The Red Flower | Page 4

speaks of the blood outpoured
To save
mankind from the sway of the sword,--
A name that calls on the
world to share
In the burden of sacrificial strife
When the cause at
stake is the world's free life
And the rule of the people everywhere,--

A name like a vow, a name like a prayer.
I give you France!
The Hague, September, 1916.
JEANNE D'ARC RETURNS
1914 1916
What hast thou done, O womanhood of France,
Mother and daughter,
sister, sweetheart, wife,
What hast thou done, amid this fateful strife,

To prove the pride of thine inheritance.
In this fair land of freedom
and romance?
I hear thy voice with tears and courage rife,--

Smiling against the swords that seek thy life--
Make answer in a
noble utterance:
"I give France all I have, and all she asks.
Would it
were more! Ah, let her ask and take;
My hands to nurse her wounded,
do her tasks,--
My feet to run her errands through the dark,--
My
heart to bleed in triumph for her sake,--
And all my soul to follow
thee, Jeanne d'Arc!"

April 16, 1916.
INTERLUDES IN HOLLAND
THE HEAVENLY HILLS OF HOLLAND
The heavenly hills of Holland,--
How wondrously they rise
Above
the smooth green pastures
Into the azure skies!
With blue and
purple hollows,
With peaks of dazzling snow,
Along the far horizon

The clouds are marching slow,
No mortal fool has trodden
The summits of that range,
Nor walked
those mystic valleys
Whose colors ever change;
Yet we possess
their beauty,
And visit them in dreams,
While the ruddy gold of
sunset
From cliff and canyon gleams.
In days of cloudless weather
They melt into the light;
When fog and
mist surround us
They're hidden from our sight;
But when returns a
season
Clear shining after rain,
While the northwest wind is
blowing,
We see the hills again.
The old Dutch painters loved them,
Their pictures show them clear,--

Old Hobbema and Ruysduel,
Van Goyen and Vermeer,
Above
the level landscape,
Rich polders, long-armed mills,
Canals and
ancient cities,--
Float Holland's heavenly hills.
The Hague, November, 1916.
THE PROUD LADY
When Stävoren town was in its prime
And queened the Zuyder Zee,

Its ships went out to every clime
With costly merchantry.
A lady dwelt in that rich town,
The fairest in all the land;
She
walked abroad in a velvet gown,
With many rings on her hand.

Her hair was bright as the beaten gold,
Her lips as coral red,
Her
roving eyes were blue and bold,
And her heart with pride was fed.
For she was proud of her father's ships,
As she watched them gayly
pass;
And pride looked out of her eyes and lips
When she saw
herself in the glass.
"Now come," she said to the captains ten,
Who were ready to put to
sea,
"Ye are all my men and my father's men,
And what will ye do
for me?"
"Go north and south, go east and west,
And get me gifts," she said.

"And he who bringeth me home the best,
With that man will I wed."
So they all fared forth, and sought with care
In many a famous mart,

For satins and silks and jewels rare,
To win that lady's heart.
She looked at them all with never a thought
And careless put them by;

"I am not fain of the things ye brought,
Enough of these have I."
The last that came was the head of the fleet,
His name was Jan Borel;

He bent his knee at the lady's feet,--
In truth he loved her well.
"I've brought thee home the best i' the world,
A shipful of Danzig
corn!"
She stared at him long; her red lips curled,
Her blue eyes
filled with scorn.
"Now out on thee, thou feckless kerl,
A loon thou art," she said.

"Am I a starving beggar girl?
Shall I ever lack for bread?"
"Go empty all thy sacks of grain
Into the nearest sea,
And never
show thy face again
To make a mock of me."
Young Jan Borel, he answered naught,
But in the harbor cast
The
sacks of golden corn he brought,
And groaned when fell the last.

Then Jan Borel, he hoisted sail,
And out to sea he bore;
He passed
the Helder in a gale
And came again no more.
But the grains of corn went drifting down
Like devil-scattered seed,

To sow the harbor of the town
With a wicked growth of weed.
The roots were thick and the silt and sand
Were gathered day by day,

Till not a furlong out from land
A shoal had barred the way.
Then Stävoren town saw evil years,
No ships could out or in.
The
boats lay rolling at the piers,
And the mouldy grain in the bin.
The grass-grown streets were all forlorn,
The town in ruin stood,

The lady's velvet gown was torn,
Her rings were sold for food.
Her father had perished long ago,
But the lady held her pride.
She
walked with a scornful step and slow,
Till at last in her rags she died.
Yet still on the crumbling piers of the town,
When the midnight moon
shines free,
A woman walks in a velvet gown
And scatters corn in
the sea.
FLOOD-TIDE OF FLOWERS
IN HOLLAND
The laggard winter ebbed so slow
With freezing rain and melting
snow,
It seemed as if the earth would stay
Forever where the tide
was