In Flanders Fields | Page 6

he be greater that his people blessed?Than he the children loved, God knoweth best.
Anarchy
I saw a city filled with lust and shame,?Where men, like wolves, slunk through the grim half-light; And sudden, in the midst of it, there came?One who spoke boldly for the cause of Right.
And speaking, fell before that brutish race?Like some poor wren that shrieking eagles tear,?While brute Dishonour, with her bloodless face?Stood by and smote his lips that moved in prayer.
"Speak not of God! In centuries that word?Hath not been uttered! Our own king are we."?And God stretched forth his finger as He heard?And o'er it cast a thousand leagues of sea.
Disarmament
One spake amid the nations, "Let us cease?From darkening with strife the fair World's light,?We who are great in war be great in peace.?No longer let us plead the cause by might."
But from a million British graves took birth?A silent voice -- the million spake as one --?"If ye have righted all the wrongs of earth?Lay by the sword! Its work and ours is done."
The Dead Master
Amid earth's vagrant noises, he caught the note sublime:?To-day around him surges from the silences of Time?A flood of nobler music, like a river deep and broad,?Fit song for heroes gathered in the banquet-hall of God.
The Harvest of the Sea
The earth grows white with harvest; all day long?The sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves?Her web of silence o'er the thankful song?Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves.
The wave tops whiten on the sea fields drear,?And men go forth at haggard dawn to reap;?But ever 'mid the gleaners' song we hear?The half-hushed sobbing of the hearts that weep.
The Dying of Pere Pierre
". . . with two other priests; the same night he died, and was buried by the shores of the lake that bears his name."
Chronicle.
"Nay, grieve not that ye can no honour give?To these poor bones that presently must be?But carrion; since I have sought to live?Upon God's earth, as He hath guided me,?I shall not lack! Where would ye have me lie??High heaven is higher than cathedral nave:?Do men paint chancels fairer than the sky?"?Beside the darkened lake they made his grave,?Below the altar of the hills; and night?Swung incense clouds of mist in creeping lines?That twisted through the tree-trunks, where the light?Groped through the arches of the silent pines:?And he, beside the lonely path he trod,?Lay, tombed in splendour, in the House of God.
Eventide
The day is past and the toilers cease;?The land grows dim 'mid the shadows grey,?And hearts are glad, for the dark brings peace
At the close of day.
Each weary toiler, with lingering pace,?As he homeward turns, with the long day done,?Looks out to the west, with the light on his face
Of the setting sun.
Yet some see not (with their sin-dimmed eyes)?The promise of rest in the fading light;?But the clouds loom dark in the angry skies
At the fall of night.
And some see only a golden sky?Where the elms their welcoming arms stretch wide?To the calling rooks, as they homeward fly
At the eventide.
It speaks of peace that comes after strife,?Of the rest He sends to the hearts He tried,?Of the calm that follows the stormiest life --
God's eventide.
Upon Watts' Picture "Sic Transit"
"What I spent I had; what I saved, I lost; what I gave, I have."
But yesterday the tourney, all the eager joy of life,?The waving of the banners, and the rattle of the spears,?The clash of sword and harness, and the madness of the strife; To-night begin the silence and the peace of endless years.
(One sings within.)
But yesterday the glory and the prize,?And best of all, to lay it at her feet,?To find my guerdon in her speaking eyes:?I grudge them not, -- they pass, albeit sweet.
The ring of spears, the winning of the fight,?The careless song, the cup, the love of friends,?The earth in spring -- to live, to feel the light --?'Twas good the while it lasted: here it ends.
Remain the well-wrought deed in honour done,?The dole for Christ's dear sake, the words that fall?In kindliness upon some outcast one, --?They seemed so little: now they are my All.
A Song of Comfort
"Sleep, weary ones, while ye may --
Sleep, oh, sleep!"
Eugene Field.
Thro' May time blossoms, with whisper low,?The soft wind sang to the dead below:?"Think not with regret on the Springtime's song?And the task ye left while your hands were strong.?The song would have ceased when the Spring was past,?And the task that was joyous be weary at last."
To the winter sky when the nights were long?The tree-tops tossed with a ceaseless song:?"Do ye think with regret on the sunny days?And the path ye left, with its untrod ways??The sun might sink in a storm cloud's frown?And the path grow rough when the night came down."
In the grey twilight of the autumn eves,?It sighed as it sang through the dying leaves:?"Ye think with regret