Produced by Al Haines

"ALL'S WELL!"

BY

JOHN OXENHAM

AUTHOR OF "BEES IN AMBER," ETC.

NEW YORK

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1916,

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

TO

MY SON HUGO

2nd LIEUT. ARGYLL AND SUTHERLAND HIGHLANDERS

TO

ALL HIS COMRADES IN ARMS ON LAND AND ON SEA

AND TO

ALL SORELY-TRIED HEARTS AT HOME AND ELSEWHERE

THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED

IN PROFOUNDEST ADMIRATION, IN MOST LOVING SYMPATHY, AND IN PERFECT ASSURANCE THAT SINCE GOD IS, RIGHT MUST WIN AND THE FUTURE WILL BE BETTER THAN THE PAST

FOREWORD

For those who were chiefly in my heart when these verses came to me from time to time—our men and boys at the Front, and those they leave behind them in grievous sorrow and anxiety at home—my little message is that, so far as they are concerned—"ALL'S WELL!"

Those who have so nobly responded to the Call, and those who, with quiet faces and breaking hearts, have so bravely bidden them "God speed!"—with these, All is truly Well, for they are equally giving their best to what, in this case, we most of us devoutly believe to be the service of God and humanity.

War is red horror. But, better war than the utter crushing-out of liberty and civilisation under the heel of Prussian or any other militarism.

Germany has avowedly outmarched Christianity and left it in the rear, along with its outclassed guns and higher ideals of, say, 1870, its honour, its humanity, and all the other lumber, useless to an absolutely materialistic people whose only object is to win the world even at the price of its soul.

The world is witnessing with abhorrence the results, and, we may surely hope, learning therefrom The Final Lesson for its own future guidance.

The war-cloud still hangs over us—as I write, but, grim as it is, there are not lacking gleams of its silver linings. If war brings out the very worst in human nature it offers opportunity also for the display of the very best. And, thank God, proofs of this are not wanting among us, and it is better to let one's thought range the light rather than the darkness.

What the future holds for us no man may safely say. Mighty changes without a doubt. May they all be for the better! But if that is to be it must be the work of every one amongst us. In this, as in everything else, each one of us helps or hinders, makes or mars.

If, in some of these verses, I have endeavoured to strike a note of warning, it is because the times, and the times that are coming, call for it. May it be heeded!

That the end of the present world-strife must and will mark also the end of the most monstrous tyranny and the most hideous conception of "Kultur" the world has ever seen, no man for one moment doubts.

But that is not an end but a beginning. Unless on the ashes of the past we build to nobler purpose, all our gallant dead will have been thrown away, all this gigantic effort, with all its inevitable horror and loss, will have been in vain.

It rests with each one among us to say that that shall not be,—that the future shall repair the past,—that out of this holocaust of death shall come new life.

It behoves every one of us, each in his and her own sphere, and each in his and her own way, to strive with heart and soul for that mighty end.

JOHN OXENHAM.

CONTENTS

PART ONE: "ALL'S WELL!"

GOD IS WATCHMAN! WHAT OF THE NIGHT? FOR THE MEN AT THE FRONT IN TIME OF NEED CHRISTS ALL! THE CROSS STILL STANDS! WHERE ARE YOU SLEEPING TO-NIGHT, MY LAD? BE QUIET! TO YOU WHO HAVE LOST LORD, SAVE THEIR SOULS ALIVE! THE ALABASTER BOX WHITE BROTHER A LITTLE TE DEUM FOR THESE TIMES THY WILL BE DONE! DIES IRAE—DIES PACIS JUDGMENT DAY THE HIGH THINGS THE EMPTY CHAIR ROAD-MATES ALPHA—OMEGA HAIL!—AND FAREWELL! A SILENT TE DEUM THE NAMELESS GRAVES BLINDED! SAID THE WOUNDED ONE:—— OUR SHARE POLICEMAN X.—EPILOGUE, 1914 THE MEETING-PLACE VICTORY DAY WHEN HE TRIES THE HEARTS OF MEN POISON-SEEDS THE WAR-MAKERS IS LIFE WORTH LIVING? GOD'S HANDWRITING

PART TWO: THE KING'S HIGH WAY

THE KING'S HIGH WAY THE WAYS AD FINEM EVENING BRINGS US HOME THE REAPER NO MAN GOETH ALONE. ROSEMARY EASTER SUNDAY, 1916 THE CHILD OF THE MAID WASTED? SHORTENED LIVES LAGGARD SPRING LONELY BROTHER COMFORT YE! S. ELIZABETH'S LEPER VOX CLAMANTIS FLORA'S BIT RED BREAST OUR HEARTS FOR YOU THE BURDENED ASS WINNERS OR LOSERS? CHRIST AT THE BAR MY BROTHER'S KEEPER? A TELEPHONE MESSAGE THE STARS' ACCUSAL NO PEACE BUT A RIGHT PEACE IN CHURCH. 1916. TE DEUM THROUGH ME ONLY PRINCE OF PEACE THE WINNOWING TO THIS END

ALL'S WELL!

PART ONE: "ALL'S WELL!"

GOD IS

      God is;
      God sees;
      God loves;
      God knows.
    And Right is Right;
    And Right is Might.
  In the full ripeness of His Time,
  All these His vast prepotencies
  Shall round their grace-work to the prime
  Of full accomplishment,
  And we shall see the plan sublime
  Of His beneficent intent.
  Live on in hope!
  Press on in faith!
  Love conquers all things,
  Even Death.

WATCHMAN! WHAT OF THE NIGHT?

  Watchman! What of the night?
   No light we see,—
    Our souls are bruised and sickened with the sight
    Of this foul crime against humanity.
    The Ways are dark——
           "I SEE THE MORNING LIGHT!"

    —The Ways are dark;
    Faith folds her wings; and Hope, in piteous plight,
    Has dimmed her radiant lamp to feeblest spark.
    Love bleeding lies——
           "I SEE THE MORNING LIGHT!"

    —Love bleeding lies,
    Struck down by this grim fury of despight,
    Which once again her Master crucifies.
    He dies again——
           "I SEE THE MORNING LIGHT!"

    —He dies again,
    By evil slain! Who died for man's respite
    By man's insensate rage again is slain.
    O woful sight!——
           "I SEE THE MORNING LIGHT!

    —Beyond the war-clouds and the reddened ways,
    I see the Promise of the Coming Days!
    I see His Sun arise, new-charged with grace
    Earth's tears to dry and all her woes efface!
    Christ lives! Christ loves! Christ rules!
    No more shall Might,
    Though leagued with all the Forces of the Night,
    Ride over Right. No more shall Wrong
    The world's gross agonies prolong.
    Who waits His Time shall surely see
    The triumph of His Constancy;—
    When, without let, or bar, or stay,
    The coming of His Perfect Day
    Shall sweep the Powers of Night away;—
      And Faith, replumed for nobler flight,
      And Hope, aglow with radiance bright,
      And Love, in loveliness bedight,
                SHALL GREET THE MORNING LIGHT!"

FOR THE MEN AT THE FRONT

  Lord God of Hosts, whose mighty hand
  Dominion holds on sea and land,
  In Peace and War Thy Will we see
  Shaping the larger liberty.
  Nations may rise and nations fall,
  Thy Changeless Purpose rules them all.

  When Death flies swift on wave or field,
  Be Thou a sure defence and shield!
  Console and succour those who fall,
  And help and hearten each and all!
  O, hear a people's prayers for those
  Who fearless face their country's foes!

  For those who weak and broken lie,
  In weariness and agony—
  Great Healer, to their beds of pain
  Come, touch, and make them whole again!
  O, hear a people's prayers, and bless
  Thy servants in their hour of stress!

[Five million copies of this hymn have been sold and the profits given to the various Funds for the Wounded. It is now being sung all round the world.]

  For those to whom the call shall come
  We pray Thy tender welcome home.
  The toil, the bitterness, all past,
  We trust them to Thy Love at last.
   O, hear a people's prayers for all
   Who, nobly striving, nobly fall!

  To every stricken heart and home,
  O, come! In tenderest pity, come!
  To anxious souls who wait in fear,
  Be Thou most wonderfully near!
   And hear a people's prayers, for faith
   To quicken life and conquer death!

  For those who minister and heal,
  And spend themselves, their skill, their zeal—
  Renew their hearts with Christ-like faith,
  And guard them from disease and death.
   And in Thine own good time, Lord, send
   Thy Peace on earth till Time shall end!

IN TIME OF NEED

  Better than I,
  Thou knowest, Lord,
  All my necessity,
  And with a word
  Thou canst it all supply.
  Help other is there none
  Save Thee alone;
  Without Thee I'm undone.
  And so, to Thee I cry,—
  O, be Thou nigh!
  For, better far than I,
  Thou knowest, Lord,
  All my necessity.

CHRIST'S ALL!

Our Boys Who Have Gone to the Front

("Be christs!"—was one of W. T. Stead's favourite sayings. Not "Be like Christ!"—but—"Be christs!" And he used the word no doubt in its original meaning,—anointed, ordained, chosen. As such we, whose boys have gone to the Front, think of them. For they have gone, most of them, from a simple, high sense of duty, and in many cases under direst feeling of personal repulsion against the whole ghastly business. They have sacrificed everything, knowing full well that many of them will never return to us.)

  Ye are all christs in this your self-surrender,—
  True sons of God in seeking not your own.
  Yours now the hardships,—yours shall be the splendour
  Of the Great Triumph and THE KING'S "Well done!"

  Yours these rough Calvaries of high endeavour,—
  Flame of the trench, and foam of wintry seas.
  Nor Pain, nor Death, nor aught that is can sever
  You from the Love that bears you on His knees.

  Yes, you are christs, if less at times your seeming.—
  Christ walks the earth in many a simple guise.
  We know you christs, when, in your souls' redeeming,
  The Christ-light blazes in your steadfast eyes.

  Here—or hereafter, you shall see it ended,—
  This mighty work to which your souls are set.
  If from beyond—then, with the vision splendid,
  You shall smile back and never know regret.

  Or soon, or late, for each—the Life Immortal!
  And not for us to choose the How or When.
  Or late, or soon,—what matter?—since the Portal
  Leads but to glories passing mortal ken.

  O Lads! Dear Lads! Our christs of God's anointing!
  Press on in hope! Your faith and courage prove!
  Pass—by these High Ways of the Lord's appointing!
  You cannot pass beyond our boundless love.

THE CROSS STILL STANDS!

()"In the evening I went for a walk to a village lately shelled by German heavy guns. Their effect was awful—ghastly. It was impossible to imagine the amount of damage done until one really saw it. The church was terrible too. The spire was sticking upside down in the ground a short distance from the door. The church itself was a mass of debris. Scarcely anything was left unhit. In the churchyard again the destruction was terrific—tombstones thrown all over the place. But the most noticeable thing of all was that the three Crucifixes—one inside and two outside—were untouched! How they can have avoided the shelling is quite beyond me. It was a wonderful sight though an awful one. There were holes in the churchyard about fifteen feet across."—From a letter from my boy at the Front._)

  The churchyard stones all blasted into shreds,
  The dead re-slain within their lowly beds,—
       THE CROSS STILL STANDS!

  His holy ground all cratered and crevassed,
  All flailed to fragments by the fiery blast,—
          THE CROSS STILL STANDS!

  His church a blackened ruin, scarce one stone
  Left on another,—yet, untouched alone,—
            THE CROSS STILL STANDS!

  His shrines o'erthrown, His altars desecrate,
  His priests the victims of a pagan hate,—
            THE CROSS STILL STANDS!

  'Mid all the horrors of the reddened ways,
  The thund'rous nights, the dark and dreadful days,—
            THE CROSS STILL STANDS!

* * * * *

  And, 'mid the chaos of the Deadlier Strife,—
  A Church at odds with its own self and life,—
            HIS CROSS STILL STANDS!

  Faith folds her wings, and Hope at times grows dim;
  The world goes wandering away from Him;—
            HIS CROSS STILL STANDS!

  Love, with the lifted hands and thorn-crowned head,
  Still conquers Death, though life itself be fled;—
            HIS CROSS STILL STANDS!

  Yes,—Love triumphant stands, and stands for more,
  In our great need, than e'er it stood before!
            HIS CROSS STILL STANDS!

WHERE ARE YOU SLEEPING TO-NIGHT, MY LAD?

  Where are you sleeping to-night, My Lad,
  Above-ground—or below?
  The last we heard you were up at the front,
  Holding a trench and bearing the brunt;—
      But—that was a week ago.

  Ay!—that was a week ago, Dear Lad,
  And a week is a long, long time,
  When a second's enough, in the thick of the strife,
  To sever the thread of the bravest life,
      And end it in its prime.

  Oh, a week is long when so little's enough
  To send a man below.
  It may be that while we named your name
  The bullet sped and the quick end came,—
      And the rest we shall never know.

  But this we know, Dear Lad,—all's well
  With the man who has done his best.
  And whether he live, or whether he die,
  He is sacred high in our memory;—
      And to God we can leave the rest.

  So—wherever you're sleeping to-night, Dear Lad,
  This one thing we do know,—
  When "Last Post" sounds, and He makes His rounds,
  Not one of you all will be out of bounds,
      Above ground or below.

BE QUIET!

  Soul, dost thou fear
  For to-day or to-morrow?
  'Tis the part of a fool
  To go seeking sorrow.
  Of thine own doing
  Thou canst not contrive them.
  'Tis He that shall give them;
  Thou may'st not outlive them.
  So why cloud to-day
  With fear of the sorrow,
  That may or may not
  Come to-morrow?

TO YOU WHO HAVE LOST

  I know! I know!—
  The ceaseless ache, the emptiness, the woe,—
  The pang of loss,—
  The strength that sinks beneath so sore a cross.
    "—Heedless and careless, still the world wags on,
    And leaves me broken … Oh, my son! my son!"

  Yet—think of this!—
  Yea, rather think on this!—
  He died as few men get the chance to die,—
  Fighting to save a world's morality.
  He died the noblest death a man may die,
  Fighting for God, and Right, and Liberty;—
  And such a death is Immortality.

  "He died unnoticed in the muddy trench."
  Nay,—God was with him, and he did not blench;
  Filled him with holy fires that nought could quench,
  And when He saw his work below was done,
  He gently called to him,—"My son! My son!
  I need thee for a greater work than this.
  Thy faith, thy zeal, thy fine activities
  Are worthy of My larger liberties;"—
  —Then drew him with the hand of welcoming grace,
  And, side by side, they climbed the heavenly ways.

LORD, SAVE THEIR SOULS ALIVE!

  Lord, save their souls alive!
  And—for the rest,—
  We leave it all to Thee;
  Thou knowest best.

  Whether they live or die,
  Safely they'll rest,
  Every true soul of them,
  Thy Chosen Guest.

  Whether they live or die,
  They chose the best,
  They sprang to Duty's call,
  They stood the test.

  If they come back to us—
  How grateful we!
  If not,—we may not grieve;
  They are with Thee.

  No soul of them shall fail,
  Whate'er the past.
  Who dies for Thee and Thine
  Wins Thee at last.

  Who, through the fiery gates,
  Enter Thy rest,
  Greet them as conquerors,—
  Bravest and best!

  Every white soul of them,
  Ransomed and blest,—
  Wear them as living gems,
  Bear them as living flames,
  High on Thy breast!

THE ALABASTER BOX

  The spikenard was not wasted;—
  All down the tale of years,
  The fragrance of that broken alabaster
  Still clings to Mary's memory,
  As clung its perfume sweet unto her Master.

  Not less than Martha,
  Mary served her Lord,
  Although she but sat worshipping,
  While Martha spread the board.

  They also minister to Christ,
  And render noblest duty,
  Whose sweet hands touch life's common rounds
  To Fragrance and to Beauty.

WHITE BROTHER

  Midway between the flaming lines he lay,
  A tumbled heap of blood, and sweat, and clay;
       —God's son!

  And none could succour him. First this one tried,
  Then that … and then another … and they died;
       —God's sons!

  Those others saw his plight, and laughed and jeered,
  And, at each helper's fall, laughed more, and cheered;
       —God's sons?

  So, through the torture of an endless day,
  In agonies that none could ease, he lay;
       —God's son!

  Then, as he wrestled for each hard-won breath,
  Bleeding his life out, craving only death;—
       —God's son!

  —Came One in white, athwart the fiery hail,
  And in His hand, a shining cup—The Grail;
       —God's Son!

  He knelt beside him on the reeking ground,
  And with a touch soothed each hot-throbbing wound;
       —God's Son!

  Gave him to drink, and in his failing ear
  Whispered sweet words of comfort and good cheer;
       —God's Son!

  The suffering one looked up into the face
  Of Him whose death to sinners brought God's grace;
       —God's Son!

  The tender brow with unhealed wounds was scarred,
  The hand that held The Cup, the nails had marred;
       —God's Son!

  "Brother, for thee I suffered greater woes;
  As I forgave,—do thou forgive thy foes,
          —God's son!"

  "Yea, Lord, as Thou forgavest, I forgive;
  And now, my soul unto Thyself receive,
          —God's Son!"

  Thick-clustered in the battered trench, amazed,
  They gazed at that strange sight … and gazed … and gazed;
          —God's sons!

  —The Christ of God, come down to succour one
  Of their own number,—their own mate—
          —God's son!

  And none who saw that sight will e'er forget
  How once, upon the field of death, they met
          —God's Son.

A LITTLE TE DEUM FOR THESE TIMES

  We thank Thee, Lord,
  For mercies manifold in these dark days;—
  For Heart of Grace that would not suffer wrong;
  For all the stirrings in the dead dry bones;
  For bold self-steeling to the times' dread needs;
  For every sacrifice of self to Thee;
  For ease and wealth and life so freely given;
  For Thy deep sounding of the hearts of men;
  For Thy great opening of the hearts of men;
  For Thy close-knitting of the hearts of men;
  For all who sprang to answer the great call;
  For their high courage and self-sacrifice;
  For their endurance under deadly stress;
  For all the unknown heroes who have died
  To keep the land inviolate and free;
  For all who come back from the Gates of Death;
  For all who pass to larger life with Thee,
  And find in Thee the wider liberty;
  For hope of Righteous and Enduring Peace;
  For hope of cleaner earth and closer heaven;
  With burdened hearts, but faith unquenchable,—
          We thank Thee, Lord!

THY WILL BE DONE!

  "Thy Will be done!"
  Let all the worlds
  Resound with that divinest prayer!
  The joyous souls redeemed from ill
  Know all the wonders of Thy Will;
      Heaven's highest bliss is surely this,—
      "Thy Will be done! Thy Will be done!"

  "Thy Will be done!"
  Tis not Thy Will
  That Sin or Sorrow rule the world.
  Thy Will is Joy, and Hope, and Light;
  Thy Will is All-Triumphant Right.
      And so, exultantly, we cry,—
      "Thy Will be done! Thy Will be done!"

  "Thy Will be done!"
  It is Thy Will
  That all Life's wrongs should be redressed;
  That burdened souls their bonds should break;
  That Earth of Heavenly Joys partake.
      And so, right wistfully, we cry,—
      "Thy Will be done! Thy Will be done!"

  "Thy Will be done!"
  'Tis not Thy Will
  That man should kiss a chastening rod;
  But, heart abrim, and head to heaven,
  Should praise his God for mercies given,
      And ever cry right joyously,—
      "Thy Will be done! Thy Will be done!"

  "Thy Will be done!"
  It is Thy Will
  That Life should seek its golden prime,—
  That strife 'twixt man and man should cease,—
  That all Thy sons should build Thy peace.
      And so, full longingly, we cry,—
      "Thy Will be done! Thy Will be done!"

  "Thy Will be done!"
  Then Earth were Heaven,
  If but Thy gracious Will prevailed;
  If every will that worketh ill
  Would bend to Thine, and Thine fulfil,
      And with us pray,—"Bring in Thy Day!
      Thy Will be done! Thy Will be done!"

DIES IRAE—DIES PACIS

(As earnestly as any I crave the victory of Right over this madness of Insensate Might against which we are contending. As certainly as any I would, if that were conceivably possible, have adequate punishment meted out to those who have brought this horror upon the world. But I see, as all save the utterly earth-blinded must see—that when the Day of Settlement comes, and we and our allies are in a position to impose terms, unless we go into the Council-Chamber with hearts set inflexibly on the Common Weal of the World—in a word, unless we invite Christ to a seat at the Board—the end may be even worse than the beginning;—this which we have hoped and prayed night be the final war may prove but the beginning of strifes incredible.)

  "Only through Me!" … The clear, high call comes pealing,
  Above the thunders of the battle-plain;—
  "Only through Me can Life's red wounds find healing;
  Only through Me shall Earth have peace again.

  Only through Me! … Love's Might, all might transcending,
  Alone can draw the poison-fangs of Hate.
  Yours the beginning!—Mine a nobler ending,—
  Peace upon Earth, and Man regenerate!

  Only through Me can come the great awaking;
  Wrong cannot right the wrongs that Wrong hath done;
  Only through Me, all other gods forsaking,
  Can ye attain the heights that must be won.

  Only through Me shall Victory be sounded;
  Only through Me can Right wield righteous sword;
  Only through Me shall Peace be surely founded;
  Only through Me! … Then bid Me to the Board!"

* * * * *

  Can we not rise to such great height of glory?
  Shall this vast sorrow spend itself in vain?
  Shall future ages tell the woful story,—
  "Christ by His own was crucified again"?

JUDGMENT DAY

  The nations are in the proving;
  Each day is Judgment Day;
  And the peoples He finds wanting
  Shall pass—by the Shadowy Way.

THE HIGH THINGS

  The Greatest Day that ever dawned,—
  It was a Winter's Morn.

  The Finest Temple ever built
  Was a Shed where a Babe was born.

  The Sweetest Robes by woman wrought
  Were the Swaths by the Baby worn.

  And the Fairest Hair the world has seen,
  —Those Locks that were never shorn.

  The Noblest Crown man ever wore,—
  It was the Plaited Thorn.

  The Grandest Death man ever died,—
  It was the Death of Scorn.

  The Sorest Grief by woman known
  Was the Mother-Maid's forlorn.

  The Deepest Sorrows e'er endured
  Were by The Outcast borne.

  The Truest Heart the world e'er broke
  Was the Heart by man's sins torn.

THE EMPTY CHAIR

  Wherever is an empty chair—
  Lord, be Thou there!
  And fill it—like an answered prayer—
  With grace of fragrant thought, and rare
  Sweet memories of him whose place
  Thou takest for a little space!—
  —With thought of that heroical
  Great heart that sprang to Duty's call;
  —With thought of all the best in him,
  That Time shall have no power to dim;
  —With thought of Duty nobly done,
  And High Eternal Welfare won.

  Think! Would you wish that he had stayed,
  When all the rest The Call obeyed?
  —That thought of self had held in thrall
  His soul, and shrunk it mean and small?

  Nay, rather thank the Lord that he
  Rose to such height of chivalry;
  —That, with the need, his loyal soul
  Swung like a needle to its pole;
  —That, setting duty first, he went
  At once, as to a sacrament.

  So, Lord, we thank Thee for Thy Grace,
  And pray Thee fill his vacant place!

ROAD-MATES

  From deepest depth, O Lord, I cry to Thee.
    "My Love runs quick to your necessity."

  I am bereft; my soul is sick with loss.
    "Dear one, I know. My heart broke on the Cross."

  What most I loved is gone. I walk alone.
    "My Love shall more than fill his place, my own."

  The burden is too great for me to bear.
    "Not when I'm here to take an equal share."

  The road is long, and very wearisome.
    "Just on in front I see the light of home."

  The night is black; I fear to go astray.
    "Hold My hand fast. I'll lead you all the way."

  My eyes are dim, with weeping all the night.
    "With one soft kiss I will restore your sight."

  And Thou wilt do all this for me?—for me?
    "For this I came—to bear you company."

ALPHA—OMEGA

  Curly head, and laughing eyes,—
  Mischief that all blame defies.

  Cricket,—footer,—Eton-jacket,—
  Everlasting din and racket.

  Tennis,—boating,—socks and ties,—
  Tragedies,—and comedies.

  Business,—sobered,—getting on,—
  One girl now,—The Only One.

  London Scottish,—sporran,—kilt,—
  Bonnet cocked at proper tilt.

  Dies Irae!—Off to France,—
  Lord,—a safe deliverance!

  Deadly work,—foul gases,—trenches;
  Naught that radiant spirit quenches.

  Letters dated "Somewhere—France,"—
  Mud,—and grub,—and no romance.

  Hearts at home all on the quiver,
  Telegrams make backbones shiver.

  Silence!—Feverish enquiry;—
  Dies Irae!—Dies Irae!

  His the joy,—and ours the pain,
  But, ere long, we'll meet again.

  Not too much we'll sorrow—for
  It's both "à Dieu!" and "au revoir!"

HAIL!—AND FAREWELL!

  They died that we might live,—
  Hail!—And Farewell!
  —All honour give
  To those who, nobly striving, nobly fell,
  That we might live!

  That we might live they died,—
  Hail!—And Farewell!
  —Their courage tried,
  By every mean device of treacherous hate,
  Like Kings they died.

  Eternal honour give,—
  Hail!—And Farewell!—
  —To those who died,
  In that full splendour of heroic pride,
  That we might live!

A SILENT TE DEUM

  We thank Thee, Lord,
  For all Thy Golden Silences,—
  For every Sabbath from the world's turmoil;
  For every respite from the stress of life;—
  Silence of moorlands rolling to the skies,
  Heath-purpled, bracken-clad, aflame with gorse;
  Silence of grey tors crouching in the mist;
  Silence of deep woods' mystic cloistered calm;
  Silence of wide seas basking in the sun;
  Silence of white peaks soaring to the blue;
  Silence of dawnings, when, their matins sung,
  The little birds do fall asleep again;
  For the deep silence of high golden noons;
  Silence of gloamings and the setting sun;
  Silence of moonlit nights and patterned glades;
  Silence of stars, magnificently still,
  Yet ever chanting their Creator's skill;
  For that high silence of Thine Open House,
  Dim-branching roof and lofty-pillared aisle,
  Where burdened hearts find rest in Thee awhile;
  Silence of friendship, telling more than words;
  Silence of hearts, close-knitting heart to heart
  Silence of joys too wonderful for words;
  Silence of sorrows, when Thou drawest near;
  Silence of soul, wherein we come to Thee,
  And find ourselves in Thine Immensity;
  For that great silence where Thou dwell'st alone—
  —Father, Spirit, Son, in One,
  Keeping watch above Thine Own,—
  Deep unto deep, within us sound sweet chords
  Of praise beyond the reach of human words;
  In our souls' silence, feeling only Thee,—
            We thank Thee, thank Thee,
                Thank Thee, Lord!

THE NAMELESS GRAVES

  Unnamed at times, at times unknown,
  Our graves lie thick beyond the seas;
  Unnamed, but not of Him unknown;—
  He knows!—He sees!

  And not one soul has fallen in vain.
  Here was no useless sacrifice.
  From this red sowing of white seed
  New life shall rise.

  All that for which they fought lives on,
  And flourishes triumphantly;
  Watered with blood and hopeful tears,
  It could not die.

  The world was sinking in a slough
  Of sloth, and ease, and selfish greed;
  God surely sent this scourge to mould
  A nobler creed.

  Birth comes with travail; all these woes
  Are birth-pangs of the days to be.
  Life's noblest things are ever born
  In agony.

  So—comfort to the stricken heart!
  Take solace in the thought that he
  You mourn was called by God to such
  High dignity.

BLINDED!

  You that still have your sight,
  Remember me!—
  I risked my life, I lost my eyes,
  That you might see.

  Now in the dark I go,
  That you have light.
  Yours, all the joy of day,
  I have but night.

  Yours still, the faces dear,
  The fields, the sky.
  For me—ah me!—there's nought
  But this black misery!

  In this unending night,
  I can but see
  What once I saw, and fain
  Would see again.
  O, midnight of black pain!
  Come, Comrade Death,
  Come quick, and set me free,
  And give me back my eyes again!

* * * * *

  Nay then, Christ's vicar,
  You who bear our pain,
  Ours be it now to see
  Your dark days lighted,
  And your way made plain.

SAID THE WOUNDED ONE:—

  Just see that we get full value
  Of that for which we have paid.
  The price has been a heavy one,
  But the goods are there—and _we've paid-.
  We've paid in our toil and our woundings;
  We've paid in the blood we've shed;
  We've paid in our bitter hardships;
  We've paid with our many dead.

  It's not payment in kind we ask for,
  Two wrongs don't make much of a right.
  All we ask is—that, what we have paid for,
  You secure for us, all right and tight.

  The Peace of the World's what we're after;
  We've all had enough of King Cain,
  And the Kaiser and all his bully-men,
  With their World-Power big on the brain.

  No!—we fought with a definite object,
  And it's this—and we want it made plain,—
  That it's God, and not any devil,
  That's to rule in the world again,

OUR SHARE

  And we ourselves? Are our hands clean?
  Are our souls free from blame
  For this world-tragedy?
  Nay then! Like all the rest,
  We had relaxed our hold on higher things,
  And satisfied ourselves with smaller.
  Ease, pleasure, greed of gold,—
  Laxed morals even in these,—
  We suffered them, as unaware
  Of their soul-cankerings.
  We had slipped back along the sloping way,
  No longer holding First Things First,
  But throning gods emasculate,—
  Idols of our own fashioning,
  Heads of sham gold and feet of crumbling clay.
  If we would build anew, and build to stay,
  We must find God again,
  And go His way.

POLICEMAN X

  "Shall it be Peace?
  A voice within me cried and would not cease,—
  'One man could do it if he would but dare.'"
    (From "Policeman X" in "Bees in Amber.")

EPILOGUE, 1914

  He did not dare!
  His swelling pride laid wait
  On opportunity, then dropped the mask
  And tempted Fate, cast loaded dice,—and lost;
  Nor recked the cost of losing.

    "Their souls are mine.
    Their lives were in thy hand;—
    Of thee I do require them!"

  The Voice, so stern and sad, thrilled my heart's core
  And shook me where I stood.
  Sharper than sharpest sword, it fell on him
  Who stood defiant, muffle-cloaked and helmed,
  With eyes that burned, impatient to be gone.

    "The fetor of thy grim burnt offerings
    Comes up to me in clouds of bitterness.
    Thy fell undoings crucify afresh
    Thy Lord—who died alike for these and thee.
    Thy works are Death;—thy spear is in my side,—
    O man! O man!—was it for this I died?

  Was it for this?—
    A valiant people harried, to the void,—
    Their fruitful fields a burnt-out wilderness,—
    Their prosperous country ravelled into waste,—
    Their smiling land a vast red sepulchre.—
            —Thy work!

  For this?—
    —Black clouds of smoke that vail the sight of heaven;
    Black piles of stones which yesterday were homes;
    And raw black heaps which once were villages;
    Fair towns in ashes, spoiled to suage thy spleen;
    My temples desecrate, My priests out-cast;—
    Black ruin everywhere, and red,—a land
    All swamped with blood, and savaged raw and bare;
    All sickened with the reek and stench of war,
    And flung a prey to pestilence and want;
          —Thy work!

  For this?—
    —Life's fair white flower of manhood in the dust;
    Ten thousand thousand hearts made desolate;
    My troubled world a seething pit of hate;
    My helpless ones the victims of thy lust;—
    The broken maids lift hopeless eyes to Me,
    The little ones lift handless arms to Me,
    The tortured women lift white lips to Me,
    The eyes of murdered white-haired sires and dames
    Stare up at Me.—And the sad anguished eyes
    Of My dumb beasts in agony.
          —Thy work!

    Outrage on outrage thunders to the sky
    The tale of thy stupendous infamy,—
    Thy slaughterings,—thy treacheries,—thy thefts,—
    Thy broken pacts,—thy honour in the mire,—
    Thy poor humanity cast off to sate thy pride;—
    'Twere better thou hadst never lived,—or died
    Ere come to this.
    Thou art the man! The scales were in thy hand.
    For this vast wrong I hold thy soul in fee.
    Seek not a scapegoat for thy righteous due,
    Nor hope to void thy countability.
    Until thou purge thy pride and turn to Me,—
    As thou hast done, so be it unto thee!"

  The shining eyes, so stern, and sweet, and sad,
  Searched the hard face for sign of hopeful grace.
  But grace was none. Enarmoured in his pride,
  With brusque salute the other turned, and strode
  Adown the night of Death and fitful fires.

  Then, as the Master bowed him, sorrowing,
  I heard a great Voice pealing through the heavens,
  A Voice that dwarfed earth's thunders to a moan:—
    Woe! Woe! Woe!—to him by whom this came.
    His house shall unto him be desolate.
    And, to the end of time, his name shall be
   A byword and reproach in all the lands
   He rapined … And his own shall curse him
   For the ruin that he brought.
   Who without reason draws the sword—
   By sword shall perish!
   The Lord hath said … So be it, Lord!"

AND AFTER! ……. ………………….. WHAT?

  God grant the sacrifice be not in vain!
  Those valiant souls who set themselves with pride
  To hold the Ways … and fought … and fought … and died,—
  They rest with Thee.
          But, to the end of time,
  The virtue of their valiance shall remain,
  To pulse a nobler life through every vein
  Of our humanity.

  No drop of hero-blood e'er runs to waste,
  But springs eternal, Fountain pure and chaste,
  For cleansing of men's souls from earthly grime.
  Life knows no waste. The Reaper tolls in vain,
  In vain piles high his grim red harvesting,—
  His dread, red harvest of the slain!
  God's wondrous husbandry is oft obscure,
  But, without halt or haste, its course is sure,
  And His good grain must die to live again.

  From this dread sowing, grant us harvest, Lord,
  Of Nobler Doing, and of Loftier Hope,—
  An All-Embracing and Enduring Peace,—
  A Bond of States, a Pact of Peoples, based
  On no caprice of royal whim, but on
  Foundation mightier than the mightiest throne—
  The Well-Considered Will of All the Lands.
  Therewith,—a simpler, purer, larger life,
  Unhampered by the dread of war's alarms,
  A life attuned to closer touch with Thee,
  And golden-threaded with Thy Charity;—
  A Sweeter Earth,—a Nearer Heaven,—a World
  As emulous in Peace as once in War,
  And striving ever upward towards The Goal.

   So, once again, through Death shall come New Life,
   And out of Darkness, Light.

"POLICEMAN X," which appeared first in Bees in Amber, was written in 1898. The Epilogue was written in 1914. "Policeman X" is the Kaiser. "Policeman"—because if he had so chosen he could have assisted in policing Europe and preserving the peace of the world. "X"—because he was then the unknown quantity. Now we know him only too well.

  THE MEETING-PLACE
  (A Warning)

  I saw my fellows
  In Poverty Street,—
  Bitter and black with life's defeat,
  Ill-fed, ill-housed, of ills complete.
          And I said to myself,—
    "Surely death were sweet
    To the people who live in Poverty Street."

  I saw my fellows
  In Market Place,—
  Avid and anxious, and hard of face,
  Sweating their souls in the Godless race.
          And I said to myself,—
    "How shall these find grace
    Who tread Him to death in the Market Place?"

  I saw my fellows
  In Vanity Fair,—
  Revelling, rollicking, debonair,
  Life all a Gaudy-Show, never a care.
          And I said to myself,—
    "Is there place for these
    In my Lord's well-appointed policies?"

  I saw my fellows
  In Old Church Row,—
  Hot in discussion of things High and Low,
  Cold to the seething volcano below.
          And I said to myself,—
    "The leaven is dead.
    The salt has no savour. The Spirit is fled."

  I saw my fellows
  As men and men,—
  The Men of Pain, and the Men of Gain,
  And the Men who lived in Gallanty-Lane.
          And I said to myself,—
    "What if those should dare
    To claim from these others their rightful share?"

  I saw them all
  Where the Cross-Roads meet;—
  Vanity Fair, and Poverty Street,
  And the Mart, and the Church,—when the Red Drums beat,
  And summoned them all to The Great Court-Leet.
          And I cried unto God,—
    "Now grant us Thy grace!"

* * * * *

For that was a terrible Meeting-Place.

  VICTORY DAY
  An Anticipation

  As sure as God's in His Heaven,
  As sure as He stands for Right,
  As sure as the hun this wrong hath done,
  So surely we win this fight!

  Then!—
  Then, the visioned eye shall see
  The great and noble company,
  That gathers there from land and sea,
  From over-land and over-sea,
  From under-land and under-sea,
  To celebrate right royally
            The Day of Victory.

  Not alone on that great day,
  Will the war-worn victors come,
  To meet our great glad "Welcome Home!"
  And a whole world's deep "Well done!"
  Not alone! Not alone will they come,
  To the sound of the pipe and the drum;
  They will come to their own
  With the pipe and the drum,
  With the merry merry tune
  Of the pipe and the drum;—
  But—they—will—not—come—alone!

  In their unseen myriads there,
  Unperceived, but no less there,
  In the vast of God's own air,
            They will come!—
  With never a pipe or a drum,
  All the flower of Christendom,
  In a silence more majestic,—
  They will come! They will come!
  The unknown and the known,
  To meet our deep "Well done!"
  And the world-resounding thunders
  Of our great glad "Welcome Home!"

  With their faces all alight,
  And their brave eyes shining bright,
  From their glorious martyrdom,
            They will come!
  They will once more all unite
  With their comrades of the fight,
  To share the world's delight
  In the Victory of Right,
  And the doom—the final doom—
  The final, full, and everlasting doom
  Of brutal Might,
            They will come!

  At the world-convulsing boom
  Of the treacherous Austrian gun,—
  At the all-compelling "Come!"
  Of that deadly signal-gun,—
  They gauged the peril, and they came.
  —Of many a race, and many a name,
  But all ablaze with one white flame,
  They tarried not to count the cost,
  But came.
  They came from many a clime and coast,—
  The slim of limb, the dark of face,
  They shouldered eager in the race
  The sturdy giants of the frost,
  And the stalwarts of the sun,—
  Britons, Britons, Britons are they!
            Britons, every one!
  It shall be their life-long boast,
  That they counted not the cost,
  But, at the Mother-Country's call, they came.
  They came a wrong to right,
  They came to end the blight
  Of a vast ungodly might;
  And by their gallant coming overcame.
  Britons, Britons, Britons are they!
            Britons, every one!

  It shall be their nobler boast,—
  It shall spell their endless fame,—
  That, regardless of the cost,
  They won the world for Righteousness,
  And cleansed it of its shame.
  Britons, Britons, Britons are they!
            Britons, every one!

  And now,—again they come,
  With merry pipe and drum,
  Amid the storming cheers,
  And the grateful-streaming tears,
  Of this our great, glad, sorrowing Welcome-Home.
  They shall every one be there,
  On the earth or in the air,
  From the land and from the sea,
  And from under-land and sea,
  Not a man shall missing be
  From the past and present fighting-strength
  Of that great company.
  Those who lived, and those who died,
  They were one in noble pride
  Of desperate endeavour and of duty nobly done;
  For their lives they risked and gave
  Very Soul of Life to save,
  And by their own great valour, and the Grace of God, they won.
  Britons, Britons, Britons are they!—
            Britons, every one!

WHEN HE TRIES THE HEARTS OF MEN

As gold is tried in the furnace, So He tries the hearts of men; And the dwale and the dross shall suffer loss, When He tries the hearts of men. And the wood, and the hay, and the stubble Shall pass in the flame away, For gain is loss, and loss is gain, And treasure of earth is poor and vain, When He tries the hearts of men.

As gold is refined in the furnace, So He fines the hearts of men. The purge of the flame doth rid them of shame, When He tries the hearts of men. O, better than gold, yea, than much fine gold, When He tries the hearts of men, Are Faith, and Hope, and Truth, and Love, And the Wisdom that cometh from above, When He tries the hearts of men.

POISON-SEEDS

  Is there, in you or me,
  Seed of that poison-tree
  Which, in its bitter fruiting, bore
  Such vintage sore
  Of red calamity—
  Black wine of horror and of Death,
  And soul-catastrophe?
  Search well and see!

  Yea—search and see!
  And, if there be—
  Tear up its roots with zealous care,
  With deep soul-probing and with prayer,
  Lest, in the coming years,
  Again it bear
  This same dread fruit of blood and tears,
  And ruth beyond compare.

  Each soul that strips it of one evil thing
  Lifts all the world towards God's good purposing.

THE WAR-MAKERS

Who are the Makers of Wars? The Kings of the earth.

  And who are these Kings of the earth?
    Only men—not always even men of worth,
    But claiming rule by right of birth.

  And Wisdom?—does that come by birth?
    Nay then—too often the reverse.
    Wise father oft has son perverse;
    Solomon's son was Israel's curse.

  Why suffer things to reason so averse?
    It always has been so,
    And only now does knowledge grow
    To that high point where all men know—
    Who would be free must strike the blow.

  And how long will man suffer so?
    Until his soul of Freedom sings,
    And, strengthened by his sufferings,
    He breaks the worn-out leading-strings,
    And calls to stricter reckonings
  Those costliest things—unworthy Kings.

  Not all are worthless. Some, with sense of duty,
  Strive to invest their lives with grace and beauty.
  To such—high honour! But the rest—self-seekers,
  Pride-puffed—out with them!—useless mischief-makers!

  The time is past when any man or nation
  Will meekly bear unrighteous domination.

  The time is come when every burden-bearer
  Must, in the fixing of his load, be sharer.

IS LIFE WORTH LIVING?

  Is life worth living?
  It depends on your believing;—
  If it ends with this short span,
  Then is man no better than
  The beasts that perish.
  But a Loftier Hope we cherish.
  "Life out of Death" is written wide
  Across Life's page on every side.
  We cannot think as ended, our dear dead who died.

  What room is left us then for doubt or fear?
  Love laughs at thought of ending—there, or here.
  God would lack meaning if this world were all,
  And this short life but one long funeral.

  God is! Christ loves! Christ lives!
  And by His Own Returning gives
  Sure pledge of Immortality.
  The first-fruits—He; and we—
  The harvest of His victory.
  The life beyond shall this life far transcend,
  And Death is the Beginning—not the End!

GOD'S HANDWRITING

  He writes in characters too grand
  For our short sight to understand;
  We catch but broken strokes, and try
  To fathom all the mystery
  Of withered hopes, of death, of life,
  The endless war, the useless strife,—
  But there, with larger, clearer sight,
  We shall see this—

HIS WAY WAS RIGHT

(From Bees in Amber.)

PART TWO: THE KING'S HIGH WAY

THE KING'S HIGH WAY

  A wonderful Way is The King's High Way;
  It runs through the Nightlands up to the Day;
  From the wonderful WAS, by the wonderful IS,
  To the still more wonderful IS TO BE,—
            Runs The King's High Way.

  Through the crooked by-ways of history,
  Through the times that were dark with mystery,
  From the cities of man's captivity,
  By the shed of The Child's nativity,
  And over the hill by the crosses three,
  By the sign-post of God's paternity,
  From Yesterday into Eternity,—
            Runs The King's High Way.
  And wayfaring men, who have strayed, still say
  It is good to travel The King's High Way.

  Through the dim, dark Valley of Death, at times,
  To the peak of the Shining Mount it climbs,
  While wonders, and glories, and joys untold
  To the eyes of the visioned each step unfold,—
            On The King's High Way.
  And everywhere there are sheltering bowers,
  Plenished with fruits and radiant with flowers,
  Where the weary of body and soul may rest,
  As the steeps they breast to the beckoning crest,—
            On The King's High Way.

  And inns there are too, of comforting mien,
  Where every guest is a King or a Queen,
  And room never lacks in the inns on that road,
  For the hosts are all gentle men, like unto God,—
            On The King's High Way.

  The comrades one finds are all bound the same way,
  Their faces aglow in the light of the day;
  And never a quarrel is heard, nor a brawl,
  They're the best of good company, each one and all,—
            On The King's High Way.

  So, gallantly travel The King's High Way,
  With hearts unperturbed and with souls high and gay,
  There is many a road that is much more the mode,
  But none that so surely leads straight up to God,
            As The King's High Way.