Poems of Purpose | Page 9

and without fear.?But my daughters and sons must understand?THAT ATTILA DID NOT DIE.?And they must be ready,?Their hands must be steady,?If the hosts of hell come nigh -?They must be ready.
If Jesus were back on the earth with men,?He would not preach to-day?Until He had made Him a scourge, and again?He would drive the defilers away.?He would throw down the tables of lust and greed?And scatter the changers' gold.?He would be ready,?His hand would be steady,?As it was in that temple of old -?He would be ready.
I am the cradle of God's new world,?From me shall the new race rise,?And my glorious banner must float unfurled,?Unsullied against the skies.?My sons and daughters must be my strength,?With courage to do and to dare,?With hearts that are ready,?With hands that are steady,?And their slogan must be, PREPARE! -?They must be ready!
With a prayer on the lip they must shoulder arms,?For after all has been said,?We must muster guns,?If we master Huns -?AND ATTILA IS NOT DEAD -?We must be ready!
WAR MOTHERS
There is something in the sound of drum and fife?That stirs all the savage instincts into life.
In the old times of peace we went our ways,?Through proper days?Of little joys and tasks. Lonely at times,?When from the steeple sounded wedding chimes,?Telling to all the world some maid was wife -?But taking patiently our part in life?As it was portioned us by Church and State,?Believing it our fate.
Our thoughts all chaste?Held yet a secret wish to love and mate
Ere youth and virtue should go quite to waste.?But men we criticised for lack of strength,?And kept them at arm's length.?Then the war came -?The world was all aflame!?The men we had thought dull and void of power?Were heroes in an hour.?He who had seemed a slave to petty greed?Showed masterful in that great time of need.?He who had plotted for his neighbour's pelf,?Now for his fellows offers up himself.?And we were only women, forced by war?To sacrifice the things worth living for.
Something within us broke,
Something within us woke,
The wild cave-woman spoke.
When we heard the sound of drumming,
As our soldiers went to camp,?Heard them tramp, tramp, tramp;?As we watched to see them coming,
And they looked at us and smiled?(Yes, looked back at us and smiled),?As they filed along by hillock and by hollow,
Then our hearts were so beguiled?That, for many and many a day,?We dreamed we heard them say,?'Oh, follow, follow, follow!'
And the distant, rolling drum?Called us 'Come, come, come!'?Till our virtue seemed a thing to give away.
War had swept ten thousand years away from earth.
We were primal once again.?There were males, not modern men;?We were females meant to bring their sons to birth.
And we could not wait for any formal rite,?We could hear them calling to us, 'Come to-night;?For to-morrow, at the dawn,?We move on!'
And the drum?Bellowed, 'Come, come, come!'?And the fife?Whistled, 'Life, life, life!'
So they moved on and fought and bled and died;?Honoured and mourned, they are the nation's pride.?We fought our battles, too, but with the tide?Of our red blood, we gave the world new lives.?Because we were not wives?We are dishonoured. Is it noble, then,?To break God's laws only by killing men?To save one's country from destruction??We took no man's life but gave our chastity,?And sinned the ancient sin?To plant young trees and fill felled forests in.
Oh, clergy of the land,?Bible in hand,?All reverently you stand,
On holy thoughts intent?While barren wives receive the sacrament!?Had you the open visions you could see
Phantoms of infants murdered in the womb,?Who never knew a cradle or a tomb,?Hovering about these wives accusingly.
Bestow the sacrament! Their sins are not well known -?Ours to the four winds of the earth are blown.
A HOLIDAY
Berlin, Germany, gave the school children a half holiday to celebrate the sinking of the Lusitania.
War declares a holiday;?Little children, run and play.?Ring-a-rosy round the earth?With the garland of your mirth.
Shrill a song brim full of glee?Of a great ship sunk at sea.?Tell with pleasure and with pride?How a hundred children died.
Sing of orphan babes, whose cries?Beat against unanswering skies;?Let a mother's mad despair?Lend staccato to your air.
Sing of babes who drowned alone;?Sing of headstones, marked 'Unknown';?Sing of homes made desolate?Where the stricken mourners wait.
Sing of battered corpses tossed?By the heedless waves, and lost.?Run, sweet children, sing and play;?War declares a holiday.
THE UNDERTONE
When I was very young I used to feel the dark despairs of youth; Out of my little griefs I would invent great tragedies and woes; Not only for myself, but for all those I held most dear?I would invent vast sorrows in my melancholy moods of thought. Yet down deep, deep in my heart there was an undertone of rapture. It was like a voice from some other world calling softly to me, Saying things joyful.
As I grew older, and Life offered bitter gall for me to drink, Forcing it through clenched