The Red Flower | Page 3

to make it real.
December 28, 1916.

STORM MUSIC
O Music hast thou only heard
The laughing river, the singing bird,

The murmuring wind in the poplar-trees,--
Nothing but Nature's
melodies?
Nay, thou hearest all her tones,
As a Queen must hear!

Sounds of wrath and fear,
Mutterings, shouts, and moans,
Mildness,
tumult, and despair,--
All she has that shakes the air
With voices
fierce and wild!
Thou art a Queen and not a dreaming child,--
Put
on thy crown and let us hear thee reign
Triumphant in a world of
storm and strain!
Echo the long-drawn sighs
Of the mounting wind in the pines;
And
the sobs of the mounting waves that rise
In the dark of the troubled
deep
To break on the beach in fiery lines.
Echo the far-off roll of
thunder,
Rumbling loud
And ever louder, under
The blue-black curtain of
cloud,
Where the lightning serpents gleam,
Echo the moaning
Of
the forest in its sleep
Like a giant groaning
In the torment of a
dream.
Now an interval of quiet
For a moment holds the air
In the
breathless hush
Of a silent prayer.
Then the sudden rush
Of the rain, and the riot
Of the shrieking,
tearing gale
Breaks loose in the night,
With a fusillade of hail!

Hear the forest fight,
With its tossing arms that crack and clash
In
the thunder's cannonade,
While the lightning's forkèd flash
Brings
the old hero-trees to the ground with a crash!
Hear the breakers'
deepening roar,
Driven like a herd of cattle

In the wild stampede of
battle,
Trampling, trampling, trampling, to overwhelm the shore.
Is it the end of all?
Will the land crumble and fall?
Nay, for a voice
replies
Out of the hidden skies,
"Thus far, O sea, shalt thou go,
So
long, O wind, shalt thou blow:
Return to your bounds and cease,


And let the earth have peace!"
O Music, lead the way--
The stormy night is past,
Lift up our heads
to greet the day,
And the joy of things that last.
The dissonance and pain
That mortals must endure
Are changed in
thine immortal strain
To something great and pure.
True love will conquer strife,
And strength from conflict flows,
For
discord is the thorn of life
And harmony the rose.
May, 1916.
FRANCE AND BELGIUM
THE BELLS OF MALINES
AUGUST 17, 1914
The gabled roofs of old Malines
Are russet red and gray and green,

And o'er them in the sunset hour
Looms, dark and huge, St.
Rombold's tower.
High in that rugged nest concealed,
The sweetest
bells that ever pealed,
The deepest bells that ever rung,
The lightest
bells that ever sung,
Are waiting for the master's hand
To fling their
music o'er the land.
And shall they ring to-night, Malines?
In nineteen hundred and
fourteen,
The frightful year, the year of woe,
When fire and blood
and rapine flow
Across the land from lost Liége,
Storm-driven by
the German rage?
The other carillons have ceased;
Fallen is Hasselt,
fallen Diesl,
From Ghent and Bruges no voices come,
Antwerp is

silent, Brussels dumb!
But in thy belfry, O Malines,
The master of the bells unseen
Has
climbed to where the keyboard stands,--
To-night his heart is in his
hands!
Once more, before invasion's hell
Breaks round the tower he
loves so well,
Once more he strikes the well-worn keys,
And sends
aërial harmonies
Far-floating through the twilight dim
In patriot
song and holy hymn.
O listen, burghers of Malines!
Soldier and workman, pale béguine.

And mother with a trembling flock
Of children clinging to thy
frock,--
Look up and listen, listen all!
What tunes are these that
gently fall
Around you like a benison?
"The Flemish Lion,"
"Brabançonne,"
"O brave Liége," and all the airs
That Belgium in
her bosom bears.
Ring up, ye silvery octaves high,
Whose notes like circling swallows
fly;
And ring, each old sonorous bell,--
"Jesu," "Maria," "Michaël!"

Weave in and out, and high and low,
The magic music that you
know,
And let it float and flutter down
To cheer the heart of the
troubled town.
Ring out, "Salvator," lord of all,--
"Roland" in Ghent
may hear thee call!
O brave bell-music of Malines,
In this dark hour how much you mean!

The dreadful night of blood and tears
Sweeps down on Belgium,
but she hears
Deep in her heart the melody
Of songs she learned
when she was free.
She will not falter, faint, nor fail,
But fight until
her rights prevail
And all her ancient belfries ring
"The Flemish
Lion," "God Save the King!"
THE NAME OF FRANCE
Give us a name to fill the mind
With the shining thoughts that lead
mankind,

The glory of learning, the joy of art,--
A name that tells of
a splendid part.
In long, long toil and the strenuous fight
Of the

human race to win its way
From the feudal darkness into the day
Of
Freedom, Brotherhood, Equal Right,--
A name like a star, a name of
light.
I give you France!
Give us a name to stir the blood
With a warmer glow and a swifter
flood,
At the touch of a courage that knows not fear,--
A name like
the sound of a trumpet, clear.
And silver-sweet, and iron-strong,

That calls three million men to their feet,
Ready to march, and steady
to meet
The foes who threaten that name with wrong,--
A name that
rings like a battle-song.
I give you France!
Give us a name to move the heart
With the strength that noble griefs
impart,
A name that