Into Action
Soldier, when to war thou goest,
Firm and fearless take thy stand,
England's soldier-saint protects thee,
Michael fights at thy right hand:
All the host of heaven guards thee,
Mighty Army of the Lord!
In thy wake, lest foes surround thee,
Sweeps thine Angel's flaming sword.
Trust the comrade whom thou lovest
To the care of God above,
Till the hour of battle prove thee
Worthy of his splendid love:
But, if Death's dread voice thou hearest
Midst the shouts of Victory,
Die triumphant, knowing surely
God hath greater need of thee.
- Guillemont, Sept., 1916
Stand To! stand to! See in the East
The sky burns red as rich, rare wine,
Each man his battle weapon takes
Awake, alert, to hold the Line.
Old comrades who have fought and died
Stand by and whisper in our ear -
'Be strong, and brave, and filled with hope',
And with their ghostly presence cheer.
Each bright, keen, polished bayonet blade,
A red glow borrows from the sky;
Each rifle barrel's burnished face
Reflects the soldier passing by.
Great Captain, at the last 'stand to!'
Of all the Hosts, when deeds or words
Avail not, grant we may present
Our souls as spotless as our swords.
- Loos, 1915.
(Killed in action at Loos, 1916)
See him standing at the corner,
Cynosure of friendly eyes,
Challenging their kindly sallies,
Combatting with swift replies.
Eyes alight with Life and Laughter,
Brown eyes full of mirth and fun;
Fresh face tanned by months of warfare,
Lithe limbs browned by summer sun.
Suddenly a shell comes screaming,
Through the blue vault overhead,
Strikes - His laughing lips are silent,
All his splendid youth lies dead.
Death! whose arrow countless thousands
And unerring aim have proved,
Could you not have aimed untruly,
Spared for me the boy I loved?
(From the trenches near Loos)
This morning as I walked the winding road,
Through villages shell-shattered and forlorn,
I marked how every dwelling had its scar,
Nor was there one but was by Battle torn: -
Long since the inhabitants had fled away -
Only the birds were there that summer morn.
And suddenly I spied at the cross-ways
A crownéd Christ upon a cross of pain,
Whose eyes, unfathomable utterly,
Looked ever out across the shell-scarred plain;
Behind Him rose the shadow of His House,
Which men in substance built - and broke again.
Even thus, through every hamlet that I passed
It was the same - Christ reigned triumphantly,
And men of Hate no weapon could devise,
To break His Cross, or mar His Effigy:
But of His goodness He permits them stay
To be our Help and Strength eternally.
- Gommecourt, June, 1917.
Last evening as I walked the Line,
My heart with cares and fears opprest,
I turned my eyes up to the Sun,
And saw the glory of the West.
Death claimed that day brave hearts I loved,
No solace found I anywhere,
I groped as one bereft of light,
And all my world lay shattered there.
But suddenly this Thought arose,
And calmed my fears, and soothed my pain,
'Ten thousand sunsets have I seen,
Yet never one the same again.
What power supreme must He possess
Who paints the sunset day by day,
In colours that no art may match,
And changeful everlastingly!
Yea, surely He who fashions suns
And flings their glories far and wide,
Will fold my friends in His embrace,
And keep them ever by His side!'
'The garden of Paradise is beautiful;
but take heed that thou account as gain
the shade of the willow and the borders
of the cornfield'.
Between the ruined villas lie
Oases where the wild flowers spring -
Blue Corn-flowers, Daisies white and gold,
In a maze of colour rioting.
Silk-petalled scarlet Poppies wave
Amid tall grasses everywhere,
Bowing their heads, obedient to
Each rustle of the rich, sweet air.
Here, Roses white and wine-red add
Their radiance to the summer morn;
And Charlock, turquoise-eyed, peeps out
Between the stalks of silken corn.
There, Fox-gloves amethyst and white
Stand, like tall stately sentinels,
And here, a single Hare-bell sways
A wanderer from the woodland dells.
Let others for some holy rite
Prepare themselves the previous hours -
For me 'tis a sweet sacrament
To walk amidst this world of flowers!
God! this is Death in Life - to wake at morn
Heart-sick with memories; till the sun set
To watch the long day wane, with soul forlorn
For ever striving to forget-forget!
Gone is the old content; from field and flower
The glory fled; Pleasure turned Bitterness;
Desire grown dim ere ever the longed for hour,
Might in oblivion steep the heart's distress.
Could I but hear once more the bugle sound,
Into belovéd eyes look once again,
Clasp the strong hands of fighting men - my men,
In one united comradeship firm bound -
From the dead ashes of My Self would soar
A phoenix-soul in love with Life once more!
If, to music of the 'Fifes and Drums'
marching on before,
You've swung along the high road with a
thousand splendid men
Shouting madly, laughing, singing,
While the hills around are ringing
With the diapason thunder of the guns'
tumultuous roar.
If you've known the long night vigil, if you've
watched with bated breath,
For the first pale streak of Dawning when the
barrage crashes down,
When, at Zero, it's 'Come on, Boys',
'Up, the Munsters', 'Give 'em Hell, Boys!'
Oh the fearful joy of Battle, and the wild,
mad race with Death!
Then you lived the life's that's in you to the
utmost - and in vain
Will the joys of Peace, and lures of love, and
all Life's interests call!
Should the Fighting Spirit grip you,
It will never cease to whip you,
And you'd sell your soul to march against the
foemen once again.