The Dawn

  July 27

As when from old Helvellyn’s height we see
    The first faint tremulous stirring of dawn
    And the rose-flush of morning is up-drawn
To the blue zenith; suddenly set free
From the dark bonds of night with giant gee
   The sun begins his course, the sombre fawn
    Is changed to golden whiteness, rock & lawn
Gleam, the dusk vale becomes an emerald lea.

The flocks leap up, the birds begin to sing
    And the heart joins in thankfulness and praise,
        With sense of indefinable certain good.
    So did it seem, when to our darkened days
Came word French valour had availed to fling
        Back from the Marne the stubborn Teuton flood.

 

 

The Crime of Wittenberg. 1914

There is a river Dante saw in Hell
    As black as ashes; River now on earth
    Seeing that Hell has here had second birth
And pity now with foes no more can dwell;
That stream brake forth at Wittenberg; men tell
    How at the banked-up coffins fiends made mirth
    How prisoners died for food, drug, raiment’s dearth
When on their camp the plague of typhus fell.

This war will end, earth cover up her blood
    And back to life triumphant peace shall nurse
        Our hope of good to bitter ruin hurled;
But Aschenbach at Wittenberg shall brood
    Above your crime for centuries – the curse
        Contempt and execration of the world.

[Aschenbach was the medical officer at the Wittenberg Camp who did nothing to stop the spread of typhus among the prisoners.]

 

The Premier’s Speech. To Labour Delegates, Jan. 15, 1915

“We must go on, or else go under”
    Those were the words the Premier said
To a stubborn people torn asunder
    Twixt love of Freedom & lust of bread.

More of fire & blood and thunder!
    More of the multitudinous dead,!
“We must go on or else go under”
    Those were the words the Premier said.

 

 

 

Commander Edward Unwin R.N. V.C. H.M. River Clyde. – The Dardanelles,

April 25. 1915

Once did he venture from his vessel’s side
    By murderous fire undaunted, and essay
    To build the lighter-bridge broke looser away
And give safe landing from the River Clyde;
Nigh dead for cold he left the bitter tide
    And nursed to strength where in his berth he lay
    Back at his post tho’ comrades bade him nay
Till work was done the desperate task he plied.

Again thrice wounded holding light each wound
    Full in the foeman’s face he sought the shore,
    And back the shipman tenderly he bore
The man who lay in helplessness half-drowned;
Nor did he cease till fainting and in swound
    Emptied of all his heart’s heroic store
    He who loved life but loved his country more
Borne back to shipboard, rest and shelter found.

Unwin, when after years the tale shall tell
    Of how your seamen dared at Helles’ strand,
    Of how your sailors lent a saviour hand
To bring our sailors through that storm of Hell
Where the few lived and where the many fell,
    The deeds they did at duty’s high command
    Crowned with the nation’s honour still shall stand
Safe shrined within our memory’s citadel.

Note. While on the River Clyde observing that the lighters which were to form a bridge to the shore had broken adrift, Commander Unwin left the ship and under a murderous fire attempted to get the lighters into position. He worked until suffering from the effects of cold and immersion, he was obliged to return to the ship where he was wrapped up in blankets. After having in some degree recovered he returned to his work against the doctor’s order, and completed it. He was afterwards attended by the doctor for three abrasions from bullets, after which he once more left the ship, this time in a life-boat, to save some wounded men, who were lying in shallow water near the beach.
He continued at this heroic labour under constant fire until forced to stop from sheer physical exhaustion. The Morning Post, July 17th.

 

 

 

The Rajput’s Desire

“Oh bring me horse and bring me lance,”
    I heard the Rajput cry,
“That here upon the fields of France
    I charge the foe and die.

Who falls in fight against the foe
    With God forthwith is found,
Who dies in bed, he needs must go
    To God a great way round.

Death comes to all, no matter when”,
    So spoke Sir Pertab Singh,
“Speed day! when I shall lead my men
    And fall for Emperor-King.”

 

 

To Flight Sub-Lieutenant R. A. J. Warneford. V.C. June 7th, 1915

With heart full of courage and hands full of thunder,
    With wings of an eagle and eyes of a glede,
In circle on circle you rose up from under
    You flung your six thunder-bolts, dared the great deed
That made the world wonder.

As sudden a hawk when the hunters are gaming
    Swoops up o’er the quarry then darting from sky
Strikes dead, so you struck through the air-monster’s framing
    And men far beneath heard one bellowing cry,
Saw it sink down a-flaming.

Then you from the shock of the air-blast in heaven
    Fell headlong and over and over were flung,
Gained balance, for nerve more than mortal was given,
    Slid gently to earth then up sky-ward you sprung
Engine whole – wings unriven.

Came home in your triumph, one only thing knowing
    That somewhere the heart of a mother would sing,
And careless of fame and her far trumpets blowing
    Came home for more bolts of your thunder to fling,
Came home with new hope on the foe to be going
    For Empire and King.

 

 

 

In Memory of Flight Lieutenant R. A. J. Warneford V.C. Legion of Honour

The days you bore the cross and wore the star,
    Born for the heights your soul had heard the call
    Of far Darjeeling’s mighty mountain-wall,
And half-impatient of your slow-winged car
You left for fields of peace the field of war,
    Hopeful you rose to death’s dark arms to fall
    And left one deed to be memorial
That shook the world from Ghent to Cooch Bihar.

Now you are freed, your soul on swifter wing,
    On nobler work eternally is bent.
        The empire mourns your loss, your hero skill,
But every airman who to heaven up-springs
    Feels at his side your purposeful intent
        Braced by your own indomitable will.

 

 

 

Homeward Bound. In Memory of Nowell Oxland, the writer of the Poem

“Outward Bound”, who fell at Suvla Bay, Aug 9, 1915

The guns still thundered from the height
    Beside that Hellespontine shore
While tenderly from out the fight
    A wounded man they bore
When swift a coward bullet sped
Straight to the heart, and smote him dead.

From Saros Gulf, o’er Samothrace
    How glad a disembodied thing
His soul rose up in eager race,
    For home on angel wing.
With one desire again to view
Those Cumbrian Hills his boyhood knew.

Once more by Northward-flowing Tyne,
    As happy as a lad from school,
Who wandered on with rod and line
    From pool to amber pool,
He sees beyond the granite bridge
The blue hills rolling from ridge on ridge.

He tracks the ghyll, whose waters haste
    To please with foaming at the fall;
He hears across the heathery waste,
    The plaintive curlew call;
Or muses on the Cumbrian plain
Far-flung through sun and mist and rain.

Now does he know, by death made wise,
    The secret of the daedal earth,
Sunset and twilight mysteries
    The awe of morning’s birth,
He is of nature’s self a part.
His heart is one with nature’s heart.

The lonely shepherd on the fell,
    Beholds him like a phantom friend
Climb to the cairn he loved so well,
    Or down the ghyll descend,
And though his steps he cannot trace
Is haunted by his happy face.

But all aver he did not die
    Of those fierce wounds on Suvla’s height
That Cumbrian fell and Cumbrian sky
    Still hold him theirs of right;
And poet of the vale and hill
He sings his songs at Alston still.

 

 

Our Angel-Host of Help. In Memory of Raymond Lodge, fell in Flanders, Sept. 14th, 1915

“His strong young body is laid under some trees on the road from Ypres to Menin.”

’Twixt Ypres and Menin night and day
    The poplar trees in leaf of gold
Were whispering either side the way
    Of sorrow manifold,

Of war that never should have been,
    Of war that still perforce must be,
Till in what brotherhood can mean
    The nations all agree.

But where they laid your gallant lad
    I heard no sorrow in the air,
The boy who gave the best he had
    That others good might share.

For golden leaf and gentle grass
    They too had offered of their best
To banish grief from all who pass
    His hero’s place of rest.

There as I gazed the guests of God
    An angel host before mine eyes
Silent as if on air they trod
    Marched straight from Paradise.

And one sprang forth to join the throng
    From where the grass was gold and green,
His body seemed more lithe and strong
    Than it had ever been.

I cried, “But why in bright array
    Of crowns and palms toward the north
And those white trenches far away
    Doth this great host go forth?”

He answered, “Forth we go to fight
    To help all need where need there be
Sworn in for right against brute might
    Till Europe shall be free.”

 

 

 

 

How Piper Laidlaw Won the Victoria Cross. Loos, September, 1915

“Pipe them, pipe them together
Men of the moor and heather!”
    So cried Lieutenant Young;
And I piped and from out the trench
Thro’ the blinding cloud of stench
    The brave boys after me sprung.

“Blue Bonnets over the Border,”
No need of further order
    Tho’ over the border was death;
Forth from the trench they came
With hearts of anger aflame
    And I piped nor paused for breath.

Right thro’ the fury of hell
Of bullet and bursting shell
    They followed the pipes I played,
Straight as hounds on the trail
Thro’ the murder of iron hail
    Unfaltering, unafraid.

Orpheus with magical tones
Stirred the trees and the stones,
    Yea, could the mountains lead,
But Orpheus and the great god Pan
Ne’er moved the heart of a clan
    To the daring of such a deed.

Still thro’ battle crash clear
My chaunters could they hear
    Those gallants the good King’s Own,
Mad for the bagpipes’ skirl
They went thro’ the onset whirl
    Wherever my pipes were blown.

Right thro’ the grim barbed wire,
Right thro’ the storm of fire
    Tho’ hundreds fell by the way,
On till the work was done,
On till the trench was won
    And the pipes had ceased to play.

Ceased how I cannot know
Tho’ I felt the hot blood flow
    As I kept my pipes atune,
Heedless of bullet sting
As I played for God and the King
    Till I fell to earth a-swoon.

Boys of the bonnets of blue
Still will ye follow true
    If the brave pipes give ye order,
And ever from Frankish ground
Where Laidlaw fell shall sound
    “The Blue Bonnets over the Border.”

Note. Before the assault on the German trenches in September, Piper Laidlaw with absolute coolness mounted the parapet during the worst of the bombardment and played the regimental march of the K.O.S.B. “Blue Bonnets over the Border.” The effect of his example was immediate and the company dashed out to the assault. Piper Laidlaw continued playing his pipe till he was wounded. For this act of superb bravery the piper was awarded the V. C. Piper Laidlaw said, “There was a light wind that morning. It was blowing a bank of gas towards the German trenches when their high explosive shells burst in its midst and sent it among our own men. For a minute or two it had a bad effect on my company, but in a flash Lieut. Young sized up the situation and noticing I had my pipes exclaimed, “For God’s sake Laidlaw, pipe them together.”

(A picture was given of the brave Piper piping in full view of the enemy in The Sphere of Dec. 11th.)

 

 

 

Edith Cavell. Oct. 13th, 1915

I have no fear for Britain, come what may,
    When woman hearts, by patriot love made strong,
    Calmly can face intolerable wrong,
And where men cast all chivalry away
Can rise to meet dark deeth without dismay –
    Knowing self-sacrifice though time be long
    Shall not in vain have joined the martyr throng
And Right shall triumph in the Judgement Day.

Sleep well heroic saviour, tried and true,
    We wake; where e’er our banner is unfurled
        We vow to hurl the tyrant from his place
        – Pitiless scourge of all the human race;
    You gladly gave your life to help the world
And all our men at arms would die for you.

 

 

Gallipoli Farewell!

One after another our gun teams went
    Thro’ the merciful night to the shore by the sea,
But for every shell the fierce Turk sent
    To Krithia’s trenches we sent back three.

And there we were left a handful of men
    Right proud of the duty, in front of a host
To help our mates from the wild beast den
    And die, if we needs must die, at our post.

“Hold on to the last,” the General cried,
    “And fire like furies your shrapnel and shell
If you die we shall know how heroes died
    To give your brothers escape from hell.

And if at the last the Turk and Hun
    And his Bulgar friend floods down to the shore,
Remember! with dynamite burst each gun
    And fire the fuse of the cartridge store.”

The stars came out and the wind was still,
    Our gunners were maimed and our limber afire,
But gun to gun we worked with a will
    Till the word went round, “Retire! retire!”

Then down to the sea by a perilous way,
    We slipped our guns, set the fuses alight,
And out we moved to the ship in the bay,
    While the stores we had fired made day of night.

Was never on earth such bonfire made,
    Nor ever was heard such crackle of shell,
Nor ever with hearts more sad was paid
    To the shore of Helles a last farewell.

Was it for this we had stormed the height,
    Endured the sun and the frost and the wind
For this that we slunk from the foe by night
    And left the best of our friends behind?

It was we who died as the great sun rose,
    Not you brave brothers who fought and fell,
No gun shall wake you, no shout of foes,
    With us it is ill, with you it is well.

To have meant but be mocked, to have tried and failed,
    Oh this was never the British way,
And sore were the hearts that day who sailed
    From Helles strand to the Mudros Bay.

 

 

At a Sailor’s Grave

       Freshwater. Feb. 7, 1916

Spirits there are known only to the few
    Who like the tender dew-falls every night
    Return with blessing and at morning light
Pass, leaving earth imperishably new;
Heir of Sir Richard Grenville such were you,
    Joyful to die for honour and the right,
    Glad-hearted tho’ you perished in the fight,
To do your duty as men ought to do.

Wherefore to-day tho’ sudden darkness fall
    We come with hope to bear you to your rest
        Beside the shore that hears the sobbing sea,
        And know beside your grave while time shall be
    All patriot hearts who listen will be blest
By sound of duty’s glorious trumpet-call.

 
 

 

 

Before Verdun

    March 1916

Watchman what of the night?
    Night comes but cometh the day,
The glimmer of dawn is bright
    Tho’ the slayers slay and slay.

God of the Right and the Just
    We stand and are not afeared,
Our bodies may pass in dust
    But we know our prayer is heard.

By the word of Clovis the King,
    By the word of the brave Pucelle,
Our souls from the dust shall sing,
    We shall triumph over Hell.

In spite of the raging Hun
    We shall plow our fields again,
And the fallows about Verdun
    Shall be fatter for this red rain.

By Meuse and its poplar towers
    Shall lovers again draw breath,
The children will gather flowers
    And never once think of death.

In the trench that knew stern play,
    That reeked with grenade and gun,
The lads and lasses one day
    In holiday game will run.

But this script of war and blood
    Shall never be hid from sight,
That tells how here men stood
    And died for France and the Right.

 

 

 

William Shakespeare

April 23, 1916

You with the truth of Alfred in your blood
    – You myriad-minded, honest, gentle, free,
    Whom Jonson loved this side idolatry
– You who from Warwick meads and Avon’s flood
Down Shottery lanes in Charlecote’s sacred wood
    Learned love of life, and joy by lawn and lea,
    With hope of blyther England yet to be
So for Right-royal, Honour-loyal stood –

Dust unto dust three hundred years agone
    Your spirit moves to quicken and command,
        Still do you bid all blear-eyed faction cease,
Still call the nation to arise as one
    To serve not recreant self but save the land,
        And hold high honour dearer far than peace.

Note. Tradition has it that on his mother’s side Shakespeare was descended from Alfred the Truthteller.

 

 

To a Mother Twice Bereaved on Hearing of the Death of her Son Lieutenant Harvey Hodgson

Break not, O mother’s heart! But still rejoice
    To think your gallant boy his best has given
    In hope to bring on earth the peace of heaven;
Wounded and healed again, it was his choice
    To teach us how to strive as he has striven
    Till back the powers of Hell and Hun are driven.

Break not, for sure he well has earned his rest
    In those fair fields where come not woe and pain,
    Fields where his spirit shall meet you once again.
Break not, of God’s dear Son he is the guest
    Who taught him how to welcome death as gain
    That so his friends to life of soul attain.

Robbed of two warrior sons, twice desolate,
    Endure the cross for joy of their pure will
    Who bid us follow, follow bravely still,
Till Britain by her loss made nobly great
    Tutored by bearing all the blows of ill
    Her task for Europe’s day of peace fulfil.

23 April, 1916

 

 

A Soldier’s Death in May

“Yes, prop my head and hold my hand,
    The hand will soon be cold as stone,
I journey to an unknown land
    And needs must go alone.

Wounds burn but on swift memory’s wing
    Such dreams of May in England come
That I forget the bullet’s sting
    In thought of peace and home.

With quickened sense and eyes more clear,
    Eyes that will close before the morn,
I see the mountain and the mere,
    The vale where I was born.

And though death take my life away
    And cheat me of the warrior’s goal,
The vision of an English May
    Gives courage to my soul.

I see in fragrant copse and dell
    Old earth put on her blue-bell dress,
The thorn against the purple fell
    In snowy loveliness.

Around the milk-white farm once more
    I hear the tender lambkins bleat,
I see the gold-leaved sycamore
    O’er-spread the shepherd’s seat.

Again through evening’s lustrous air
    Homeward the whirring falcon flies,
All round me on the mountain stair
    The vagrant cuckoo cries.

I watch high up the ruddy scar
    Flush when its skirts are turned to grey,
While still the rookery heard afar
    Talks down the dying day.

And when the blackbirds cease to flute
    And loud again the streamlet calls,
The soft-winged hunters cry and hoot
    Along the fell-side walls.

Then silence, back the barn door swings,
    The last foot hushes down the lane,
Starlight and sleep till morning sings
    And hinds go forth again.

Oh! England for such homes in May
    At peace beyond this battle-tide,
For you I give my life away –”
    He spoke – fell back – and died.

May 28th, 1916.

 

The Garden Warbler

God hath His prophets be they small or great,
  And in my lilac bush the leaves among
  Whole rhododendrons multicoloured throng
Keep for mid-May their glorious estate,
I hear for joyaunce inarticulate
  A voice that like a fountain all day long
  Pours forth perpetual stream of bubbling song
To praise its Maker and make glad its mate.

And I who listen half ashamed to hear
    Such exaltation of an innocent heart
        Proclaim its message of new hope and life,
    Feel twice rebuked I bear so small a part
In this great harmony of nature’s cheer
        That preaches peace to Europe mad with strife.

May 29th, 1916.

 

 

The Patriot Thrush

  May 31st, 1916

Patriots in my garden ground
Thrushes singing all around,
This is what I heard them say
On the thirty-first of May –
“Leaving port! Leaving port!
German ships of every sort,
Quick! quick! quick! quick!
Now’s the time to do the trick;
Go, go from the Flow
Beatty, Beatty, Jellicoe!
Stick it! stick it!”
From the thicket
Come the voices thro’ the hush,
Comes the voice of every thrush,
“Go, go, go, go,
See ye do it
Beatty, Beatty,
Jellicoe;
Ye must do it
Go right thro’ it
I entreat you
Or the world will rue it, rue it;
Cheer, cheer, Northward steer,
Leaving port, leaving port
German ships of every sort.”
So from tree and garden bush
Sang the unhesitating thrush,
This is what I heard them say
On the thirty-first of May.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1916)

In Memory of John Travers Cornwell. First class boy of H.M.S. ‘Chester’

The Battle of Jutland, May 31, 1916

His body to a hero’s grave
With pomp and state the nation bore,
Because indomitably brave
Throughout the fight one flower he wore
– The flower that breathes immortal breath
The flower of duty done till death.

The blue-jackets with solemn face
Bore wreaths of honour for the dead;
The King sent token of his grace,
The city fathers bowed the head,
And all the waves on British sands
Seemed as they fell to clap their hands.

For this young lad, till now unknown,
Had moved the Empire to the heart,
Had won the “Chester” great renown
Because he did a brave boys part,
And tho’ death smote to left and right
Stood dauntless through the Jutland fight.

The great shells hissed, the great shells tore,
For well and deadly aimed the Hun,
Stifled with fume and wounded sore
– His mates all dead about the gun,
Still could he hear the stern command,
‘Till death release you, ready stand.’

There at his post through crash of shell
Unflinchingly the hero stood,
They found him in the jaws of hell
His body weak from loss of blood,
His quenchless spirit all aflame
For duty, and the ‘Chester’s’ name.

Bring thanks and praises to his grave,
Lay on the tomb Victoria’s Cross,
For Britain still shall rule the wave
And Freedom never suffer loss
So long as lads like Cornwell stand
Till death – for home and motherland.

Brave boys of Britain braver be
To help your country at its need,
Where ’er ye on land or sea
Remember Cornwell’s noble deed
And vow your hearts, your hands, your all
To service at the country’s call.

Note. Sir David Beatty wrote, “A report from the Commanding Officer of ‘Chester’ gives a splendid instance of devotion to duty. Boy (1st Class) John Travers Cornwell of ‘Chester’, was mortally wounded early in the action. He nevertheless remained standing alone at a most exposed post, quietly awaiting orders, till the end of the action, with the gun’s crew dead and wounded all round him. His age was under 16½ years. I regret that he has since died, but I recommend his case for special recognition in justice to his memory, and as acknowledgement of the high example set by him.”

The body of John Travers Cornwell which was buried in a common grave in Manor Park Cemetery was exhumed and re-interred at the Admiralty’s expense, on Saturday July 29.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1916)

To the Memory of Our Gallant Seamen Who Perished in the Battle of Horn Reef

31 May–1 June, 1916

The last May-dew was falling
And all the birds were calling,
Silent only when the stars came out, to sing again at morn;
But north-eastward there was thunder,
Hell from heaven, on sea and under,
And the guns made night as light as day about the Jutland Horn.

I awoke, the stream was flowing,
Lambs were bleating, cattle lowing,
And the shepherd fellward going whistled loud a careless tune,
But a voice came to me crying,
“Day and night brave men are dying,
Three thousand and five hundred, for our England and her June.”

They fought for home and duty,
For a fair land’s peace and beauty,
They died for me, ah! how can I repay the debt I owe?
I can help to swell the glory
Of our seamen’s deathless story,
Men whose souls passed on in triumph when their bodies sank below.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1916)

Lord Kitchener. In Memoriam

June 5, 1916

Not since the Iron Duke passed on his way
Had such austere indomitable man
With eye far seeing and with brain to plan
Held in our hearts his universal sway.
He who has never failed us since the day
He wrought for peace in yonder waste Soudan,
Whose lion eyes a nation’s need would scan,
Who spake the word an empire could obey.

Now though we reel a moment ’neath the shock
And mourn for him who shall not see the end,
His dauntless spirit springs from out the wave
Bidding us all be resolutely brave
Saying his faith in Britain is as rock,
That dead he still is counsellor and friend.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1916)

Lord Kitchener

5th June, 1916

Mourn for the silent lonely man
Who saved us when the war began,
Who for the future dared to plan
With never failing sight,
Not since the ‘Iron Duke’ passed on
Has Britain reared a nobler son
To do what Kitchener has done
For Empire and the Right.

He broke the Mahdi’s dervish horde,
Gave the Soudan fair learning’s word,
When Egypt owned him overlord
Nile-dwellers had their due.
The Boers and their guerrilla band
Felt the firm pressure of his hand,
And friends the Boer and Briton stand
Because his word was true.

Beyond the Rhine he long foresaw
The iron fist, the eagle’s claw,
Forewarned us we must rise and draw
The sword or cease to be.
And when the robber sprang full armed,
Unhesitating, unalarmed
From men of peace his summons charmed
The armies of the free.

All unregarding praise or blame
Dead to reward and deaf to fame
The Empire’s honour, England’s name,
These, these would he defend.
Truth, Freedom, Right his great allies
His goal a life of sacrifice,
He knew the path where duty lies
And followed to the end.

War-worn and weary of the weight
Of two long years so big with fate,
Servant and saviour of the State
He heard far Russia’s cry;
And he sailed forth into the night,
The dastard mine-field wrought him spite,
There with his comrades left and right
He knew that he must die.

Calm on the quarter-deck he stood,
The thought of all his country’s good
O’ermastered death – the whelming flood
Engulphed him: so was best.
For from the agony of strife,
From wounds that stabbed him like a knife
Mistrust of his devoted life,
The great sea gave him rest.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1916)

Our Lady of Pity

The graves were gaping wide, and bones
Tossed from the tombs defiled the ground,
The church a heap of powdered stones
The altar trappings strewn around,
Bruised, battered, broken by the rod
Of war that owned no other God.

And here where once a priest had prayed
And young boy lips had moved in song
To Him Who born of Mary maid
Had come on earth to right the wrong,
The only sound that rose and fell
Was shout of cannon, shriek of Hell.

But calm amid the pitiless storm
Of shot and shell that screamed and burst,
I saw that gentle virgin form
Who on her knees the Christ had nursed,
Fearless with sadly smiling face
She hallowed all that fearsome place.

Her robe of pink, the cloak of blue,
Her golden crown untouched unstained,
And on her cheek the tender hue
Of youth’s perpetual joy remained
As if no hideous hand of war
Could age her heart, her beauty mar.

And I among the shattered dead
The foul uncharnelled wreckage near,
Gazed on her and was comforted
To think that pity had no fear,
That when the storm should pass away
Triumphant gentleness would stay.

Note. At the great battle of the Somme, September 16th, the correspondent of The Times, who tells the story of a day of victory, says, “At a point from which we watched there is a ruined church and graveyard, the church no more than a few ragged stumps of masonry and the graveyard a thing obscene and terrible. In one spot there still stands the angle of two church walls a few feet high; in the angle still on a pedestal is a carved stone figure of the Blessed Virgin, her robes still blue and pink and gold embroidered in spite of two months’ exposure to the weather, and in spite of the gas fumes that have swept over her, and her face is still serenely beautiful. Around on all sides of her lie the ruins of war. Shell holes heaped with all the wreckage of battle, every grave ploughed up, and everywhere protruding from those gaping vaults and holes the bones of those who once occupied the graves. It was very horrible and very wonderful to stand there in the grey of the dawn amid the clamour and fury as if the world was truly coming to an end while all around you the graves had already given up their dead, then to turn to the sweet Virgin in her blue and pink and gold with infinite patience and eternal pity on her face.
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1916)

The Hero-Corporal of Ontario

Thiepval, Sept. 30

Now is the land of the maple all burning with gold,
Send us a crown for the hero whoever he be,
Who held to his desperate task as a brave man can hold
And took home a captive to prove he had slain twenty-three.

Last man at the end of the trench when the Hun bombers came
– Only revolver in hand but the hand it was true,
He remembered the tear-making shells and the spurting of flame,
And he vowed for the land of the maple to give them their due.

Name? He needs none just a corporal he of the line,
Rounded the cattle at home self-reliant and brave,
But the strength that was borne of the prairie worked in him like wine,
He saw the plains blossom to distance, the red corn awave.

Mother and father for you will he sell his life dear
– Lady and Queen of the Snows for you glad will he die,
And the angel of love for his home makes his seeing more clear,
And one after one on the ground lo! the Hun-bombers lie.

The revolver is emptied, a rifle is caught from the ground,
One after one fall the foemen, the rifle is spent,
To another in hands of the dead he has leapt with a bound,
And with doom on the fliers each bullet is sent.

Then with shriek of a beast that is hunted, and down on his knee,
The last of the Huns’ four-and-twenty who came against one,
Cried “Comrade have mercy!” and mercy accepted his plea,
So the captor went home and a whole army shouted “Well done!”

Note. In the official Canadian communique for Sept. 20-27, a corporal of an Eastern Ontario Battalion is reported to have been the end man in a trench of which he held a part while the enemy held another part. A Company of Germans consisting of two officers and twenty-two men came along to attack with bombs. He killed them all but one, and that man he took prisoner. He used his revolver first and then picked up one German rifle after another. The Germans started to run. He hunted them along the trench; he had disposed of all but one, twenty-three in all, when the last flung himself down and begged for mercy, which he granted. Cf. Times, Oct. 2, 1916.

Unpublished WW1 Poems (1916)

To the Mother of Four Sons Gone to the War

Sergeant Joshua Hardisty M.M., 11th Battalion Border Regt., fell in action Nov. 18th; John Hardisty 1st Border Regt., fell in action July 30th, 1916. Two brothers, Harry and Walter, are still at the Front

Mother of four sons gone to war
Hark! how the stream mourns loud in the hollow,
Two have fallen in fields afar,
Two still the foemen follow.

Was it for this you reared each boy
In the calm of the dale and peace of the mountains,
For this, their young hearts leapt with the joy
And rush of Greenburn’s fountains.

For this that they borrowed strength, of the hills
And freedom born of the torrent’s foaming,
That sycamore buds and the daffodils
And cuckoo’s call in the gloaming,

– So nursed in their hearts the love of home,
That swift when they heard our England calling,
They answered, “O Mother we come, we come,”
Left painter’s-work and walling.

For this, in defence of Grasmere vale
They topped the parapet, bombed the trenches,
Endured the terrible shrapnel hail,
Blood, mud, and the battle-stenches.

For this, from the cottage beneath Helm-Crag
And not for the sake of a medal’s glory,
They went to offer their lives for the Flag
And Honour’s ancient story?

Weep not mother! rejoice with ride!
No more the stream mourns loud in the hollow,
But it roars applause for the twain who died
And twain who the foemen follow.

Note. Mrs. Hardisty’s youngest son, James, is now in training.

Unpublished WW1 Poems (1917)

Capt. F. C. Selous D.S.O.

Killed in action in East Africa at the age of sixty-four

Hunter before the Lord, of courage rare
He did not fare against the forest-king
Home from the chase mere giant-spoil to bring,
To smite the charging elephant, and dare
Defiance to the snarling lion’s glare;
Rather for England’s sake he dared to fling
Light into darkness and th’awakening
Trust in the white man’s word, the white man’s care.

But when the wild-beast Teuton rose and roared
He left his Surrey home, his well-earned rest
And forth to battle for the Right he went
Gave tirelessly what traveller’s years had stored
Found glorious ending for his gallant quest
And in the Nation’s heart his monument.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1917)

In Memory of President Wilson’s Speech in Congress. Feb. 3rd, 1917

Fling out the flag, and add another star!
– The star of Honour that upholds the right –
Star that shall fill the darkest heaven with light,
A beacon to the Nations from afar;
For now is choice of worser thing than war
– Peace that will brook a tyrant’s desperate spite
And let humanity sink back in night
Rather than risk the wound, and bear the scar.

Fling out the flag with glorious promise fair!
For now the western world has found its soul,
And now the cause of moral right is won
Seeing humanity up the golden stair
Moves on to God, while brotherhood leads on
And gratulation rings from pole to pole.

Note. There is something said the President, a year ago, that we love better than Peace, and that is the principles on which our political life is founded. The time may come when it will be impossible for me to keep you out of ? and to keep the national honour unstained. In his speech on 3 Feb. 1917 the President said, ‘we purpose nothing more than reasonable defence of the undoubted rights of our people. We wish to serve no selfish ends. We seek merely to stand true alike in thought and action to the immemorial principles of our people which I have sought to express in my address to the Senate two weeks ago. We seek merely to indicate our right to Liberty, Justice, & Unmolested Life.’

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1917)

Lieutenant Colin MacLehose

Died for us near Ypres, Feb. 14, 1917

How can we thank th’ incomparable power
That these young heroes fresh from school and play
Have breathed upon us in this battle-day,
For tho’ they perished in their youth’s fair flower
They left behind imperishable dower
To help our Empire on its nobler way,
Their fearless honesty our shield and stay,
Their faith in Right and Freedom for a tower.

High-hearted gallant! thou hadst learnt to rule
A boisterous world beneath the Rugby elms,
And tho’ too soon our hopes were quenched in blood
We know that somewhere in God’s warless realms
House-captain thou in Life’s eternal school
Thou leadest still in all of Truth and Good.

Note. His headmaster wrote, “Colin’s fearless honesty and faithfulness quite priceless, even if they were only meant for Rugby, simply cannot have come to an end.”

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1917)

In Memoriam. Robert Ernest Vernede – Rifle Brigade

Died of wounds in France, April 9th

“Unversed in arms” but not unskilled of pen
You who heard England calling to the sea,
Who knew the things that keep us great and free,
Who felt Right’s cause with Honour amongst men
–Mercy and Truth, had given the heart of ten
To those who fought tho’ death alone was fee,
You who bade all the fallen at rest to be
Seeing the end they fell for was in ken
–Peace and the power to live as no man’s slave
Secure from tyranny of the War-Lord’s hell –
Sleep! for the dream you dreamed shall yet be true;
You gave your best to her whose best to you
Was given; your prayer is answered, from your grave
Sounds out “I died for England, All is well.”

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1917)

The Cuckoo

April 19th 1917

Companion of the daffodils,
Loved much, but feared by some,
Again among our vales and hills
You seek your summer home,
And sudden, all the landscape fills
With thought of good to come.

The laggard, dilatory Spring
By you is shamed at last,
The hazel-wands unfurled each wing
As thro’ the copse you passt.
And o’er the larch for welcoming
Bright emerald dust was cast.

The celandine and coltsfoot heard
The sorrel in the wood,
And, cuckoo, by your calling cheered
The arum filled her hood,
While faintly, bluebell mist appeared
Above its leafy brood.

But in the heart of man and boy
More radiant flowers were found
The flowers of sweet remembered joy
Were stirred in holy ground –
And buds of hope, no cares destroy
Sprang up to greet the sound.

Hopes before you come again
With message over-sea,
Our men, who sow the blood-red grain
Shall reap Right’s victory –
That worlds of war shall cease from pain,
And Peace on earth may be.

Unpublished WW1 Poems (1917)

In Honour of H.M.S. Swift and Broke

The Channel, Friday, April 20, 21, 1917

The night was pitchy darkness, smooth the sea with April roll,
And the Germans sent six cruisers just to shell our coast and run,
But the Swift and Broke were steaming down the Channel on patrol,
When at near six hundred paces on the port they met the Hun.

We were two to six! what matter! and we heard their fire-gongs go,
Flash to flash our guns made answer, “Put the wheel right over hard,
Ram the foremost!” cried the captain, and we dashed upon the foe
Swifter ne’er was Swift in turning, but we missed her by a yard.

Like a hawk upon the quarry did we turn to seek new prey,
Smote the second with torpedo, rammed the third but missed our game,
Scurried after thro. The darkness as the foeman ran away
Then back wounded but with fight in us for new adventure came.

Thro’ the night there loomed up sudden a Destroyer helpless now
And we heard her shout “Surrender!” but we guessed her treacherous mind,
So we lay to and we listened till she heeled from stern to bow
Then we lowered boats to rescue all the living we could find.

But Broke following close behind us when we rammed had altered course,
Launched a fair and square torpedo, went ahead to gather pace,
And she turned and like a hurricane for fury and for force
Smote the third ship aft her funnels, smote and locked her in embrace.

The “Boches” swarmed aboard her but a midshipmite was there
Blind and bleeding, and with pistol kept the boarders all at bay,
And the bayonet came in handy thro’ the fo’c’stle’s battle glare
Till the wild mob melted backward and Broke wrenched and drew away.

But Broke’s heart was still unsatisfied more quarry did she crave
Rammed and missed but fired torpedo then a shell i’ the engine room
Wrought harm, but still she put about a sinking crew to save
Then swept the decks of treachery and sealed the coward’s doom.

For the Germans cried “Surrender, we are sinking by the head,”
And the Broke had soul of pity as all sailors understand,
So she drifted near to help them when with thunder-storm of lead
The German guns flared out on her who came to lend a hand.

Then our two ships fell to talking with the flash of signal-light
And the black night rang with cheering such as British sailors use,
God of battles! of all battles was there ever braver fight?
Have patrols e’er come to harbour from a bolder cruise?

With Commander Peck and Evans, with a helmsman such as Rawles,
With midshipmite of Gyles’s stuff, with tars like Ingleson
There’s the same heart in the navy, as when mourning to St. Paul’s,
The nation bore their hero who at Trafalgar had won.

Note. Cf. The Westminster Gazette, April 26th.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1917)

To Viscount Bryce

May 14, 1917

In the far future when all war shall cease
Men shall look back not only on the day
When Britain set her army in array
For Freedom, Right, Humanity, and Peace;
Then they who sowed not but have reaped increase
Will to each other wonderingly say
That some who fought not – for their hairs were grey –
Strove against War to bring us sure release.

And on that day dear friend shall sound no name
More honourable, none will shine more bright
With the world’s praise than thine; for thou hast stood
Clear-eyed to see beyond these fields of blood
The only power that can the war-god tame
A League of Nations sworn to Love not Might.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1917)

To the Memory of Lance-Corporal Dalzell for Many Years Winner of the Grasmere Guides’ Race

Killed at Monchy, May 19th, 1917

Champion racer of the fell
Now at last your race is run,
Heard you not the cry ‘All well!’
And the angel shout ‘Well done!’

Well your flying feet we knew
Up to Buthar’s Crag and back,
When like lightning down you flew
Thro’ the bracken’s pathless track.

Wondrous was the fire that filled
Your unconquerable heart;
Now at last the heart is stilled
– Heart that played a brave man’s part.

Not to any earthly ring
Comes the conqueror from the height,
You have won from God our King
Crown of duty, peace, and right.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1917)

The Speech of General Smuts

Savoy Hotel, May 22nd, 1917

Blue-eyed and blond, unsilver’d yet of hair
With tan of Afric warfare on your face,
When in that ‘Murderer’s Gap’ by God’s good grace
You scatheless came from out the foeman’s lair,
Little you thought today t’would be your care
There in your mighty world of sunlit space
To weld in unity the white man’s race
And bid two nations one allegiance share.

Lawyer and soldier, statesman all in one
With what courageous words I heard you say,
Christ must be shrined within the people’s heart,
White must be white, and black be black apart
Unarmed, undrilled – that hope of empire lay
In nations leagued about a single throne.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1917)

The Battle of Messines Ridge

June 7th, 1917

It was the time when rowans blow,
When lilacs pass and bluebells fail,
When buttercups are full aglow
And May is whitening in the dale,

That I who lay awake at dawn
Thanked God for all His gift of peace
As one by one, across the lawn,
Came songs too full of heart to cease.

The garden warbler’s bubbling clear
Mixed with the wood-wren’s quavering voice,
And willow-warblers far and near
Bade all the happy grove rejoice.

The cushat purred, the thrush sang loud,
The blackbird’s alto sounded sweet,
While rooks went o’er in clamorous cloud
To take their toll of springing wheat.

Not yet the village anvil stirred,
Not yet the shepherd sought the fell,
But dawn with hope for every bird
Had waked once more its joy to tell.

Then fear came on me, deadly fright,
I heard gun shout to murderous gun,
And knew that on Messines’ dread height
Men went for me to meet the Hun.

Here still the birds their anthem sang,
And still the vale was filled with praise,
While there volcanoes’ spite up-sprang
And gun-fire stabbed the sulphurous haze.

Here heaven on earth, there hell set free,
Here friendly birds, there men at strife,
Here love and peace and liberty,
There hate that cannot end with life.

Far up the slope behind the veil
Of shattering barrage storm our men,
While earth is shaken dawn grows pale
They beard the tigers in their den.

Innumerable wings o’er head
Flash on and wheel and scatter doom,
Great ‘tanks’ go by with ponderous tread
And pierce with tongues of fire and gloom.

Till conquerors of the fateful hill,
Whereon the Teuton put his trust,
Our British pluck, our British skill
Has stamped the War-Lords’ boast to dust.

Note. Three days before the battle of Messines the Kaiser had announced to his army that our offensive for this year was broken against his iron wall of invincible warriors.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1917)

Near Lens

June 27, 1917

Where Souchet shines by Avion
The evening comes with thunder,
A thousand cannon voiced as one
Are roaring over, under.

The smoke-cloud rises grim and grey
Above the foemen’s trenches,
There’s not a thought would bid us stay
And not a heart that blenches.

Out there beneath the sulphurous pall
The shrapnel stabs like lightning,
The men who topped the German wall
Close grip on Lens are tightening.

But I see the guns at work
In this fair July gloaming,
Know well that out of yonder mirk
Some tender thoughts are homing.

The lads who face the shot and shell
With chance of a long sleeping,
Can see the farm upon the fell,
The ghyll in whiteness leaping.

They know that now when all the light
From Silverhow has faded,
When Grasmere lies in ghostly white
’Neath Loughrigg purple shaded, –

That still above Stone-Arthur high
Old Fairfield shines in glory,
As if the day would never die
Till morn renews her story.

They hear the fern-owl purr and purr
While home the raven passes,
They hear the corncrake’s rattle whirr
Among the Boothwaite grasses.

E’en as they storm in blood and grime
Those walls with sandbags builded,
They think of walls at wild-rose time
With saxifrages gilded.

And down the elder scented lane
Behind belated cattle,
Each sees in thought his girl again
Who sent him forth to battle.

And they are glad, each man is glad
That Grasmere goes beside him,
That the sweet love of lass for lad
Is sure whate’er betide him.

For love it is the vital spark
That bears us thro’ all sorrow,
And tho’ one half the vale is dark,
Gives promise of the morrow.

Note. See account of The Times special correspondent on the “Clearing out Lens Defences.” Saturday. June 30, 1917.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1917)

The Carrier Pigeon

An incident at the Front in Flanders. Dec. 1917

Shall we not sing of you, dove or spirit,
– We who lament for your loss,
Unadorned with a riband of merit
And without a little white cross.

You of the dove-wings delicate tender,
In form of the Holy Ghost,
You who bravely your message would render
And saviour died at your post.

Forth from fury of guns and thunder
To bring us news of the fight,
With fierce shells bursting over and under
Fearless you held on your flight.

Then you wheeled and nigh fell, for the bullet
Had smote the script in your quill,
Broke your leg; with no power to up-pull it
Blood-drenched you flew on still.

Pained of flesh, for the message they gave you
Was driven into your breast,
Never a voice to encourage and save you
With cheer, as you sped on your quest.

Was it soul of an angel within you,
Or sense of the message you bore
That numbed all ache of the shattered sinew
In the thought of the duty before?

All I know is that ere death’s coming
You felt your eye growing dim,
That there in your heart dark end of your homing
Was a cup of fear to the brim.

For to birds as to men, methinks, is there presage
Of the nearing of death with its dread,
Then you alighted and gave up your message
Saved us an outpost – dropped dead.

Note. A General writes: “We loosed the pigeon from one of my firing lines with a message. It was hit by a shrapnel bullet, its message driven into its body and one leg broken, but the poor little creature struggled home to its loft and immediately died. We have had it mounted and it will be sent to the United Service Museum.”

Pigeon No 2709 – Died of Wounds received in action 4th October 1917. In the action which was fought in the region of the MENIN ROAD on the 3rd October 1917, this bird was despatched with a message from the front line to Divisional Headquarters at 1.30 p.m. The bird was hit by a bullet which broke one of its legs, drove the message carrier into its body and passed out through its back. In spite of the wounds and being out in the wet all night the bird struggled home to its loft a distance of 9 miles and delivered its message at 10.53 a.m. 4th October. It died shortly afterwards.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1917)

At the Church of St. George, Shellal Mound

Here fourteen hundred years ago,
Before they laid this great mosaic,
Met with all circumstance of woe
The Syrian cleric, Syrian laic.

And here they mourned and here they prayed
That God would give eternal rest
To him who back to earth they laid,
The Bishop George beloved and blessed.

Thereafter sent they oversea
To bid Byzantian workmen come,
And brought, for beast and bird and tree
Rich marble ‘tesserae’ from Rome.

And so they never might forget
That Christ had poured his blood like wine,
A chalice in the midst they set
And round about it wove the vine.

The land o’er-run by Paynim hordes,
The place o’er-blown by sand and dust,
Forgot this house was once the Lord’s
And held St. George’s bones in trust.

Till when we took the Turkish line
Our Anzac picks on Shellal mound
Inlaid with chalice and with wine
The great mosaic pavement found.

Across the painted floor there ran
Plain as of old the written word,
“The best of Bishops, saintliest man,
George – servant of the living Lord.”

The pavement raised with reverent care
True still to its memorial trust,
Disclosed the Bishop’s bones: soft air
Kissed them – they vanished into dust.

What matter! safe from Turk and Hun
A sacred link with past they forge,
For Christ and Right with Anzac gun
Goes forth the spirit of St. George.

Note. In their advance upon Gaza the Anzac mounted division, when they occupied the hill of Shellal between Beersheba and Yunnus, which dominates one of the oldest fords of the Wady Guzze, noticed a piece of mosaic sticking out of a Turkish trench. They therefore determined to explore the top of this mound and, in the pauses of fighting and often under shell-fire, were able to lay bare the remains of the very ancient church of St. George containing a beautiful mosaic floor with an inscription to its founder. The pavement was very carefully lifted and packed for removal by members of the Royal Engineer Corps. Beneath it was found the skeleton of the Bishop St. George with arms folded across his breast. As soon as the air touched them, the bones, for the most part, crumbled into dust; but this was carefully collected and placed in a casket. The mosaic represented a vine growing from an amphora in graceful festoons or rolls in which were birds and beasts which seemed to make obeisance to a finely modelled chalice set in the midst of the floor. The inscription some of which was lost owing to centuries of rain and climatic erasure, ran as follows:– “This temple with spacious foundations was built by our most holy Bishop and pious George in the year 622 according to the year of Gaza, (This would mean A. D. 561), and so he contributed generously to the building of the church. He who was the most saintly of us all and the most beloved of God, George was his name.” cf. Quarterly Report East London Fund for the Jews. Oct. 1917.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1917)

At Mizpeh

Nov. 20, 1917

“Set up the standard toward Zion. Stay not.”
“God will save Zion, and build the cities of Judah.”

I heard like wind in olive trees, a sighing
– Sighing for Judah desolate, forlorn,
And thro’ the lamentation came the crying
Of Hannah’s joy to think a child was born.

And by her lips of praise the word is spoken
“God brings the great ones down and lifts the low
He thunders, and his enemies are broken
The spear is snapped and back is turned the bow.”

Still, as she sang – that soul-enraptured woman –
There is a might beyond the might of swords
Still by brute force alone prevaileth no man
Still of this earth the pillars are the Lord’s.

Then did I see a mighty congregation
Pouring out water on old Mizpeh’s hill
That cleansed of heart the remnant of a nation
Might hear once more and do Jehovah’s will.

And lo! not summoned by the witch of Endor
Comes Hannah’s son, and at the prophet’s word
Falls silence. “No new message can I send or
Make known; Forsake false gods and serve the Lord.”

The vision fades, again the people gather
In sight of Ramah, quaking, for they hear
The Philistines are up, “O Holy Father
Pray for us pray and loose our souls from fear.”

Then full in view of that green skull-shaped mountain
Where one time Christ shall pay a ransom’s price
He by the water-spring of Mizpeh’s fountain
Will take a lamb and make burnt sacrifice.

And as he prays, behold from valleys under
Came the fierce host that was the people’s dread,
Then out of Heaven Jehovah loosed his thunder
And all Philistia’s army turned and fled.

Down from the hill rushed Israel and pursuing
They smote from Ramah even to Beth-car
Never before was such a foe’s undoing
And all the Hebrew land had rest from war.

God of our armies hear thy people praying,
Let thunder break once more on Mizpeh’s hill
Brute force again to rule is essaying,
Philistia’s host proclaims its purpose still.

Not in our hand shall any sword be sleeping
Till we by Thee the foeman’s torrent stem,
And once again thy people shall be keeping
Thro’ Christ thy disavowed, Jerusalem.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1917)

In Honour of Dr. Elsie Inglis

Obiit Nov. 27, 1917

At Mladenovatz the fountain ever sings
Raised by the Serbs to you their angel friend
Who fought the famine-typhus to its end;
A nobler fountain from your memory springs,
A fountain-head where Faith renews its wings
– Faith in the power of womanhood to bend
War’s curse to blessing, and to make amend
By love for Hate’s unutterable things.

Wherefore when cannon-voices cease to roar
A louder voice shall echo in our ears
– Voice of three peoples joined in one accord
Telling that gentle to your brave heart’s core
You faced undaunted all that woman fears
And clear of vision followed Christ the Lord.

Note. Two years ago the Serbians dedicated a simple fountain in Mladenovatz to the grateful memory of one they spoke of as the angel of their people. The Roumanians and Russian refugees in the Dobrudja will never forget her.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1917)

In Honour of Jemadar Lieutenant Sing V. C.

Of Gobind Singh the Rajput and his gallantry I sing,
He a man of the Rathores, of the Jodhpur warrior race,
Tall and lithe with heart of tiger, who for Country and for King
And the lives of all his squadron, dared a desperate chance to face.

For our cavalry were caught in the push upon Cambrai
And on three sides were encircled by the grey-coat German horde,
Right in front upon the fourth side was a stream to bar the way,
– The canal with bridges broken neither man nor horse could ford.

Between us and our lines lay the land where no man fared
Save from shell hole unto shell hole, in the friendly dark to creep,
Well we knew the fate of any who by day the passage dared,
Where the eyes of the machine guns their watch for ever keep.

But our Captain cried, “A message! who will take it – live or die?”
And an orderly stepped forward. He is mounted! he’s away!
But ten thousand German bullets with their fierce pursuing fly,
Dead he falls to earth, and under him rolls dead the splendid bay.

Then another man stepped forward, “Give me horse and give me word,
For the sake of him I loved so, for my far-off Indian home,
I will dare ‘land of no man’,” and he buckled tight his sword,
And he went as goes the whirlwind, never back again to come.

Then I saw the dark eyes flashing of our brave Lance-Dafadar,
And he cried, “Now give me message, I will venture death to race,
While the light of generations of his clansmen’s lust of war
And the love of all his comrades flushed the swarthy Rajput’s face.

The despatch is in his turban, he has mounted, cries farewell,
And away he speeds like lightning thro’ the bitter battle zone,
Still erect he sits the saddle’ will he win his way thro’ hell?
Yea, but win on foot, for sudden falls his charger dead as stone.

But the Dafadar runs swiftly as runs swift the jungle deer,
With his charmed life strong within him he has reached our rampart mound,
And we heard above the screaming of the guns a British cheer
And we knew the Rajput Dafadar was welcomed safe and sound.

Then he takes from out his turban the despatch, and asks reply,
Straight he leaps into the saddle, and we wonder at the man,
But Gobind Singh the Rajput – whether live or whether die –
Knows the need of all his squadron, feels the honour of his clan.

He has covered half the distance, then his horse rolls over dead,
And the foe give chase, but swifter than the swiftest can he run,
And we stopped the fierce pursers with our hurricane of lead,
And we welcomed our deliverer from the fury of the Hun.

Then the Captain cried, “Who takes it, for of answer there is need?”
“None shall take it sire,” said Gobind, “but the man who brought it here.”
“Choose your horse then,” and he chose it; and we wished him all God-speed,
We prayed for luck and sent him o’er the rampart with a cheer.

Not a bullet hissed beside him, as he galloped into hell,
Half the distance well-nigh covered, when we knew the German game,
For the Huns put up a barrage with their ‘heavies’ – shell on shell,
And the whole earth rocked to reeling from their thunder and their flame.

Undaunted, Lo! he charges through the hurricane of fire,
Then a shell upon its haunches, blew the horse he rode in air,
Blood from head to foot, he doubted if his heart was still entire,
As slow-paced toward the trenches, lest it fail him, did he fare.

Men say he moved towards them calm as tho’ upon parade,
They stripped his blood-drenched khaki, and of scratches he had none,
“Shall I venture back a fourth time sire”, was all that Gobind said,
“For I hold my life as nothing, when there’s duty to be done.”

Note. During the push at Cambrai a squadron of Indian Horse found themselves completely cut off. Encircled by the enemy on three sides with a stream canal on the fourth, they dug themselves in and determined to sell their lives dearly. The officer in command asked for a volunteer to carry despatches to the general staff. To do this meant to brave the enemy fire over a distance of a mile and a half. A mounted Indian orderly fared forth into No-man’s Land, but was soon struck down with his horse by German bullets. One after another ? others followed and shared his fate. Gobind Singh, a Lance-Dafadar, determined to try his luck. He dashed into No-man’s land and escaped unhurt for a mile. Then his horse fell, and he completed his journey on foot. A reply was asked for. Gobind Singh volunteered to take it back. He was about half way across No-man’s Land when his horse fell under him, and he ran for dear life. Germans gave chase firing all the time, but Gobind Singh outdistanced them, and the guns of our Indian squadron stopped the pursuers. The despatch required a reply. He offered a third time to make the venture. He was given leave to choose any horse he wanted, and with God-speed from his comrades he galloped off the third time into No-man’s Land. But no machine gun fire greeted him. The German trenches were silent. When he had got half way across, the German heavy guns began to thunder forth, creating in front of him a barrage wall of bursting shells. He was told by a British gunner, who was sheltering in a shell-hole that to attempt to ride through was certain death, but he answered he would risk it, and charged the wall of fire. A shell fell upon his horse’s hindquarters and blew them to atoms. He believed that he was mortally wounded, and felt that it was necessary to walk very slowly the two hundred yards between himself and our lines. The Germans were constantly firing upon him all the time but he got in safely. The surgeon who examined him found that though he was covered with blood, he had not suffered a scratch. His courage was as unbroken as ever. He asked if there was another message to be sent, and volunteered to take it, and ride through the Valley of the shadow of death for the fourth time if need be. In consequence of his despatches the isolated Indian squadron was rescued. No man ever more deservedly won the Victoria Cross. Cf. The Morning Post, Feb. 22.

Unpublished WW1 Poems (1917)

The Fall of Jerusalem

Dec. 9th

Come from thy rest thou mighty Maccabean
And hear thy people exultation raise,
Wave olive branches, shout aloud a paean,
Go round about the gates and towers with praise.

For now the city, desolate, forsaken,
Is freed for ever from the Moslem sword,
By twenty conquerors of old time taken
It greets today as Saviour Christ the Lord.

And not as once when Richard Lion-hearted
Turned back in sorrow with the prize in ken,
Un-cheated of the goal for which we started
We claim God’s Zion from the Saracen.

Today the wrong of centuries is righted,
Rest Patriarch rest, sleep well thou English King,
God helping us, our promise is replighted,
The keys of old Jerusalem we bring.

The news of the fall of Jerusalem was received in London on the day when throughout the Jewish Church there was celebration at the capture of Jerusalem by Judas Maccabaeus.

At Reading, March 17th, 1185, Heraclius, Patriarch of Jerusalem, gave to Henry II the keys of Jerusalem, and of the Holy Sepulchre, and the royal banner of the kingdom, and said, “In thee alone after God do the people of the land put their trust.” And King Henry answered, “May the power of the Lord Jesus Christ the King of power, be the defender of His people, and we will be fellow-workers to the utmost of our power.”

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1917)

Alma Mater Medicatrix

At Oxford, 1917

Ne’er felt I prouder of that Mother dear
Who gave so much Time cannot take away,
Than when I saw her, in her glad array
Of fresh green leaf and blossom’s prodigal cheer –
While sound of bells and sweet bird-music clear
Filled the soft air with mellow roundelay—
Bidding her wounded guests take heart from May,
And urging men-at-arms to persevere.

Across her park I heard drill-sergeant calls,
Where scholars walked was sound of warrior feet;
But tend’rest mother, in her garden-grounds—
While brave war-students filled her ancient halls—
With what compassion had she made retreat
For all when May was healing of their wounds.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1918)

The Ballad of the Violet May

In Honour of the Heroic Enginemen, J. Ewing and A. Noble, who brought their Drifter Home. February 1917

We were hunting submarines, hellish wolf-sharks of the sea,
When a squadron of Hun cruisers swooped like lightning on their prey,
And we men of the patrol knew how sure our end must be
So we turned and faced them valiantly as British sailors may.

On a moment all was thunder and the night was full of flame,
But our shot glanced off their armour as the hail falls of a slate,
And we thought of home we loved so, knew the ending of the game
But for God and King and Country we faced fearlessly our fate.

Point-blank the cruisers volleyed, and point-blank we answered back,
Dead and dying all around us in the tangled wreckage fell,
Till but two of us were scatheless, for the coward cruiser pack
With their searchlights full upon us, raked us fore and aft with hell.

One by one we saw our sister boats plunge blazing ’neath the wave,
Our engine room was flooded and we felt we could not float,
Our skipper lay sore wounded, but we swore his life to save,
Staunched the blood and laid him gently with a deck-hand in the boat.

Launched away, guns ceased, the foeman well we knew had taken heel,
And the Violet May showed brightly for the flames were taking grip,
When my mate cried cheerily, “God! Jem” she is floating sound of keel!
Let us board and fight the flames fore and aft, and save the ship.”

We heard the shells exploding, and the steam escaping free,
Saw the flames were gaining fiercely and we knew the risk we ran,
But we gave our skipper promise not to leave him to the sea,
For of all the drifter skippers there was never braver man.

So we turned and tied the painter, took the buckets in our hand,
And we fought the fire like demons, well-nigh strangled by the choke,
Then we brought aboard the skipper who should never more see land,
Laid the deck-hand down beside him, and the dawn upon us broke.

Never dawn was gladlier greeted as they towed us slow ahead,
With the water gaining on us, neck and neck with Fate our race,
But we won the race and anchored with the skipper lying dead
– He had entered port before us, and a smile was on his face.

Unpublished WW1 Poems (1918)

Pheidippides at the Front

Athens gave honour to the man
Who raced for help and met with Pan,
With votive garlands, torches’ flame
For ages kept alive his name
Whose warning by the Goat-god, won
Freedom, at glorious Macedon.

But these brave men, – our Runners – these
True followers of Pheidippides,
Who run for help to men beset
By bullet-hail and barrage-net,
To race to Sparta have no need
For all are of the Spartan breed.

In No-man’s fiercest battle-zone
When shell-bursts cut the telephone,
And the swift pigeon on the wing
Falls to the earth a wounded thing,
These, strong of heart, as runners go
To bear men tidings of the foe.

Unerringly they learn by day
Each cross-cut path, each devious way;
Each friendly shelter-hole of shell,
Each duck-board trench they know full well,
And straight for home as bee on line
Thro’ mist and maze the path divine.

At night when all the battle-rim
Flames, and for smoke the stars are dim,
With a sixth sense that cannot fail
As sure as Indian on the trail
From post to post these Runners speed
To bring us message at our need.

Tho’ in their battle-blasted place
They cannot hope to see the face
Of Arcady’s great Lord, nor meet
The God who wears the wild-goat feet,
Or hear him promise instant aid
If vows to him are duly paid.

Each Runner makes his heart th’abode
And temple for a nobler God,
And offers if he lives or dies
Himself – his life – for sacrifice,
Looks on beyond a soldier’s grave
To One Who dauntless died to save.

Note. We hear too little of the splendid heroism of our ‘Runners’ at the front. These brave young men make it their duty to know all the topography of the battle-field and hold themselves in readiness at a moment’s notice by day and night to be bearers of despatches from the firing line to the Staff head-quarters. They have often to race through the barrage of shell and the bullet hail of ‘No-man’s land’ in their arduous enterprise. Many men start who never return, but without their aid, when telephones are cut and carrier pigeons are killed, it would be impossible to know how the battle was faring, and in what jeopardy for lack of help our fighters were placed. Cf. News-bringers, by Hamilton Fyfe, Daily Mail, March 15, 1918.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1918)

Friday, March 22nd, 1918

Never with more majestic gift of light
Did blithe March morn upon our fellside break,
Nor ever to astonied eyes did lake
Give back such double splendour of the height
Of russet Silverhow: All purple bright
Wych-elm and budding alder seemed to make
One glory, every springtide thing must wake
To hear the gay thrush singing left and right.

But neither sun nor lake, fell, tree nor bird
Could charm away the darkness of my soul
And make me feel that love and life were born,
For through the silence of the listening morn
Where mighty armies dashed in hate I heard
Dark doom’s unintermittent thunder roll.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1918)

The “Vindictive’s” Grave

(Ostend, May 9-10)

It was on the ninth of May
Vindictive passed away,
They said “she’s going Thames-ward
– Just to make a London show,
– Sixpence each to see the sight
Of the wounds she won in fright!”
But Vindictive answered nothing,
And they none of them could know.

The wind was light north-west,
– Scarce a wave to curl its crest,
As we went toward “Ostend.”
– Motor, monitor, and scout;
– Every hand a volunteer!
And to help our hearts with cheer
The starry Lion over
Looked magnificently out.

Veiled in cloud, we neared our work,
When the fog came down with mirk,
But Vindictive never faltered,
For she knew the promised end;
Thro’ the shoals she nosed her way,
Passed the place where Sirius lay,
Entered harbour and swung cross-wise
In the fairway of Ostend.

Good old Glory! Well content
With her Medway-mud she went,
While the searchlights criss-crossed over
And the night was light as day;
Then, deliberate and slow
She lit fuse, and plunged below,
And her seamen leaping overboard
Stole safe from out the fray.

Bold Vindictive! With the best
You have earned an honoured rest!
Tho’ your bones may rust till Doomsday
In an unforgotten grave,
All the courage of your soul
Still shall haunt “Zeebrugge’s” Mole,
And your voice shall cry with cheer to us
From every channel wave.
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1918)

Major McCudden. V.C. DSO, MC. MM

July 11, 1918

Hero: with wings of an eagle and eye of a hawk!
Now the wing breaks, and the eyes will ne’er waken from sleep.
Now the will fails no endeavour no danger could baulk
Never again to the sun & the cloud shall you leap.

Slain: Not by hounds of the air have you met with your fate,
Slain by the treacherous heaven you learned so to trust!
Slain in the game that you loved so, and took for your mate
You so alive for the onset, now dead in the dust.

Oh the fierce joy that you taught us in battle array,
Wheeling & whirring, and diving thro’ thunder of guns.
Oh the grim gain that you brought us, who swooped on the prey
Smote and smote on, to the wonder & woe of the Huns.

Now ? venture, you greet them the forty and five
The ghosts that you made, they forgive you and smile to your face,
You who had learnt not for self but for country to strive;
They who fought well & had learned of your chivalrous grace.

You in a world where the spirit has need of no wings,
They in a world that is warless, where brother-hood stands;
You whom we honour the doer of desperate things
Honour shall find, where the foemen as comrades join hands.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1918)

General Foch

July 19, 1918

Find me a heart that never feels despair,
With mind far-sighted, clear to see the end,
That knows before-hand all his foes intend
And cannot be o’er taken unaware.
Find me a heart with readiness to share
All hardship with his humblest soldier friend
With patience that unsleeping can attend
Till the great moment comes, to do and dare.

Then fill that heart with passion – all to give
So human kind with liberty may live –
And I in turn will yield a poet’s praise,
For to that heart we tired of tyrants’ lust
Can the whole welfare of a world entrust,
And with due thanks its monument will raise.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1918)

At Baslieux

A brave major (cf. ‘Times’ July 24, 1918)

Nameless he is! but a wide world shall name him,
He with two companies circled by Huns –
Sent a dove message, “Surrender would shame him
He could hold out,” so – as soldier became him –
Stuck to his post, and directed our guns.

Hero! he rose to heights godlike – supernal,
Fearless tho’ round him the foemen were massed,
Thro’ seven long hours – each moment eternal –
Waited for succour in maelstrom infernal,
Waited in vain, sent this message – his last –

“The Boches are on us! All lost! But our choice is
Death, not surrender, good work has been done,
Turn your guns on us!” And France still rejoices
To think, tho’ she sent the death asked for, their voices
Sound out with cheer till the War shall be won!

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1918)

The Deliverance of Damascus

October 1st 1918

Now to Damascus where the streams are flowing
Pharpar and Abanna as crystal clear,
Where still her roses in late bloom are glowing
Among the walnut trees with Autumn sere.

Comes the fair day, which unto Saul the blinded
Came as the mouth of Ananias told,
When he who in the darkness still is minded
To follow Christ, ‘The Just One’ shall behold.

For now at last the Turkish yoke is broken,
No more Misrule shall plague the favoured land,
Swift Retribution Lord! we take for token
Of Thy just will and justice-dealing hand.

Now is the Day of Judgment, Christ descending
As Moslem’s faole, sounds the trumpet call,
Four hundred hears of sorrow now are ending
And peace and plenty come with joy for all.

Cloudless uplift the Lebanonian Mountains,
Now flow the streams through happier orchard bowers,
More gladly leap the merry hearted fountains,
More brightly shine the milk-white Minaret Towers;

Down the street ‘Straight’, all feet are moving faster
There us new life and stir in each bazaar;
Never again the Turk shall here be master
The Cross has quenched the Crescent and the Star.

From every Mosque to-day, hark! lustier voices
Sing the ‘Adan’ with gratefully clearer call to prayer,
There is no heart but rejoices
For gladness fills the sunlight, scents the air.

The Dawn! The Dawn! with rose the sky is brighter,
The darkness fades, the sullen war-clouds flee,
Thanks to our General! Thanks to every fighter!
Damascus hails the morning of the free.

O grey-haired Mother of all cities builded!
So oft by cruel conqueror trampled down!
Fair as old Hermon’s snows with sunshine guilded
Queen of the Desert, rise and wear thy crown!
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1918)

The Deliverance of Lille

Oct 17, 1918

Do you hear the drums at Lille?
Do you here the fifers’ squeal?
Friends are marching through the city, her deliverance has begun,
For the robber host of grey
Though the unjust has stolen away
And vanished, as clouds vanish, at the rising of the sun.

Oh the joy on every face,
The tumultuous market place!
There are kisses, kisses, kisses, for each khaki-coloured man,
Four years misery and pain
Of a cruel Tyrant’s reign
Gone for ever, and for ever, and “according unto plan.”

Not the million pounds they stole
Can avail to make Lille whole,
Not the fifteen thousand citizens to bonds and slavery driven,
These returned shall still cry shame
On the pillage fierce as flame,
And the hands that hang down idle shall demand their looms be given.

But the bitterness is past
Lille is ‘home’ again at last
For her innocent defenceless ones, four years to wolves a prey,
Though the bells can no more ring
Every heart in Lille can sing
The Deum to The Lord of Hosts who brought fair Freedom’s day.

Hark the drums that roll and beat!
Hark the cheering down the street!
While the flags brought fresh from hiding – the red, the white, and blue,
Flung out for Gallant France
Cry aloud “Advance, Advance”
To the boys who wrought deliverance to see their victory thro.

Unpublished WW1 Poems (1918)

In Memory of Rev. T. B. Hardy VC. DSO., MC., Chaplain to the King

Never again to walk the pleasant lea
Of Hutton Roof or climb grey Farleton Scar
He lies at rest, where only comrades are
Who fought for Right to keep our England free,
This was his soul’s desire, with Death for fee;
And we who watched his gallantry from far,
Feel him more near, released from toils of war,
To touch our hearts and fire our chivalry.

There where he sleeps, neath kindly alien skies,
True shepherd, now secure from wars’ alarms,
Shall we not write above his soldier’s grave
“Here leader of brave men a padre lies,
Who oft-time bore the wounded in his arms
Others he saved, himself he could not save.”

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1918)

The Armistice

When the glad tidings leapt from East to West
Of Right triumphant and the reign of Peace
Too numbed for very joy to feel sur-cease
Even of Pain – so long th-accustomed guest.
I wandered forth with sorrow still deprest
For those whose courage gave the world release
Sowers whose hands shall never reap increase
Who in far battle-furrows lie at rest.

The happy sun sank down, and overhead
Night flung the en-spangled banner of the sky
Each star that shone did seem a hero dead
Who dying for his country, cannot die –
I cried “By such a host in glory led
Man’s Brother-hood shall march to Victory.”

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1918)

King Albert’s Return

Brussels, November 22nd, 1918

“God will be with us”, so you said
When first your realm was overrun,
When on that narrow strip of land
By Yser’s banks you made your stand
Against the invading Hun.

“God has been with you”, so we say
When crowned with faith and justified
To welcoming Brussels once again,
You come by God’s good grace to reign,
Your consort at your side.

You, when your land went up in smoke,
Saw thro’ the cloud sure Freedom’s goal,
Felt neither storm nor stream could move
Your throne – a loyal people’s love,
And shared with them your soul.

Wherefore to-day, with one accord
Your people heart-felt homage bring,
And long as Belgium’s banner waves
She claims you for her lion – braves
A lion-hearted King.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems (1918)

Peace Upon Earth

Xmastide 1918

Four years in patient silence have they hung –
These patriot angels – these obedient bells –
To-night each joyful messenger re-tells
The story ever-old but ever-young:
For “Peace on Earth” no ringers ever rung
More gladly. Hark! the music how it swells
Out o’er the lake and up the listening fells,
And with what passion sounds each iron tongue!

Peace upon Earth! for this our heroes died,
And we who live must strive for Peace on Earth,
Else these our brothers will have died in vain,
– Else vainly has the Christ-child come to birth;
Wherefore on this triumphant Christmas-tide
We swear to work for Peace on Earth again.

 
Unpublished Poems – Aftermath of WW1 (1919)

New Year’s Day, 1919

As when with loss of crew and gear, for days
Storm-buffeted, o’er waters often scanned
But scanned in vain, he sees the wished-for land,
And with much sounding, but by dangerous ways,
The mariner presses forward through the maze
Of rocks and shoals – scarce-guessed – on either hand,
Then furls the sail and gives his last command
And leaps ashore with thankful heart of praise;

So this young year, thro’ storm and tempest comes,
With loss of treasure and with loss of crew;
Sees a strange world rise up – with rocks ahead;
But by Hope’s compass, Faith’s deep-sounding-lead
Steers for a land of happier hearts and homes,
With praise to Him who maketh all things new.

 
Unpublished Poems – Aftermath of WW1 (1919)

The Home-Coming of Nurse Cavell

1919

Who is this they bring with lamentation
But with triumph to her English home?
This is she whose courage served the nation
Yea shall help it in the days to come.

She who in the Belgian halls of healing
Nursed of foe and friend all wounded men,
Angel-deeps of love and hope revealing
Christ beside her – beyond mortal ken;

She, who dumb before her murderers standing
Flinched not – proud for England thus to die,
Heard a voice long known with clear commanding
“Fear not! follow on to Calvary!”

Feared not, followed, died – for ever living,
With these solemn words her last “good spell”,
“A Patriot’s love is not enough; forgiving –
We needs must love our enemies as well.”

 
Unpublished Poems – Aftermath of WW1 (1919)

Peace

June 24th 1919

“The red poppies cover the slopes of Verdun and hide with their blood-red drapery the graves of the thousands who died for Peace.”

How Verdun’s poppies – fair with June’s increase
Rehearse the tale of blood and butchery,
So that we pray their blossom-time pass by
And their green wins may pour for pain’s release
The anodyne of Hope that wars shall cease;
Hark from the ground seven million whispers sigh,
Saying, “We died for Peace and Liberty,”
While twenty million wounded plead for Peace.

Peace over restful land and happier sea,
Peace with the song of men who bind the corn,
Peace with the shouts of those whose head [bread] is sure,
Peace of a world rejoicing to be free
From haunting terror, Peace that shall endure,
Peace in whose eyes new light, new love, are born.

 
Unpublished Poems – Aftermath of WW1 (1919)

At General Botha’s Grave

August 30 1919

As when a rock that wind and storm withstood
Falls, and the beacon shines no more to save,
So we who stand beside this patriot’s grave
Feel the rock-man who taught us brother-hood.
Unmoved by popular winds, or Flattery’s flood
– Who proved full fealty to the oath he gave,
Who showed us conscience would alone make brave
And only love could work for common good—

Has fallen; but as we gaze across the night
Above bewildering waters gleams a star,
The glory of a warrior-statesman’s name,
Whose torch unquenchable shall shine afar
Because he – careless of all praise or blame –
Unswerving followed Freedom, Peace, and Right.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems – Undated

Race Meetings & the War

Not to ourselves alone we live & die
For we have sons beyond the seven wide seas
And they have babes upon their mothers’ knees
One day to read this great year’s history;
Wherefore to-day with resolution high
At duty’s call disdainful of all ease
We waive aside the turf’s insistent pleas,
Partakers of our nation’s agony.

For how with Armageddon on before
Could Britain lose its soul for lust of play,
How dress & gamble there on Ascot heath
While our brave sons were striving unto death,
How ? at Tattenham corner when its roar
Drowned the loud guns that kept the foe at bay.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems – Undated

The Munition Workers

Here’s to health! and here’s to luck!
For the men who shewed their pluck
When they heard their comrades cry,
“Send us shells and give us guns
Or we perish by the Huns
And with us will Freedom die.”

So from farm and shop they came,
Faced the furnace and the flame,
Bare of breast and bare of back,
Seized the red-hot bolts that swung,
Stamped them thro’ the moulds, and flung
Floorwards – there to turn to black.

Men unskilled but swift to learn
In the lathes they made them turn
Till the shells were hollow-cored,
Bade the girls to lend their aid
–Girls of all work unafraid
–Girls with hearts in full accord.

Night and day, and day and night
Did the workers work with might,
Till from trenches came the call,
“Now at last with Fritz we’re even
Thanks for timely succour given
Brave munition workers all!”

Straight replied the workers then
“Trust us brother fighting men,
We are comrades – you in hell,
We in Heaven – with you compared –
Twixt us shall the task be shared
Till Peace comes and all is well.”

Unpublished WW1 Poems – Undated

The Blind Soldier’s Return

I left the meadows bright as May,
The bluebell mist in copse and dell,
The thorn trees foamed beside the way
And I remember well
How white the farm stood out that day
Against the fern-clad fell.

Now back from France I come in pain
No cliffs of snow stand up to greet
And give me welcome home again
No meadows glimmer sweet,
I wait in darkness for the train
And hear the engine’s beat.

Once more I gain the Cumbrian wild
No sunlight strikes across the moor,
I see no face of wife or child,
I grope towards the door,
To prisonhood unreconciled
I feel life blank and poor.

But when I think I paid this fee
To help my country to defend,
And know what kindly hearts there be
To succour and befriend,
“England!” I cry, “my cross for thee
I’ll bear unto the end.”

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems – Undated

A Song of Peace

Not with bowed heads but with up-lifted eyes
To those far hills whence came the nation’s aid,
About our altar of self-sacrifice
We stand in robes of thankfulness arrayed.

Great presences are with us, Brotherhood
Fair Peace that crowned with olive sheathes the sword,
Freedom for all with Hope of endless good,
And Honour for a nation’s spoken word.

Nor only these, triumphant from afar
Throng the unnumbered dead who shall not die,
Heroes who went but came not back from war,
Conquerors, and crowned with immortality.

Hush! for they speak from out the cloudy veil,
“We gave ourselves for God and our dear land
Without your sacrifice our dead must fail,
And all our labours crumble into sand.”

Wherefore, oh people of the seven seas,
Cast forth for ever hate and party feud,
Perish the lust of gold and lust of ease
And work to bless a happier multitude.

We came to help from burning Himalay,
From Austral bush, New Zealand’s pasture-plain,
Canadian prairie, and we passed away
Grant that our blood be not poured out in vain.

Lo we return in spirit and in power,
Not weak as mortals when for you we died,
For God has given His purpose for a dower
And all the hosts of heaven are at our side.

Friends and not foes in brotherhood we stand
To strengthen hearts who own the Lord of Peace,
Till Love’s great banner wave in every land
And War’s red curse from all nations cease.

Unpublished WW1 Poems – Undated

A Thought of Home in the Trenches

Here in the trenches Death left and to right of us,
Crackle of rifle and thunder of shell,
Mother thank God that you cannot have sight of us,
You in your Heaven of home, I in Hell.

Forth from his stable old Dobbin goes peacefully,
Peacefully father bends over the plow,
Gulls hove round him so glad and so easefully,
Angels of peace how I think of them now.

Calm falls the night and like stars come to earth again,
Lanterns go swinging from barn to the byre,
When shall goodwill amongst men have its birth again?
When shall we meet round the ingle-nook fire?

How they come back all the fallows in sight of us,
Mountain and lake, the white farm on the fell!
How they send courage for God and the right of us,
They in their Heaven of home, I in Hell.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems – Undated

A Welcome to Jack on Leave

With a broad ? over his back
And a check-bundle under his arm,
Open neck, and a riband of black
With its knots’ irresistible charm,
He who hunted the submarine pack,
He who countered the mines’ hidden harm
He who drenched by the spindrift & wrack
Helped watch, while we slept & were warm,
He who saved us from famine & dearth
He who kept the inviolate sea,
Has come back to the land of his birth
–That land still unconquered & free.
Who shall tell of his deeds & his worth
Who shall pay the unpayable fee?
Was there ever a braver on earth,
Here’s my heart, Jack! and hand-shake for thee.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems – Undated

Maytide’s Memorial

The white is on the heckberry,
The foam is on the thorn,
And underneath the budding tree
The blue-bell mist is born.

The stubborn oak and sycamore
Renew their golden dream,
The fern unfolds its feathery store
Beside the mountain stream.

Hark! cuckoo calls from hill to hill,
Young thrushes try their wings,
The chiffchaff pipes, with bubbling trill
The garden warbler sings.

Freckled wit lambs each shining mead
Has found May’s happiest voice,
Bird, beast and flower have all agreed
In sunshine to rejoice.

But I who wander by the mere
Beneath the coral fell,
Must think of those who cannot hear
What joy the wood birds tell.

Men who for love of home on earth
Will never more return
To this dear land that gave them birth
Our gratitude to learn.

Deaf to the voice of jocund May
Unlike the blessed flowers
No sun can call them forth to-day,
No spring renew their powers.

But in the unforgetful heart
Their spirits feel the spring,
They bid us go awhile apart
For tender communing.

It was because the soul of May
Had passed into their blood
They gladly gave their lives away
That others might have good.

E’en as they fell from far was borne
A dream of home and spring,
They saw the foam upon the thorn,
They heard the warbler sing;

And ’ere dark Death their lips had kissed
To bid a long farewell
Came vision of the blue-bell mist
And wind-flowers in the dell.

They died that May with happier hours
For Britain might befall,
And song of birds and scent of flowers
Are their memorial.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems – Undated

Memorial Hymn

From out the deeps to Thee we cry
Our Hope and Refuge sure,
Thy comfort to our souls supply
And teach us to endure.

O Heavenly Father, to Thy care
We trust our sons who died
That all the world may Freedom share
And Right not Might abide.

Grant us for those brave lives laid down
In pure self-sacrifice,
That each may wear the victor’s crown
In peaceful Paradise.

Oh bid us, as we mourn their loss,
Be strengthened by their deed
To bear in turn our bitter cross,
For this our country’s need.

God of the Living, Grant us grace
To keep our hearts in peace,
Till we behold them face to face
Who died that war might cease.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems – Undated

Sorrow in May

Sweet is the air, full-breathed of May
The flower is on the thorn,
And all the meadow-lands are gay
With garniture new-born.

But ah! my heart is sad – is sad –
By Grasmere’s vale & shore,
To think my gallant soldier lad
Will never see them more.

He went to fight for God & King,
And thro’ the storm of shell
He heard the garden-warbler sing,
He saw the fern-clad fell,

He cannot hear the warbler now
So deep his soldier’s grave,
And what can I do but bow
And pray to be as brave?

Thro’ days of agony and blood,
He played a hero’s part,
For neath a sycamore there stood
The cottage of his heart.

How oft when parched with bitter thirst
His courage could not fail,
For sudden on his vision burst
This fair well-watered vale.

For these he marched, for these he fought,
So these at peace might be;
Home of his heart, thrice-bitter thought
Home he no more should see.

[The stanza below has been crossed out and replaced by lines that are difficult to read.]

I roam the fields, they mock my smart,
The lambs so joyful are
The fells are sad for he was part
Of tarn & upland scar.

And I, who wander forth forlorn
By shining lake and dale
Felt glow of sun and gleam of thorn
To cheer cannot avail.

Silent, I sorrow on my way,
My heart all out of tune
While this unsympathetic May
Leads on to careless June.

[Next stanza is difficult to decipher and has not been included.]

All these by Heavenly powers are meant
For aching hearts relief,
And May and happy June were sent
To heal a nation’s grief.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems – Undated

All For Each and Each For All

Turn the lathe, and wield the hammer,
Wield the hammer blow on blow,
Dockyards never cease from clamour,
Furnace never cease to glow;
Hark! hear the forges call
All for each and each for all.

Let the ingot fiery-red
To th’expectant anvil swing,
Bid the hammer overhead
Give it strength to love the king;
With each thud it seems to call
All for each and each for all.

Slowly for the giant gun
Let the patient augur bore,
Mile on mile the steel wire run
Round and round the central core;
Not a yard but seems to call
All for each and each for all.

In the halls of humming sound
See girl faces row on row,
All the lathes are turning round,
Shells to burnished beauty grow;
Hark! the men and women call
All for each and each for all.

Brothers! Sisters! far away
Facing death our gallants stand,
Helpless if an hour’s delay
Rob them of your helping hand;
Hark! the ships and trenches call
All for each and each for all.

Brave Japan, New Zealand ranch,
Austral bush, Canadian farms
India, Egypt stern and staunch
Swell the cry for arms, for arms;
Russia, France, Italia call
All for each and each for all.

Unpublished WW1 Poems – Undated

The Voyage of Life

A light wind fills the sails of youth,
We steer towards a happy shore,
There is no questioning of truth,
We hear no angry passions roar,
The sun shall shine, the night be clear,
The pole-star burns, we have no fear.

An Eldorado haunts our dreams,
And busy with our bartering game
We cross the sunny ocean-streams,
We quite forget the whence we came
Drop pilot with adventurous heart
And push straight on without a chart.

Sometimes a father’s last words come
Thro’ silence, but we close our ears,
A mother as she kneels at home
Shines phantom-like but disappears,
For other voices sound so fair
And we are men, we need no prayer.

Only in all the rush of life,
–The toss of sea, the change of strand,
There rises thro’ the storm of strife
A longing for our native land,
And He Who stilled the raging seas
Knows that our hearts are ill at ease.

Then on a day in sight of land
When all our hopes have suffered wreck,
When death is on the reef-bound strand,
And waves have washed us from the deck
We cry to God and sudden light
Gleams like a beacon thro’ the night.

Beaten and bruised by surges’ flail
Unto the rock of hope we cling,
Naked, forlorn we hear ‘All-hail!’
It is the voice of Christ the King,
And at His call we leap ashore
Saved, and at home for evermore.

Unpublished WW1 Poems – Undated

German Hate

When the fierce dragon forth of Heaven was cast
He spued and still can spue a wide-world hate.
Wonder not then no centuries abate
This poisoned flood of hatred unsurpass’t
Nor doubt that love shall conquer at the last.
Possess thy soul in patience, for the fate
Of poison makers, tho’ the doom come late,
Is death by its own poison’s venomous blast.

And tho’ hate now unmitigable seem
And Hell enlarge its mouth and laugh for glee
Two souls must hate, two hearts engender strife
If nought prevail to stem the virulent stream
Let it pass on to pity’s cleansing sea,
And give for death and hatred, love and life.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems – Undated

To the Good Ship “Jason”

Nov. 26th

When Jason sailed from out the Isles of Greece
To seek his soul’s great vision, lo! he found
A loathly dragon coiled his quest around,
A fiery guardian of the Golden Fleece:
And you who seek your golden vision Peace,
Peace and Goodwill on Europe’s troubled ground,
You find a dragon spitting fire and sound
Whose roarings as of thunder cannot cease.

Be not disheartened, shipmen of the West!
Not ineffectually with hope ye sail
You trust the children to be wiser far
Than this old dragon with his men of war,
You yet shall find the vision of your quest
And Peace, Goodwill on earth, shall still prevail.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems – Undated

General Joffre’s Farewell

“Three men for death!” the General said,
And thirty-six stepped forth to dare,
“Let lots be cast,! and lots were shed
And we three men as good as dead
Made ready for our flight in air
Foredoomed, but unafraid.

But as our great birds moved to fly
“Halt!” cried the General, “never so
Should children leave their sire, to die
Without one word of last good-bye,
Take my embrace brave sons, then go
To death or victory.”

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems – Undated

‘We have sworn war shall not cease’

We have sworn war shall not cease,
Nor our statesmen think of peace,
Till Belgium be the mistress of her desolated land,
Till the menace of the world
From his War-lord’s throne be hurled
And in joy of independence all the weaker nations stand.

We are going forth to fight
For the glory of the Right
In wakeful trench and battleship ? on the brine
Stars fight for us above
Duty, faith, and hope and love,
And Tho’ might may darken over us the brighter they shall shine.

 
Unpublished WW1 Poems – Undated

The Voice of the Striker

Give me a farthing more an hour
Or else what matters it to me
If Might rule Right & none be free
That Kaiser win by land & sea
And Deutschland uber alle be
The one world-? power.

Why should I care if half the flower
Of all our best & noblest braves
Lie far in French & Belgian graves
Why should Britannia rule the waves
Why should not Britons all be slaves
Give me a farthing more an hour.

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