THE CRY
Hark! From the trampled gardens once so fair,
From hateful trenches in the harried fields,
From vineyards wasting in polluted air
Their rich, ungarnered yields,
There comes the piteous, instinctive cry
Of soldiers in their lonely agony—
“Mother!” “Mère!”
Alas! Those bonny yellow heads low-lying!
Blue anguished eyes—like eyes beloved and near!
Weak, fevered lips with painful effort sighing
That word of all most dear—
So like on every tongue, so understood,
Sign of our common, outraged brotherhood—
“Mutter!” “Mither!”
They cry to Her—the Pity of the race,
The fostering Care from which they marched afar,
The Sympathy forsaken, and the grace
Of Love betrayed by war.
In this their bitter hour the brave men cry
To her who bore them, piteously to die—
“Madre!” “Mat!”
And she at home, the pale, heart-broken mother—
She who had nought to do with war and strife—
Knows Cain and Abel, brother slaying brother!
Sad Eve who gave them life
Must watch and wait and weep and work, and hear
Those kindred voices crying to her ear—
“Mutter!” “Maman!”
Oh, hearken, human Love! unselfish, high,
Impartial as the love of mothers good!
Not vainly died the lads, if their last cry
Prove us our brotherhood;
If horror so abound for kindred slain,
Man ends forever War, the crime of Cain.
“Mother!”