The Silk-Hat Soldier | Page 2

name,
But now are we glad to rest, our battles and boasting done, Glad just to
sow and sing and reap in our share of the sun.
Of this O will ye rob us,--with a foolish mighty hand,
Add with such
cruel sorrow, so small a land to your land?
So might a boy rejoice him to conquer a hive of bees,
Overcome ants
in battle,--we are scarcely more mighty than these--

So might a cruel heart hear a nightingale singing alone,
And say, "I
am mighty! See how the singing stops with a stone!"
Yea, he were mighty indeed, mighty to crush and to gain;
But the bee
and the ant and the bird were the mighty of brain.
And what shall you gain if you take us and bind us and beat us with
thongs,
And drive us to sing underground in a whisper our sad little
songs?
Forbid us the very use of our heart's own nursery tongue-- Is this to be
strong, ye nations, is this to be strong?
Your vulgar battles to fight, and your grocery conquests to keep, For
this shall we break our hearts, for this shall our old men weep?
What gain in the day of battle--to the Russ, to the German, what gain,
The Czech, and the Pole, and the Finn, and the Schleswig Dane?
The Cry of the Little Peoples goes up to God in vain,
For the world is
given over to the cruel sons of Cain;
The hand that would bless us is weak, and the hand that would break us
is strong,
And the power of pity is nought but the power of a song.
The dreams that our fathers dreamed to-day are laughter and dust, And
nothing at all in the world is left for a man to trust;
Let us hope no more, or dream, or prophesy, or pray,
For the iron
world no less will crash on its iron way;
Yea! nothing is left but to watch, with a helpless, pitying eye, The kind
old aims for the world, and the kind old fashions die.
THE ILLUSION OF WAR

War
I abhor,
And yet how sweet
The sound along the marching
street
Of drum and fife, and I forget
Wet eyes of widows, and forget

Broken old mothers, and the whole
Dark butchery without a soul.
Without a soul--save this bright drink
Of heady music, sweet as hell;

And even my peace-abiding feet
Go marching with the marching
street,
For yonder, yonder goes the fife,
And what care I for human
life!
The tears fill my astonished eyes
And my full heart is like to
break,
And yet 'tis all embannered lies,
A dream those little
drummers make.
O it is wickedness to clothe
Yon hideous grinning thing that stalks

Hidden in music, like a queen
That in a garden of glory walks,
Till
good men love the thing they loathe.
Art, thou hast many infamies,

But not an infamy like this;
O snap the fife and still the drum,
And
show the monster as she is.
CHRISTMAS IN WAR-TIME
1
This is the year that has no Christmas Day,
Even the little children
must be told
That something sad is happening far away--
Or, if you
needs must play,
As children must,
Play softly children, underneath
your breath!
For over our hearts hangs low the shadow of death,

Those hearts to you mysteriously old,
Grim grown-up hearts that
ponder night and day
On the straight lists of broken-hearted dead,

Black narrow lists no tears can wash away,
Reading in which one
cries out here and here
And falls into a dream upon a name.
Be
happy softly, children, for a woe
Is on us, a great woe for little
fame,--
Ah! in the old woods leave the mistletoe,
And leave the
holly for another year,
Its berries are too red.
2

And lovers, like to children, will not you
Cease for a little from your
kissing mirth,
Thinking of other lovers that must go
Kissed back
with fire into the bosom of earth,--
Ah! in the old woods leave the
mistletoe,
Be happy, softly, lovers, for you too
Shall be as sad as
they another year,
And then for you the holly be berries of blood,

And mistletoe strange berries of bitter tears.
Ah! lovers, leave you
your beatitude,
Give your sad eyes and ears
To the far griefs of
neighbour and of friend,
To the great loves that find a little end,

Long loves that in a sudden puff of fire
With a wild thought expire.
3
And you, ye merchants, you that eat and cheat,
Gold-seeking
hucksters in a noble land,
Think, when you lift the wine up in your
hand,
Of a fierce vintage tragically red,
Red wine of the hearts of
English soldiers dead,
Who ran to a wild death with laughing feet--

That we may sleep and drink and eat and cheat.
Ah! you brave few
that fight for all the rest,
And die with smiling faces strangely blest,

Because you die for England--O to do
Something again for you,

In this great deed to have some little part;
To send so great a message
from the heart
Of England that one man shall be as ten,
Hearing