dawn of Judgment Day,Obscure and still and white.""Nay," said the scarlet visitor,"Though I sink through the sea,A ruined thing that was a ship,I sink not as did ye.For ye met with your destinyBy storm or rock or fight,So through the lagging centuriesYe wear your robes of white."But never crashing icebergNor honest shot of foe,Nor hidden reef has sent meThe way that I must go.My wound that stains the waters,My blood that is like flame,Bear witness to a loathly deed,A deed without a name."I went not forth to battle,I carried friendly men,The children played about my decks,The women sang—and then—And then—the sun blushed scarletAnd Heaven hid its face,The world that God createdBecame a shameful place!"My wrong cries out for vengeance,The blow that sent me hereWas aimed in hell. My dying screamHas reached Jehovah's ear.Not all the seven oceansShall wash away that stain;Upon a brow that wears a crownI am the brand of Cain."When God's great voice assemblesThe fleet on Judgment Day,The ghosts of ruined ships will riseIn sea and strait and bay.Though they have lain for agesBeneath the changeless flood,They shall be white as silver,But one—shall be like blood.Joyce Kilmer.

Here is a Spanish galleonThat once with gold was gay,Here is a Roman triremeWhose hues outshone the day.But Tyrian dyes have faded,And prows that once were brightWith rainbow stains wear onlyDeath's livid, dreadful white.

White as the ice that clove herThat unforgotten day,Among her pallid sistersThe grim Titanic lay.And through the leagues above herShe looked aghast, and said:"What is this living ship that comesWhere every ship is dead?"

The ghostly vessels trembledFrom ruined stern to prow;What was this thing of terrorThat broke their vigil now?Down through the startled oceanA mighty vessel came,Not white, as all dead ships must be,But red, like living flame!

The pale green waves about herWere swiftly, strangely dyed,By the great scarlet stream that flowedFrom out her wounded side.And all her decks were scarletAnd all her shattered crew.She sank among the white ghost shipsAnd stained them through and through.

The grim Titanic greeted her."And who art thou?" she said;"Why dost thou join our ghostly fleetArrayed in living red?We are the ships of sorrowWho spend the weary night,Until the dawn of Judgment Day,Obscure and still and white."

"Nay," said the scarlet visitor,"Though I sink through the sea,A ruined thing that was a ship,I sink not as did ye.For ye met with your destinyBy storm or rock or fight,So through the lagging centuriesYe wear your robes of white.

"But never crashing icebergNor honest shot of foe,Nor hidden reef has sent meThe way that I must go.My wound that stains the waters,My blood that is like flame,Bear witness to a loathly deed,A deed without a name.

"I went not forth to battle,I carried friendly men,The children played about my decks,The women sang—and then—And then—the sun blushed scarletAnd Heaven hid its face,The world that God createdBecame a shameful place!

"My wrong cries out for vengeance,The blow that sent me hereWas aimed in hell. My dying screamHas reached Jehovah's ear.Not all the seven oceansShall wash away that stain;Upon a brow that wears a crownI am the brand of Cain."

When God's great voice assemblesThe fleet on Judgment Day,The ghosts of ruined ships will riseIn sea and strait and bay.Though they have lain for agesBeneath the changeless flood,They shall be white as silver,But one—shall be like blood.

Joyce Kilmer.

No event since the sinking of the Maine in Havana Harbor had so stirred the country with rage and horror. The contention of the Germans that they were fighting for the freedom of the seas was indignantly scouted.

MARE LIBERUM

You dare to say with perjured lips,"We fight to make the ocean free"?You, whose black trail of butchered shipsBestrews the bed of every seaWhere German submarines have wroughtTheir horrors! Have you never thought,—What you call freedom, men call piracy!Unnumbered ghosts that haunt the waveWhere you have murdered, cry you down;And seamen whom you would not saveWeave now in weed-grown depths a crownOf shame for your imperious head,—A dark memorial of the dead,—Women and children whom you sent to drown.Nay, not till thieves are set to guardThe gold, and corsairs called to keepO'er peaceful commerce watch and ward,And wolves to herd the helpless sheep,Shall men and women look to thee,Thou ruthless Old Man of the Sea,To safeguard law and freedom on the deep!In nobler breeds we put our trust:The nations in whose sacred loreThe "Ought" stands out above the "Must,"And honor rules in peace and war.With these we hold in soul and heart,With these we choose our lot and part,Till liberty is safe on sea and shore.Henry van Dyke.

Unnumbered ghosts that haunt the waveWhere you have murdered, cry you down;And seamen whom you would not saveWeave now in weed-grown depths a crownOf shame for your imperious head,—A dark memorial of the dead,—Women and children whom you sent to drown.

Nay, not till thieves are set to guardThe gold, and corsairs called to keepO'er peaceful commerce watch and ward,And wolves to herd the helpless sheep,Shall men and women look to thee,Thou ruthless Old Man of the Sea,To safeguard law and freedom on the deep!

In nobler breeds we put our trust:The nations in whose sacred loreThe "Ought" stands out above the "Must,"And honor rules in peace and war.With these we hold in soul and heart,With these we choose our lot and part,Till liberty is safe on sea and shore.

Henry van Dyke.

President Woodrow Wilson warned Germany that the United States could not stand idly by in the event of further contemptuous disregard of American rights, and Germany promised to restrict her submarine warfare; but a great portion of the country felt there was already more than sufficient cause for war, and many Americans entered the French aviation corps and Foreign Legion, or went to Canada and enlisted there, in order to take their stand at once beside the nations which were battling for human liberty.

ODE IN MEMORY OF THE AMERICAN VOLUNTEERS FALLEN FOR FRANCE

[To have been read before the statue of Lafayette and Washington in Paris, on Decoration Day, May 30, 1916]

IAy, it is fitting on this holiday,Commemorative of our soldier dead,When—with sweet flowers of our New England MayHiding the lichened stones by fifty years made gray—Their graves in every town are garlanded,That pious tribute should be given tooTo our intrepid fewObscurely fallen here beyond the seas.Those to preserve their country's greatness died;But by the death of theseSomething that we can look upon with prideHas been achieved, nor wholly unrepliedCan sneerers triumph in the charge they makeThat from a war where Freedom was at stakeAmerica withheld and, daunted, stood aside.IIBe they remembered here with each reviving spring,Not only that in May, when life is loveliest,Around Neuville-Saint-Vaast and the disputed crestOf Vimy, they, superb, unfaltering,In that fine onslaught that no fire could halt,Parted impetuous to their first assault;But that they brought fresh hearts and springlike tooTo that high mission, and 'tis meet to strewWith twigs of lilac and spring's earliest roseThe cenotaph of thoseWho in the cause that history most endearsFell in the sunny morn and flower of their young years.IIIYet sought they neither recompense nor praise,Nor to be mentioned in another breathThan their blue-coated comrades whose great daysIt was their pride to share—ay, share even to the death!Nay, rather, France, to you they rendered thanks(Seeing they came for honor, not for gain),Who, opening to them your glorious ranks,Gave them that grand occasion to excel,That chance to live the life most free from stainAnd that rare privilege of dying well.IVO friends! I know not since that war beganFrom which no people nobly stands aloofIf in all moments we have given proofOf virtues that were thought American.I know not if in all things done and saidAll has been well and good,Or if each one of us can hold his headAs proudly as he should,Or, from the pattern of those mighty deadWhose shades our country venerates to-day,If we've not somewhat fallen and somewhat gone astray.But you to whom our land's good name is dear,If there be any hereWho wonder if her manhood be decreased,Relaxed its sinews and its blood less redThan that at Shiloh and Antietam shed,Be proud of these, have joy in this at least,And cry: "Now, heaven be praisedThat in that hour that most imperilled her,Menaced her liberty who foremost raisedEurope's bright flag of freedom, some there wereWho, not unmindful of the antique debt,Came back the generous path of Lafayette;And when of a most formidable foeShe checked each onset, arduous to stem—Foiled and frustrated them—On these red fields where blow with furious blowWas countered, whether the gigantic frayRolled by the Meuse or at the Bois Sabot,Accents of ours were in the fierce mêlée;And on that furthest rim of hallowed groundWhere the forlorn, the gallant charge expires,When the slain bugler has long ceased to sound,And on the tangled wiresThe last wild rally staggers, crumbles, stops,Withered beneath the shrapnel's iron showers:—Now heaven be thanked, we gave a few brave drops;Now heaven be thanked, a few brave drops were ours."VThere, holding still, in frozen steadfastness,Their bayonets toward the beckoning frontiers,They lie—our comrades—lie among their peers,Clad in the glory of fallen warriors,Grim clusters under thorny trellises,Dry, furthest foam upon disastrous shores,Leaves that made last year beautiful, still strewnEven as they fell, unchanged, beneath the changing moon;And earth in her divine indifferenceRolls on, and many paltry things and meanPrate to be heard and caper to be seen.But they are silent, calm; their eloquenceIs that incomparable attitude;No human presences their witness are,But summer clouds and sunset crimson-hued,And showers and night winds and the northern star.Nay, even our salutations seem profane,Opposed to their Elysian quietude;Our salutations coming from afar,From our ignobler planeAnd undistinction of our lesser parts:Hail, brothers, and farewell; you are twice blest, brave hearts.Double your glory is who perished thus,For you have died for France and vindicated us.Alan Seeger.

IIBe they remembered here with each reviving spring,Not only that in May, when life is loveliest,Around Neuville-Saint-Vaast and the disputed crestOf Vimy, they, superb, unfaltering,In that fine onslaught that no fire could halt,Parted impetuous to their first assault;But that they brought fresh hearts and springlike tooTo that high mission, and 'tis meet to strewWith twigs of lilac and spring's earliest roseThe cenotaph of thoseWho in the cause that history most endearsFell in the sunny morn and flower of their young years.

IIIYet sought they neither recompense nor praise,Nor to be mentioned in another breathThan their blue-coated comrades whose great daysIt was their pride to share—ay, share even to the death!Nay, rather, France, to you they rendered thanks(Seeing they came for honor, not for gain),Who, opening to them your glorious ranks,Gave them that grand occasion to excel,That chance to live the life most free from stainAnd that rare privilege of dying well.

IVO friends! I know not since that war beganFrom which no people nobly stands aloofIf in all moments we have given proofOf virtues that were thought American.I know not if in all things done and saidAll has been well and good,Or if each one of us can hold his headAs proudly as he should,Or, from the pattern of those mighty deadWhose shades our country venerates to-day,If we've not somewhat fallen and somewhat gone astray.But you to whom our land's good name is dear,If there be any hereWho wonder if her manhood be decreased,Relaxed its sinews and its blood less redThan that at Shiloh and Antietam shed,Be proud of these, have joy in this at least,And cry: "Now, heaven be praisedThat in that hour that most imperilled her,Menaced her liberty who foremost raisedEurope's bright flag of freedom, some there wereWho, not unmindful of the antique debt,Came back the generous path of Lafayette;And when of a most formidable foeShe checked each onset, arduous to stem—Foiled and frustrated them—On these red fields where blow with furious blowWas countered, whether the gigantic frayRolled by the Meuse or at the Bois Sabot,Accents of ours were in the fierce mêlée;And on that furthest rim of hallowed groundWhere the forlorn, the gallant charge expires,When the slain bugler has long ceased to sound,And on the tangled wiresThe last wild rally staggers, crumbles, stops,Withered beneath the shrapnel's iron showers:—Now heaven be thanked, we gave a few brave drops;Now heaven be thanked, a few brave drops were ours."

VThere, holding still, in frozen steadfastness,Their bayonets toward the beckoning frontiers,They lie—our comrades—lie among their peers,Clad in the glory of fallen warriors,Grim clusters under thorny trellises,Dry, furthest foam upon disastrous shores,Leaves that made last year beautiful, still strewnEven as they fell, unchanged, beneath the changing moon;And earth in her divine indifferenceRolls on, and many paltry things and meanPrate to be heard and caper to be seen.But they are silent, calm; their eloquenceIs that incomparable attitude;No human presences their witness are,But summer clouds and sunset crimson-hued,And showers and night winds and the northern star.Nay, even our salutations seem profane,Opposed to their Elysian quietude;Our salutations coming from afar,From our ignobler planeAnd undistinction of our lesser parts:Hail, brothers, and farewell; you are twice blest, brave hearts.Double your glory is who perished thus,For you have died for France and vindicated us.

Alan Seeger.

Germany lived up to her agreement only in partial and grudging fashion, and the climax came on January 31, 1917, when the German Government announced that an unrestricted submarine warfare against all ships encountered on the seas would begin next day. President Wilson at once handed the German Ambassador his passports, and on April 2, after the sinking of three American ships without warning, appeared before Congress and asked that war be declared. After thirteen hours of debate, the Senate passed the necessary resolution; the House concurred on April 5, and the next day the President issued a proclamation declaring that "a state of war exists between the United States and the Imperial German Government."

REPUBLIC TO REPUBLIC

1776-1917

France!It is I answering.America!And it shall be remembered not only in our lips but in our heartsAnd shall awaken forever familiar and new as the morningThat we were the first of all landsTo be lovers,To run to each other with the incredible cryOf recognition.Bound by no ties of nearness or of knowledgeBut of the nearness of the heart,You chose me then—And so I choose you nowBy the same nearness—And the name you called me thenI call you now—O Liberty, my Love!Witter Bynner.

Witter Bynner.

The Entente Powers welcomed their new ally with bursting hearts, for a decisive victory, which was becoming more and more hopeless, now seemed assured.

TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Brothers in blood! They who this wrong beganTo wreck our commonwealth, will rue the dayWhen first they challenged freemen to the fray,And with the Briton dared the American.Now are we pledged to win the Rights of man;Labor and Justice now shall have their way,And in a League of Peace—God grant we may—Transform the earth, not patch up the old plan.Sure is our hope since he who led your nationSpake for mankind, and ye arose in aweOf that high call to work the world's salvation;Clearing your minds of all estranging blindnessIn the vision of Beauty and the Spirit's law,Freedom and Honor and sweet Loving-kindness.Robert Bridges.

Sure is our hope since he who led your nationSpake for mankind, and ye arose in aweOf that high call to work the world's salvation;Clearing your minds of all estranging blindnessIn the vision of Beauty and the Spirit's law,Freedom and Honor and sweet Loving-kindness.

Robert Bridges.

One of the first acts of the government was to seize all enemy ships in American ports—which, of course, included Hawaii, Porto Rico and the Philippines. These were at once overhauled and put into service under American command.

THE CAPTIVE SHIPS AT MANILA

Our keels are furred with tropic weed that clogs the crawling tidesAnd scarred with crust of salt and rust that gnaws our idle sides;And little junks they come and go, and ships they sail at dawn;And all the outbound winds that blow they call us to be gone,As yearning to the lifting seas our gaunt flotilla rides,Drifting aimless to and fro,Sport of every wind a-blow,Swinging to the ebb and flowOf lazy tropic tides.And once we knew the clean seaways to sail them pridefully;And once we met the clean sea winds and gave them greeting free;And honest craft, they spoke us fair, who'd scorn to speak us now;And little craft, they'd not beware to cross a German bowWhen yet the flag of Germany had honor on the sea.And now, of all that seaward fare,What ship of any port is thereBut would dip her flag to a black corsairEre she'd signal such as we!Yet we are ribbed with Norseland steel and fleshed with Viking pine,That's fashioned of the soil which bred the hosts of Charlemagne;And clad we are with rusting pride of stays and links and platesThat lay within the mountain side where Barbarossa waits—The mighty Frederick thralled in sleep, held by the ancient sign,While yet the ravens circle wideAbove that guarded mountain side,Full fed with carrion from the tideOf swinish, red rapine!Oh, we have known the German men when German men were true,And we have borne the German flag when honor was her due;But sick we are of honest scorn from honest merchant-men—The winds they call us to be gone down to the seas again—Down to the seas where waves lift white and gulls they sheer in the blue,Shriven clean of our blood-bought scornBy a foeman's flag—ay, proudly borne!Cleaving out in the good red dawn—Out again to the blue!Dorothy Paul.

And once we knew the clean seaways to sail them pridefully;And once we met the clean sea winds and gave them greeting free;And honest craft, they spoke us fair, who'd scorn to speak us now;And little craft, they'd not beware to cross a German bowWhen yet the flag of Germany had honor on the sea.And now, of all that seaward fare,What ship of any port is thereBut would dip her flag to a black corsairEre she'd signal such as we!

Yet we are ribbed with Norseland steel and fleshed with Viking pine,That's fashioned of the soil which bred the hosts of Charlemagne;And clad we are with rusting pride of stays and links and platesThat lay within the mountain side where Barbarossa waits—The mighty Frederick thralled in sleep, held by the ancient sign,While yet the ravens circle wideAbove that guarded mountain side,Full fed with carrion from the tideOf swinish, red rapine!

Oh, we have known the German men when German men were true,And we have borne the German flag when honor was her due;But sick we are of honest scorn from honest merchant-men—The winds they call us to be gone down to the seas again—Down to the seas where waves lift white and gulls they sheer in the blue,Shriven clean of our blood-bought scornBy a foeman's flag—ay, proudly borne!Cleaving out in the good red dawn—Out again to the blue!

Dorothy Paul.

Every effort was bent toward getting an army into the field in the shortest possible time. General John J. Pershing was appointed to command the American Expeditionary Forces, and started for France. The National Guard was mobilized, volunteers called for, and the First Division of regulars was loaded on transports and, on June 14, headed out to sea.

THE ROAD TO FRANCE

Thank God our liberating lanceGoes flaming on the way to France!To France—the trail the Gurkhas found!To France—old England's rallying ground!To France—the path the Russians strode!To France—the Anzac's glory road!To France—where our Lost Legion ranTo fight and die for God and man!To France—with every race and breedThat hates Oppression's brutal creed!Ah France—how could our hearts forgetThe path by which came Lafayette?How could the haze of doubt hang lowUpon the road of Rochambeau?At last, thank God! At last we seeThere is no tribal Liberty!No beacon lighting just our shores!No Freedom guarding but our doors!The flame she kindled for our siresBurns now in Europe's battle fires!The soul that led our fathers westTurns back to free the world's oppressed!Allies, you have not called in vain;We share your conflict and your pain."Old Glory," through new stains and rents,Partakes of Freedom's sacraments.Into that hell his will createsWe drive the foe—his lusts, his hates.Last come, we will be last to stay,Till Right has had her crowning day.Replenish, comrades, from our veins,The blood the sword of despot drains,And make our eager sacrificePart of the freely-rendered priceYou pay to lift humanity—You pay to make our brothers free!See, with what proud hearts we advanceTo France!Daniel Henderson.

Ah France—how could our hearts forgetThe path by which came Lafayette?How could the haze of doubt hang lowUpon the road of Rochambeau?At last, thank God! At last we seeThere is no tribal Liberty!No beacon lighting just our shores!No Freedom guarding but our doors!The flame she kindled for our siresBurns now in Europe's battle fires!The soul that led our fathers westTurns back to free the world's oppressed!

Allies, you have not called in vain;We share your conflict and your pain."Old Glory," through new stains and rents,Partakes of Freedom's sacraments.Into that hell his will createsWe drive the foe—his lusts, his hates.Last come, we will be last to stay,Till Right has had her crowning day.Replenish, comrades, from our veins,The blood the sword of despot drains,And make our eager sacrificePart of the freely-rendered priceYou pay to lift humanity—You pay to make our brothers free!See, with what proud hearts we advanceTo France!

Daniel Henderson.

General Pershing, with his staff, reached England early in June, and crossed to France a few days later. On the Fourth of July, a parade of American troops took place in Paris, proceeding to the Picpus cemetery, where General Pershing placed a wreath on the tomb of Lafayette. Legend has it that he said simply, "Lafayette, we are here."

PERSHING AT THE TOMB OF LAFAYETTE

[July 4, 1917]

They knew they were fighting our war. As the months grew to yearsTheir men and their women had watched through their blood and their tearsFor a sign that we knew, we who could not have come to be freeWithout France, long ago. And at last from the threatening seaThe stars of our strength on the eyes of their weariness rose,And he stood among them, the sorrow-strong hero we choseTo carry our flag to the tomb of that Frenchman whose nameA man of our country could once more pronounce without shame.What crown of rich words would he set for all time on this day?The past and the future were listening what he would say—Only this, from the white-flaming heart of a passion austere,Only this—ah, but France understood! "Lafayette, we are here!"Amelia Josephine Burr.

Amelia Josephine Burr.

An army of at least 2,000,000 men was needed at once; to secure it with the least possible disturbance of the country's economic life, Congress passed a bill providing for a selective draft of all men between twenty-one and thirty. Great training-camps were built, and by September, the training of the National Army was in full swing, while the National Guard regiments, which had already had some training, were started on their way to France.

YOUR LAD, AND MY LAD

Down toward the deep-blue water, marching to throb of drum,From city street and country lane the lines of khaki come;The rumbling guns, the sturdy tread, are full of grim appeal,While rays of western sunshine flash back from burnished steel.With eager eyes and cheeks aflame the serried ranks advance;And your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.A sob clings choking in the throat, as file on file sweep by,Between those cheering multitudes, to where the great ships lie;The batteries halt, the columns wheel, to clear-toned bugle-call,With shoulders squared and faces front they stand a khaki wall.Tears shine on every watcher's cheek, love speaks in every glance;For your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.Before them, through a mist of years, in soldier buff or blue,Brave comrades from a thousand fields watch now in proud review;The same old Flag, the same old Faith—the Freedom of the World—Spells Duty in those flapping folds above long ranks unfurled.Strong are the hearts which bear along Democracy's advance,As your dear lad, and my dear lad, go on their way to France.The word rings out; a million feet tramp forward on the road,Along that path of sacrifice o'er which their fathers strode.With eager eyes and cheeks aflame, with cheers on smiling lips,These fighting men of '17 move onward to their ships.Nor even love may hold them back, or halt that stern advance,As your dear lad, and my dear lad, go on their way to France.Randall Parrish.

A sob clings choking in the throat, as file on file sweep by,Between those cheering multitudes, to where the great ships lie;The batteries halt, the columns wheel, to clear-toned bugle-call,With shoulders squared and faces front they stand a khaki wall.Tears shine on every watcher's cheek, love speaks in every glance;For your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.

Before them, through a mist of years, in soldier buff or blue,Brave comrades from a thousand fields watch now in proud review;The same old Flag, the same old Faith—the Freedom of the World—Spells Duty in those flapping folds above long ranks unfurled.Strong are the hearts which bear along Democracy's advance,As your dear lad, and my dear lad, go on their way to France.

The word rings out; a million feet tramp forward on the road,Along that path of sacrifice o'er which their fathers strode.With eager eyes and cheeks aflame, with cheers on smiling lips,These fighting men of '17 move onward to their ships.Nor even love may hold them back, or halt that stern advance,As your dear lad, and my dear lad, go on their way to France.

Randall Parrish.

Germany had boasted that we could never get an army to Europe past her submarines, but so efficient was the system of protection worked out by the navy, that only one loaded transport was sunk. Early in February, 1918, the Tuscania, carrying 2179 American soldiers, was torpedoed off the north coast of Ireland. British destroyers rescued all but about two hundred before the ship sank. Nearly all the bodies were washed ashore and were tenderly buried.

A CALL TO ARMS

[February 5, 1918]

It is I, America, calling!Above the sound of rivers falling,Above the whir of the wheels and the chime of bells in the steeple—Wheels, rolling gold into the palms of the people—Bells ringing silverly clear and slowTo church-going, leisurely steps on pavements below.Above all familiar sounds of the life of a nationI shout to you a name.And the flame of that name is spedLike fire into hearts where blood runs red—The hearts of the land burn hot to the land's salvationAs I call across the long miles, as I, America, call to my nationTuscania! Tuscania!Americans, remember theTuscania!Shall we not remember how they diedIn their young courage and loyalty and pride,Our boys—bright-eyed, clean lads of America's breed,Hearts of gold, limbs of steel, flower of the nation indeed?How they tossed their years to beInto icy waters of a winter seaThat we whom they loved—that the world which they loved should be free?Ready, ungrudging, they died, each one thinking, likely, as the moment was comeOf the dear, starry flag, worth dying for, and then of dear faces at home;Going down in good order, with a song on their lips of the land of the free and the braveTill each young, deep voice stopped—under the rush of a wave.Was it like that? And shall their memory ever grow pale?Not ever, till the stars in the flag of America fail.It is I, America, who swear it, callingOver the sound of that deep ocean's falling,Tuscania! Tuscania!Arm, arm, Americans! Remember theTuscania!Very peacefully they are sleepingIn friendly earth, unmindful of a nation's weeping,And the kindly, strange folk that honored the long, full graves, we know;And the mothers know that their boys are safe, now, from the hurts of a savage foe;It is for us who are left to make sure and plainThat these dead, our precious dead, shall not have died in vain;So that I, America, young and strong and not afraid,I set my face across that sea which swallowed the bodies of the sons I made,I set my eyes on the still faces of boys washed up on a distant shoreAnd I call with a shout to my own to end this horror forevermore!In the boys' names I call a name,And the nation leaps to fire in its flameAnd my sons and my daughters crowd, eager to end the shame—It is I, America, calling,Hoarse with the roar of that ocean falling,Tuscania! Tuscania!Arm, arm, Americans! And remember, remember, theTuscania!Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews.

Shall we not remember how they diedIn their young courage and loyalty and pride,Our boys—bright-eyed, clean lads of America's breed,Hearts of gold, limbs of steel, flower of the nation indeed?How they tossed their years to beInto icy waters of a winter seaThat we whom they loved—that the world which they loved should be free?Ready, ungrudging, they died, each one thinking, likely, as the moment was comeOf the dear, starry flag, worth dying for, and then of dear faces at home;Going down in good order, with a song on their lips of the land of the free and the braveTill each young, deep voice stopped—under the rush of a wave.Was it like that? And shall their memory ever grow pale?Not ever, till the stars in the flag of America fail.It is I, America, who swear it, callingOver the sound of that deep ocean's falling,Tuscania! Tuscania!Arm, arm, Americans! Remember theTuscania!

Very peacefully they are sleepingIn friendly earth, unmindful of a nation's weeping,And the kindly, strange folk that honored the long, full graves, we know;And the mothers know that their boys are safe, now, from the hurts of a savage foe;It is for us who are left to make sure and plainThat these dead, our precious dead, shall not have died in vain;So that I, America, young and strong and not afraid,I set my face across that sea which swallowed the bodies of the sons I made,I set my eyes on the still faces of boys washed up on a distant shoreAnd I call with a shout to my own to end this horror forevermore!In the boys' names I call a name,And the nation leaps to fire in its flameAnd my sons and my daughters crowd, eager to end the shame—It is I, America, calling,Hoarse with the roar of that ocean falling,Tuscania! Tuscania!Arm, arm, Americans! And remember, remember, theTuscania!

Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews.

Meanwhile, in France, the Americans were already taking part in the war. About the middle of October, the First division had been sent into a heretofore quiet sector of the trenches beyond Einville, in Lorraine. On October 25, we took our first prisoner; a few days later, we had our first wounded; and finally before dawn on the morning of November 3, came a swift German raid in which three Americans were killed, five wounded and eleven taken prisoner. The three, whose names were Corporal James D. Gresham, Private Thomas F. Enright, and Private Merle D. Hay, were buried at Bathlemont next day, with touching ceremonies.

THE FIRST THREE

[November 3, 1917]

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