The Silk-Hat Soldier | Page 2

"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
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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.
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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.
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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 how England loves her Englishmen!?Ah! think you that a single gun is fired?We do not hear in England. Ah! we hear,?And mothers go with proud unhappy eyes?That say: It is for England that he dies,?England that does the cruel work of God,?And gives her well beloved to save the world.?For this is death like to a woman desired,?For this the wine-press trod.
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And you in churches, praying this Christmas morn,?Pray as you never prayed that this may be?The little war that brought the great world peace;?Undazzled with its glorious infamy,?O pray with all your hearts that war may cease,?And who knows but