ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

The greater part of these verses dealing with the war were written in France during my recent seven months’ sojourn there, and for the purpose of using in entertainments given in camps and hospitals to thousands of American soldiers.

They were the result of coming into close contact with the soldiers’ mind and heart, and were intentionally expressed in the simplest manner, without any consideration of methods approved by modern critics.  The fact that I have been asked to autograph scores of copies of many of these verses (and one of them to the extent of 350 copies) is more gratifying to me than would be the highest encomiums of the purely literary critic.

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

London,
      October 1918.

Thanksgiving for the strong armed day,
That lifted war’s red curse,
When Peace, that lordly little word,
Was uttered in a voice that stirred—
Yea, shook the Universe.

Thanksgiving for the Mighty Hour
That brimmed the Victor’s cup,
When England signalled to the foe,
‘The German flag must be brought low
And not again hauled up!’

Thanksgiving for the sea and air
Free from the Devil’s might!
Thanksgiving that the human race
Can lift once more a rev’rent face,
And say, ‘God helps the Right.’

Thanksgiving that our splendid dead,
All radiant with youth,
Dwell near to us—there is no death.
Thanksgiving for the broad new faith
That helps us know this truth.

I had seen our splendid soldiers in their khaki uniforms,
   And their leaders with a Sam Brown belt;
I had seen the fighting Britons and Colonials in swarms,
   I had seen the blue-clad Frenchmen, and I felt
That the mighty martial show
Had no new sight to bestow,
   Till I walked on Piccadilly, and my word!
By the bonnie Highland laddies
In their kilts and their plaidies,
   To a wholly new sensation I was stirred.

I had read about the valour of old Scotland’s warrior sons—
   How they fought to a finish, or else fell;
I had heard the name bestowed on them by agitated Huns,
   Who called these skirted soldiers ‘Dames of Hell’;
And I gave them right of way
On their London holiday,
   As I met them swinging down the street and Strand,
Those bonnie, bonnie laddies
In their kilts and their plaidies,
   And I breathed a blessing on them and their land

Many the songs of the brave boys sent
Over The Top in the battle’s thunder;
But mine is the song of the men who went
Over the top of the waves—and under.

Men of the sea, Men of the sea,
I lift mine eyes to the Flags unfurled—
The Flags of Victory blowing free
Over the new-born world.
And I cry ‘Thank God! these things can be!
Thank God, and the Men of the Sea!’

Little it matters to what they belong,
Marine or Navy—or Merchant Ship—
To the Men of the Sea I sing my song;
A song that rises from heart to lip.

To the splendid heroes of Jutland Bank
And the Royal Navy I give their due;
And cheek by jowl with them all, I rank
The brave mine-sweepers and merchant crew.

Trawler—Drifter—or English Fleet—
All are manned by the Men of the Sea,
And all together in my heart meet,
For a boat is a boat to the mind of me.

And who ever over the dread seas fared,
And however humble his work or place,
To the great Christ spirit must be compared—
Since he offered his life for the good of the race.

And how many lie in the deep-sea bed,
No man can reckon, and no man number;
But not one Soul of them all is dead,
For death is only the body’s slumber.

Many the songs of the brave boys sent
Over The Top in the battle’s thunder;
But mine is the song of the men who went
Over the top of the waves—and under.

‘Invisible and silent’—Mystery
Surrounded that great Guardian of the Sea.
That Father—Mother—of the mighty main.
While loud in valley and on field and hill—
And over anguished plain
The battles thundered.  God himself is still
And hidden from men’s view; and it were meet
That this subliminal force
Should move in utter silence on its course
Invisible—Inaudible—till that hour
When Time, Fate’s Minister, should speak and say—
‘Come forth! and show thy power!’
When Time commands, even the gods obey.

Oh, silent wonder of the noisy sea!
Though alien, with the blood of Bunker Hill
Down filtering through my veins, the heart of me
Seems with a mingled love and awe to fill
And overflow at thought of that sublime,
Unparalleled large hour of Time;
When bloodless Victory saw the foes’ flag furled—
That insolent menace to a righteous world.

Great Britain’s Fleet unshaken in its might,
Proclaimed itself again in all men’s sight
The Mistress of the Main.  Fair Freedom’s friend,
May peace and glory on thy path attend.

Lie down, and let the billows hide your shame,
Oh, shorn and naked outcast of the seas!
You who confided to each ocean breeze
Your coming conquests, and made loud acclaim
Of your own grandeur and exalted fame;
You who have catered to they world’s disease;
You who have drunk hate’s wine, and found the lees;
Lie down! and let all men forget your name!

You dreamed of world dominion! you! the spawn
Of hell and hatred—Foe to all things free—
Sworn enemy to honour, truth and right;
Too poor a thing now for the Devil’s pawn,
Let the large mercy of the outraged sea
Engulf and hide you evermore from sight.

They rode through the bannered city—
The King and the Commoner,
And the hopes of the world were with them,
And the heart of the world was astir.
For the moss-grown walls seemed falling
That have shut away men from Kings;
And Deep unto Deep was calling
For the coming of greater things.

They rode to an age-old Palace
Where the feet of the Mighty go—
(A Palace that stands unshaken
Despite the boast of the foe!)
And the King from Kings descending—
And the Man of the People’s choice
In a Super-Man seemed blending,
And they spoke as with one voice.

It was not a pageant of Victors—
Or a triumph hour of man,
That ride through the bannered City,
It was part of a Mighty Plan;
And the sound of old barriers falling
Rose there where those Rulers trod,
For Deep unto Deep was calling
In the resonant Voice of God.

We are the Allies of God to-day,
And the width of the earth is our right of way.
Let no man question or ask us why,
As we speed to answer a wild world cry;
Let no man hinder or ask us where,
As out over water and land we fare;
For whether we hurry, or whether we wait,
We follow the finger of guiding fate.

We are the Allies.  We differ in faith,
But are one in our courage at thought of death.
Many and varied the tongues we speak,
But one and the same is the goal we seek.
And the goal we seek is not power or place,
But the peace of the world, and the good of the race.
And little matters the colour of skin,
When each heart under it beats to win.

All the world was wearying,
   All the world was sad;
Everything was shadow-filled;
   Things were going bad.
Then a rumour stirred all hearts
   As a wind stirs trees—
Ten thousand men a day
   Coming over seas!

Soon we saw them marching by—
   God! what a sight!—
Shoulders back, and heads erect,
   Faces full of light.
Smiling like a morn in May,
   Moving like a breeze,
Ten thousand men a day
   Coming over seas.

France and England swarmed with them,
   Khaki-clad and young,
Filled with all the joy of life—
   Into line they swung.
Waning valour rose anew
   At the sight of these
Ten thousand men a day
   Coming over seas.

Still they come—and still they come
   In their strength and pride.
Victory with radiant mien
   Marches on beside.
Victory is here to stay,
   Every heart agrees,
With ten thousand men a day
   Coming over seas.

Woodrow Wilson

America will not turn back;
   She did not idly start,
But weighed full carefully and well
   Her grave, important part.
She chose the part of Freedom’s friend,
And will pursue it, to the end.

Great Liberty, who guards her gates,
   Will shine upon her course,
And light the long, adventurous path
   With radiance from God’s Source.
And though blood dye that ocean track,
America will not turn back.

Then will our fair Columbia turn,
   While all wars’ clamours cease,
And with our banner lifted high
   Proclaim, ‘Let there be Peace.’
But till that glorious day shall dawn
She will march on, she will march on.

I

There is no picturesqueness and no glory,
   No halo of romance, in war to-day.
   It is a hideous thing; Time would turn grey
With horror, were he not already hoary
At sight of this vile monster, foul and gory.
   Yet while sweet women perish as they pray,
   And new-born babes are slaughtered, who dare say
‘Halt!’ till Right pens its ‘Finis’ to the story!
There is no pathway, but the path through blood,
   Out of the horrors of this holocaust.
Hell has let loose its scalding crimson flood,
   And he who stops to argue now is lost.
Not brooms of creeds, not Pacifistic words
Can stem the tide, but swords—uplifted swords!

Yet, after Peace has turned the clean white page
   There shall be sorrow on the earth for years;
   Abysmal grief, that has no eyes for tears,
And youth that hobbles through the earth like age.
But better to play this part upon life’s stage
   Than to aid structures that a tyrant rears,
   To live a stalwart hireling torn with fears,
And shamed by feeding on a conqueror’s wage.
Death, yea, a thousand deaths, were sweet in truth
   Rather than such ignoble life.  God gave
Being, and breath, and high resolve to youth
   That it might be Wrong’s master, not its slave.
Our road to Freedom is the road to guns!
Go, arm your sons!  I say, Go, arm your sons!

III

This is the world’s stupendous hour—
   The supreme moment for the race
To see the emptiness of power,
   The worthlessness of wealth and place,
To see the purpose and the plan
Conceived by God for growing man.

And they who see and comprehend
   That ultimate and lofty aim
Will wait in patience for the end,
   Knowing injustice cannot claim
One lasting victory, or control
Laws that bar progress for the whole.

This is an epoch-making time;
   God thunders through the universe
A message glorious and sublime,
   At once a blessing and a curse.
Blessings for those who seek His light,
Curses for those whose law is might.

Out of the awful holocaust,
   Out of the whirlwind and the flood,
Out of old creeds to Bedlam tossed,
   Shall rise a new earth washed in blood—
A new race filled with spirit power,
This is the world’s stupendous hour.

I have not the gift of vision,
   I have not the psychic ear,
And the realms that are called Elysian
   I neither see nor hear;
Yet oft when the shadows darken
   And the daylight hides its face,
The soul of me seems to hearken
   For the truths that speak through space.

They speak to me not through reason,
   They speak to me not by word;
Yet my soul would be guilty of treason
   If it did not say it had heard.
For Space has a message compelling
   To give to the ear of Earth;
And the things which the Silence is telling
   In the bosom of God have birth.

And this is the Truth as I see it—
   Whoever cries out for peace,
Must think it, and live it, and be it,
   And the wars of the world will cease.
Men fight that man may awaken,
   And no longer want to kill;
Wars rage, and the heavens are shaken
   That man may learn how to be still.

In the silence he finds his Saviour—
   The God Who is dwelling within;
And only by Christ-behaviour
   Is the soul of him saved from sin.
There is only one Source—no other—
   One Light, and each soul is a ray;
And he who would slaughter his brother,
   Himself he is seeking to slay.

Oh, slow are God’s mills in the grinding,
   But they grind exceedingly small;
And slow is man’s soul in the finding,
   That he is a part of the All.
Through æons and æons, his story
   Is bloody and blackened with crime;
But he will come out into glory
   And stand on the summits sublime.

He will stand on the summits of Knowledge,
   In the splendour of Light from the Source;
And the methods of church and of college
   Will all of them change by his force.
For the creeds that are blind and cruel,
   And the teachings by rule and by rod,
Will all be turned into fuel
   To light up the pathway to God.

DECORATION POEM FOR SOLDIERS’ GRAVES, TOURS,
FRANCE, MAY 30, 1918

Flowers of France in the Spring,
Your growth is a beautiful thing;
But give us your fragrance and bloom—
Yea, give us your lives in truth,
Give us your sweetness and grace
To brighten the resting-place
Of the flower of manhood and youth,
Gone into the dust of the tomb.

This is the vast stupendous hour of Time,
When nothing counts but sacrifice and faith,
Service and self-forgetfulness.  Sublime
And awful are these moments charged with death
And red with slaughter.  Yet God’s purpose thrives
In all this holocaust of human lives.

Death is a little thing: all men must die;
But when ideals die, God grieves in Heaven.
Therefore I think it was the reason why
This Armageddon to the world was given.
The Soul of man, forgetful of its birth,
Was losing sight of everything but earth.

Up from these many million graves shall spring,
A shining harvest for the coming race.
An Army of Invisibles shall bring
A glorified lost faith back to its place.
And men shall know there is a higher goal
Than earthly triumphs for the human soul.

We had forgotten all the depth and beauty
And lofty purport of that old true word
Deplaced by pleasure—that old good word duty.
Now by its meaning is the whole world stirred.
These men died for it; for it, now, we give,
And sacrifice, and serve, and toil, and live.
From out our hearts had gone a high devotion
For anything.  It took a mighty wrath—
Against great evil to wake strong emotion,
And put us back upon the righteous path.
It took a mingled stream of tears and blood
To cut the channel through to Brotherhood.

That word meant nothing on our lips in peace:
We had despoiled it by our castes and classes.
But when this savage carnage finds surcease
A new ideal will unite the masses.
And there shall be True Brotherhood with men—
The Christly Spirit stirring earth again.

America and France walk hand in hand;
As one, their hearts beat through the coming years:
One is the aim and purpose of each land,
Baptized with holy water of their tears.
To-day they worship with one faith, and know
Grief’s first Communion in God’s House of Woe.

Great Liberty, the Goddess at our gates,
And great Jeanne d’Arc, are fused into one soul:
A host of Angels on that soul awaits
To lead it up to triumph at the goal.
Along the path of Victory they tread,
Moves the majestic cortège of our dead.

Not Atlas, with his shoulders bent beneath the weighty world,
Bore such a burden as this man, on whom the Gods have hurled
The evils of old festering lands—yea, hurled them in their might
And left him standing all alone, to set the wrong things right.

It is the way the Fates have done since first Time’s race began!
They open up Pandora’s box before some chosen man;
And then, aloof, they wait and watch, to see if he will find
And wake the slumbering God that dwells in every mortal’s mind.

Oh, never were there wilder waves or more stupendous seas,
Or rougher rocks or bleaker winds, or darker days than these.
Not Washington, not Lincoln knew so grave an hour of Time
As he who now stands face to face with War’s world-shaking crime.

His brain is clear, his soul is brave, his heart is just and right,
He asks no honours of the earth, but favour in God’s sight;
His aim is not to wear a crown or win imperial power,
But to use wisely for the race life’s terrible great hour.

In the old wars of the world there were camp followers,
Women of ancient sins who gave themselves for hire,
Women of weak wills and strong desire.
And, like the poison ivy in the woods
That winds itself about tall virile trees
Until it smothers them, so these
Ruined the bodies and the souls of men.
More evil were they than Red War itself,
Or Pestilence, or Famine.  Now in this war—
This last most awful carnage of the world—
All the old wickedness exists as then:

They come in the name of God our Father,
They come in the name of Christ our Brother,
They come in the name of All Humanity,
To give their gold, their labour, and their love
To help the suffering souls in this war-riddled earth,
The New Women of the Race—
The New Camp Followers—
The Centuries shall do honour to their names.

This is the song for a soldier
   To sing as he rides from home
To the fields afar where the battles are
   Or over the ocean’s foam:
‘Whatever the dangers waiting
   In the lands I have not seen,
If I do not fall—if I come back at all,
   Then I will come back clean.

‘I may lie in the mud of the trenches,
   I may reek with blood and mire,
But I will control, by the God in my soul,
   The might of my man’s desire.
I will fight my foe in the open,
   But my sword shall be sharp and keen
For the foe within who would lure me to sin,
   And I will come back clean.

‘Oh, not on the fields of slaughter
   And not in the prison-cell,
Or in hunger and cold is the story told
   By war, of its darkest hell.
But the old, old sin of the senses
   Can tell what that word may mean
To the soldiers’ wives and to innocent lives,
   And I will come back clean.’

Camouflage is all the rage.
Ladies in their fight with age—
Soldiers in their fight with foes—
Demagogues who mask and pose
In the guise of statesmen—girls
Black of eyes with golden curls—
Politicians, votes in mind,
Smiling, affable and kind,
All use camouflage to-day.
As you go upon your way,
Walk with caution, move with care;
Camouflage is everywhere!

I said, ‘I will place my heart, my heart all broken,
   Beside the world’s torn heart, that it may know
The comradeship of sorrow that is not spoken,
   But is carried on wings of all the winds that blow.
I will go homeless into homes of grieving,
   And find my own grief easier to be borne.’
So over menacing seas I went, believing
   Where all was mourning, I would cease to mourn.

And as we toss on billows red with slaughter,
   Unto each tortured, anguished soul I cry,
‘There are green lands beyond this raging water,
   We shall come into harbour by and by.
Our dead dwell near, life is a thing eternal:
   And I have talked with One from that fair shore.
We are but passing through a dream infernal;
   We shall awake, we shall be glad once more.’

Oh! it is not just the men who face the guns,
Not the fighters at the Front alone, to-day
Who will bring the longed-for close to the bloody fray, for those
Could not carry on that fray without the ones
Who are working at war’s problems far away.

You are all our splendid heroes in the strife,
And we class you with the warriors maimed and scarred,
Though you never have been near enough the battle din to hear,
While you laboured in the dull routine of life
In your khaki suits with sleeves that are not barred.

While you carry back no medals when you go,
Not without you had the fighters borne war’s brunt:
So just lift your heads uncowed, for your country will be proud
And its lasting love and honour will bestow
On the khaki boys who were not at the Front.

Oh, boastful, wicked land, that once was beautiful and great,
How bitter and how black must be your self-invited fate,
While Time goes down the centuries and sings his hymn of hate!

Beneath the strangling hand of Fate
That strident voice of yours
Shall hush to silence, soon or late
That Justice that endures
Will mobilise its mighty ranks and free the human race,
   Then shall all Space,
Yea, all the chains of sphere on sphere,
With that loud hymn be ringing,
   Which Time goes singing
   His far flight winging
And all the cherubims of God that dwell in regions o’er us
   Shall swell the chorus.

Oh, boastful, wicked land, that once was beautiful and great,
How desolate and dark must be your self-invited fate,
While Time goes down the centuries and sings his hymn of hate!

DEDICATED TO
THE MEN AND WOMEN OF FRANCE

Our Motherland, dear Motherland,
The source of beauty and of Art,
Who but thy children understand
The love which permeates each heart!
We see, through rainbow-tints of tears,
Thy glory of a thousand years.
O country of the Great and Free,
We live for thee, we live for thee,
Dear Motherland of France.

Dear Motherland of joy and mirth,
Dear Motherland of faith divine,
A thousand years the wondering earth
Has seen thy star in splendour shine.
Still shall it see that star of France
Its splendour and its light enhance.
Dear Motherland, when it need be
We die for thee, we die for thee,
Dear Motherland of France.

Back of each soldier who fights for France,
   Ay, back of each woman and man
Who toils and prays through these long tense days,
   Is the spirit of Great Joan.
For the love she gave, and the life she gave,
   In the eyes of God sufficed
To crown her with light, and power, and might,
   That made her second to Christ.

And so in that hour at the Marne she came,
   To the seeing eyes of men;
And the blind of view still felt and knew
   That her spirit had come again.
And she will come in each crucial hour
   And joy shall follow despair,
For Joan sees her France on its knees
   And she hears the voice of its prayer.

A jungle of beasts in the heart of the Hun—
   War to the world laid bare.
And war has revealed, that France concealed,
   Only the lion’s lair.
A lioness fighting to save her own,
   She fights as a lioness can,
And strength to the end shall the Unseen send,
   In the spirit of Great Joan.

Obscured the sun, the world is dark;
Maid of Orleans, Joan of Arc,
   Send down thy spark.

Let every heart in France be stirred,
By such an all-compelling word
   As thou once heard.

Say to each soul, ‘Lo! I am near;
My voice still speaks in accents clear.
   Be still and hear.

‘The France I saved can not be lost;
Though tempest-torn and terror-tossed,
   Count not the cost.

‘Give as the maid of Domrémy
Gave all—gave life itself to see
   Her country free.

Maid of Orleans, Joan of Arc,
Shine through the night, speak through the dark
   The while we hark.

Oh! the maidens of France are certainly fine,
   And I think every fellow will state
That the ‘what-you-may-call-it’ coiffured way
   They put up their hair is great!
And they know how to dress, and they wear their clothes
   In a fetching, Frenchy way;
And yet to me, there is just one girl—
   The girl of the U.S.A.

I like to listen when French girls talk,
   Though I’m weak in the ‘parlez-vous’ game;
But the language of youth in every land
   Is somehow about the same,
And I’ve learned a regular code of shrugs,
   And they seem to know what I say!
But the girl whose voice goes straight to my heart
   Is the girl of the U.S.A.

Whatever the task that comes your way,
   Just take it as part of your luck.
Look it right square in the eyes, and say,
‘This is my task, I’ll do it to-day’:
   Don’t pass the buck.

Oh! whether you cook, or whether you fight,
   Or whether you trundle a truck,
Just tackle your job and do it right:
   Don’t pass the buck.

The wheels of the earth have gone, alack!
   Deep into war’s mire and muck.
If you want to put it again on its track,
Don’t shift your load on another man’s back:
   Don’t pass the buck.

You may thrill with the speed of your thoroughbred steed,
You may laugh with delight as you ride the ocean,
You may rush afar in your touring car,
Leaping, sweeping, by things that are creeping—
But you never will know the joy of motion
Till you rise up over the earth some day,
And soar like an eagle, away—away.

We are the army stevedores, lusty and virile and strong,
We are given the hardest work of the war, and the hours are long.
We handle the heavy boxes, and shovel the dirty coal;
While soldiers and sailors work in the light, we burrow below like a mole.
But somebody has to do this work, or the soldiers could not fight!
And whatever work is given a man, is good if he does it right.

But the men at the Front could never be there,
And the battles could not be won,
If the stevedores stopped in their dull routine
And left their work undone.
Somebody has to do this work; be glad that it isn’t you!
We are the army stevedores—give us our due!