Hello, Boys!

I am singing a song to the boys to-day,
A song of the home that is far away.
And I know that an echo the word is waking
In many a heart that is secretly aching,
Yes, almost breaking, thinking of Home, dear Home.
But thought, dear boys, is a carrier dove,
And it flies straight into the hearts you love.

Thinking of Home, you are blazing a trail
For that glorious day when our ships shall sail;
Where the Goddess of Liberty lights the water
To guide you back from the fields of slaughter,
Fair Freedom’s daughter, who welcomes us Home, Home, Home.
So hold your vision, and work and pray,
As you dream of the Home that is far away.

I was in Dijon when the war’s wild blast
Was at its loudest; when there was no sound
From dawn to dawn, save soldiers marching past,
Or rattle of their wagons in the street.
When every engine whistle would repeat
Persistently, with meaning tense, profound,
‘We carry men to slaughter’ or ‘we bring
Remnants of men back as war’s offering.’

And there in Dijon, the out-gazing eye
Grew weary of the strife-suggesting scene;
But, searching, found one quiet spot hard by
Where war was not; a little lake whereon
Moved leisurely a stately, tranquil swan,
Majestic and imposing, yet serene.

Veils, everywhere float veils; veils long and black,
Framing white faces, oft-times young and fair,
But, like a rose touched by untimely frost,
Showing the blighting marks of sorrow’s track.

Veils, long black veils, you shall be bridal white.
Eyes, blind with tears, you shall receive your sight,
And see your dead alive in Worlds of Light.

In France I saw a hill—a gentle slope
Rising above old tombs to greet the gleam
From soft spring skies.  Beyond these skies dwells hope,
But those green graves bespeak a broken dream.

There was a row of narrow beds, new-made;
Each bore a starry banner and a cross.
And each the name of one who, ere he played
His rôle of warrior, met earth’s final loss.

They were so young, so eager for the fray!
And thoughts of glory filled each boyish heart,
When over dangerous seas they sailed away
To face the foe and play some splendid part.

But in the tedious toil, the dull routine
Which must precede achievement on the field,
Disease, that secret enemy with mean
Sly tactics, forced them to disarm and yield.

Yet, looking up beyond their graves of green,
I seem to see them wearing band and star;
Men are rewarded in the Worlds Unseen
Not for the way they die, but what they are.

Oh! we love all the French, and we speak in French
As along through France we go.
But the moments to us that are keen and sweet
Are the ones when our khaki boys we meet,
Stalwart and handsome and trim and neat;
And we call to them—‘Boys, hello!’
‘Hello, American boys,
Luck to you, and life’s best joys!
American boys, hello!’

For each is a brother away from home;
And this we are sure is so,
There’s a lonesome spot in his heart somewhere,
And we want him to feel there are friends right there
In this foreign land, and so we dare
To call out ‘Boys, hello!’
‘Hello, American boys,
Luck to you, and life’s best joys!
American boys, hello!’

ON THE PRESENTATION OF AN AMERICAN BANNER
TO CAMP ROCHAMBEAU BY THE MARQUISE DE
ROCHAMBEAU AT TOURS, FRANCE, JUNE 1, 1918

Here is a picture I carry away
On memory’s wall.  A green June day,
A golden sun in an amethyst sky,
And a beautiful banner floating as high
As the lofty spires of the city of Tours,
And a slender Marquise, with a face as pure
As a sculptured saint: while staunch and true
In new-world khaki and old-world blue,
Wearing their medals with modest pride,
Her stalwart bodyguard stand at her side.

Over the din of battle,
Over the cannons’ rattle,
Over the strident voices of men and their dying groans,
I hear the falling of thrones.

Out of the wild disorder
That spreads from border to border,
I see a new world rising from ashes of ancient towns;
And the rulers wear no crowns.

Over the blood-charged water,
Over the fields of slaughter,
Down to the hidden vaults of Time, where lie the worn-out things,
I see the passing of kings.

There must be lonely moments when God feels
The need of prayer—
Such lonely moments, knowing not anywhere,
In any spot or place,
In all the far recesses of vast space,
Dwells any one to whom His prayers may rise,
And then, methinks—so urgent is His need—
   God bids His prayers descend.
He that has ears to hear, let him take heed,
   For much God’s prayers portend.

Last night, in sleep, beyond the earth’s small zone,
Adventurously my spirit went alone,
Past lesser hells and heavens, where souls may pause
To learn the meaning of death’s larger laws,
Past astral shapes and bodies of desire,
Past angels and archangels, high and higher,
Until the pinnacles of space it trod,
Then, awestruck, paused, hearing the voice of God.

‘Mortals of earth, for whom I shaped a sphere
(So spake the Voice), ‘there rises to Mine ear
Eternal praises and eternal pleas.
Now, after centuries, I tire of these.
Have ye no knowledge of the Maker’s needs,
Ye who ask favours and who praise by creeds?

‘Why ask for more when all has been refused?
Why praise My name Who hourly am abused?
Why seek for Me or heaven, when in you dwells
Hate’s lurid hells?

‘Persistent praises and persuasive pleas—
I tire, I tire of these;
But I, the Maker of a billion suns,
Ask men to stop the blasphemy of guns.’
This is God’s prayer.

(There must be many worlds that give God care.)

He saw bold little children come from church and schoolroom, blind
To suffering of lesser things, unfeeling and unkind;
He heard them taunt the poor, and tease their furred and feathered kin;
And no voice spake from home or church to tell them this was sin.
He heard the cry of wounded things, the wasteful gun’s report;
He saw the morbid craze to kill, which Christian men called sport.

And then God hid His grieving face behind a wall of cloud,
On earth they said, ‘A thunder-storm’—but God had wept aloud.

Let us be silent for a little while;
Let us be still and listen.  We may hear
Echoes from other worlds not far a way.

There may be moving among us curious people and races,
Folk of the fourth dimension, folk of the vast star spaces.
They may be trying to reach us,
They may be longing to teach us
Things we are longing to know.
If it is so,
Voices like these are not heard in earth’s riot,
Let us be quiet.

Let us be silent for a little while;
Let us be still and listen.  We may hear
Echoes from other worlds not far away.

A little time agone, a few brief years,
And there was peace within our beauteous borders;
Peace, and a prosperous people, and no fears
Of war and its disorders.
Pleasure was ruling goddess of our land; with her attendant Mirth
She led a jubilant, joy-seeking band about the riant earth.

Oh!  You remember them!  You filled their glasses;
You ‘cut in’ at their games of bridge; you left
Your work to drop in on their dancing classes
Before the day was cleft
In twain by noontide.  When the night waxed late
You led your partner forth to demonstrate
The newest steps before a cheering throng,
And Time and Peace danced by your side along.

Peace is a lovely word, and we abhor that red word ‘War’;
But look ye, Brothers, what this war has done for daughters and for son,
For manhood and for womanhood, whose trend
Seemed year on year toward weakness to descend.
Upon this woof of darkness and of terror, woven by human error,
Behold the pattern of a new race-soul,
And it shall last while countless ages roll.

The world was widowed by the death of Christ:
Vainly its suffering soul for peace has sought
   And found it not.
For nothing, nothing, nothing has sufficed
To bring back comfort to the stricken house
From whence has gone the Master and the Spouse.

But there are others: women who have proved
That loving greatly means so being loved.
Women who through full beauteous years have grown
Into the very body, souls, and heart
Of their dear comrades.  When death tears apart
Such close-knit bonds as these, and one alone
Out to the larger freer life is called,
      And one is left—
Then God in heaven must sometimes be appalled
At the wild anguish of the soul bereft,
And unto His Son must say, ‘I did not know
      Mortals could suffer so.’

Widows, so many widows everywhere.

The world was widowed by the death of Christ,
And nothing, nothing, nothing has sufficed
To bring back comfort to the stricken house
From whence has gone the Master and the Spouse.
Hasten, dear Lord, with Thy Millennium, Hasten and come.

They talked of war, and tried to find its cause,
   And quite deplored the fact that wars must come.
But since this desperate condition was,
   They carefully computed what the sum
Of profit might be to a land of peace,
And wondered if times would be harder should war cease.

The women talked of fashions and of plays,
   But more of players and their private lives;
Related tittle-tattle of their words and ways,
   Their lightning change of husbands and of wives.
And there was chat of garments and their price,
Of operas and balls and all that gives life spice.

Some talk there was of music, pictures, books,
   But of musicians, painters, authors, more.
The way they lived—their methods and their looks—
   The colour of their eyes—the clothes they wore;
And whether it was true, as had been stated,
That gifted people were quite sure to be mis-mated.

When we know that goal awaits each one of us a little farther on,
When we know how an ever-increasing company of friends is gathered there,
Why do we not speak of it in our daily conversation?
Why do we not familiarise our minds with thoughts of worlds unseen?
There are many beautiful things to be learned of that country.
There are sacred books of great travellers, whose souls have cried, ‘Hail across the border’;

There are truths which have been learned in visions and by revelations:
All the revelations were not given to St. John alone,
All the wise men of the world did not die two thousand years ago!
Why do we not talk of these eternal truths,
Instead of wasting all our words on the evanesent, the ever-changing, the trivial, and the unimportant?
There is but one important theme, and that is Life Immortal.

I saw fond lovers in that glow
   That oft-times fades away too soon:
I saw and said, ‘Their joy I know—
   I, too, have had my honeymoon.’

A young expectant mother’s gaze
   Held earth and heaven within its scope:
My thoughts went back to holy days—
   I said, ‘I, too, have known that hope.’

I saw a stricken mother swayed
   By sorrow’s storm, like wind-blown grass:
I said, ‘I, too, dismayed
   Have seen the little white hearse pass.’

I saw a matron rich with years
   Walk radiantly beside her mate:
I blessed them, and said through my tears,
   ‘I, too, have known that high estate.’

I saw a face so full of light,
   It seemed with all God’s truths to shine:
I said, ‘I, too, have found my sight,
   I, too, have touched the Fact Divine.’

‘He that hath an ear, let him hear what the Spirit saith unto the churches.’—St. John the Divine.

The Spirit says unto the churches,
   ‘Ere ever the churches began
I lived in the centre of Being—
   The life of the Purpose and Plan;
I flowed from the mind of the Maker
      Through nature to man.

‘I sleep in the glow of the jewel,
   I wake in the sap of the tree,
I stir in the beast of the forest,
   I reason in man, and am free
To turn on the path of Ascension
      To the god yet to be.

The Spirit says unto the churches,
   ‘The dead are not gone, they are near
And my voice, when I will it, speaks through them,
   Speaks through them in messages clear.
And he that hath ears, in the silence
      May listen and hear.’

The Spirit says unto the churches,
   ‘So many the feet that have trod
The road leading up into knowledge,
   The steep narrow path has grown broad;
And the curtain held down by old dogmas
      Is lifted by God.’

What is the end of each man’s toil,
   Brother, O Brother?
A handful of dust in a bit of soil—
His name forgotten as centuries roll,
Though blazoned to-day on Glory’s scroll;
For the lordliest work of brain or hand
Is only an imprint made on sand;
When the tidal wave sweeps over the shore
   It is there no more,
      Brother, my Brother.

And after he finds it, what is the end,
   Brother, O Brother?
Upward ever its course and trend;
For this is the purpose and aim and plan
To seek in the soul for the Super-man—
The man who is conscious that Heaven is near—
A bulletin bearer from There to Here,
Finding God dwells in the spirit within
   Where He ever has been,
      Brother, my Brother.

When spirit is free, then where will it go,
   Brother, O Brother?
Its uttermost summit no man may know,
For it goes up to God in His holy Tower
To gather more knowledge and force and power;
Like a ray of the sun it shall shine again
To brighten new planets and races of men.
Life had no beginning, life has no end,
   Brother and friend—
      Brother, my Brother.

You who are loudly crying out for peace,
You who are wanting love to vanquish hate,
How is it in the four walls of your home
The while you wait?

You who are praying for the Christ’s return
And for the coming of the Promised Day,
How is it in the four walls of your home
   The while you pray?

Are you trying to make your home a reflection of what you believe heaven will be?
Unless you are you will never find heaven anywhere;
The foundations of our heavenly mansions must first be built on earth.
Unless you are striving to put in use some of the angelic virtues here and now,
No angelhood will be accorded you hereafter.

You who are loudly crying out for peace,
You who are wanting love to vanquish hate,
How is it in the four walls of your home
   The while you wait?

For the courage which comes when we call,
While troubles like hailstones fall;
For the help that is somehow nigh,
In the deepest night when we cry;
For the path that is certainly shown
When we pray in the dark alone,
   Let us give thanks.

For the knowledge we gain if we wait
And bear all the buffets of fate;
For the vision that beautifies sight
If we look under wrong for the right;
For the gleam of the ultimate goal
That shines on each reverent soul:
   Let us give thanks.

For the growth of the spirit through pain,
Like a plant in the soil and the rain;
For the dropping of needless things
Which the sword of a sorrow brings;
For the meaning and purpose of life
Which dawns on us out of the strife:
   Let us give thanks.

For the solace that comes to our grief
In knowing earth’s season is brief;
For the certitude given by faith
Of the continents out beyond death;
For the glorious thought that each day
Is speeding us the reward away:
   Let us give thanks.

‘Black sheep, black sheep, have you any wool?’
Yes, sir—yes, sir: three bags full.’

‘Black sheep, black sheep, have you any wool?’
‘Yes, sir—yes, sir: a whole world full.’

Little by little and one by one,
   Out of the ether, were worlds created;
Star and planet and sea and sun,
   All in the nebulous Nothing waited
Till the Nameless One Who has many a name
Called them to being and forth they came.

All things mighty and all things small,
   Stone and flower and sentient being,
Each is an answer to that one call,
   A part of Himself that His will is freeing—
Freeing to go on the long, long way
That winds back home at the end of the day.

One by one, whatever was called,
   Must be called back to the primal Centre.
Let no soul tremble or be appalled,
   For the heart of the Maker is where we enter—
Is where we enter to gain new force
Before we are sent on another course.

And one by one, as He calls us back,
   We shall find the souls that we loved with passion,
In the great way-stations along the track,
   And clasp them again in the old, sweet fashion—
In the old, sweet fashion when earth we trod—
And journey along with them up to God.

Lord, let us pray.

Give us the open mind, O God,
   The mind that dares believe
In paths of thought as yet untrod;
   The mind that can conceive
Large visions of a wider way
Than circumscribes our world to-day.

May tolerance temper our own faith,
   However great our zeal;
When others speak of life and death,
   Let us not plunge a steel
Into the heart of one who talks
In terms we deem unorthodox.

Let us not shame Thee with a creed
   That builds a costly church,
But blinds us to a brother’s need
   Because he dares to search
For truth in his own soul and heart
And finds his church in home and mart.

Give us the faith that makes us kind,
Give us the open sight and mind—
   O God, the often mind
That lifts itself to meet the Ray
Of the New Dawning Day:
      Lord, let us pray.

I have been down in the darkest water—
   Deep, deep down where no light could pierce;
Alone with the things that are bent on slaughter,
   The mindless things that are cruel and fierce.
I have fought with fear in my wave-walled prison,
   And begged for the beautiful boon of death;
But out of the billows my soul has risen
   To glorify God with my latest breath.

There is no potion I have not tasted
   Of all the bitters in life’s large store;
And never a drop of the gall was wasted
   That the lords of Karma saw fit to pour,
Though I cried as my Elder Brother before me,
   ‘Father in heaven, let pass this cup!’
And the only response from the still skies o’er me
   Was the brew held close for my lips to sup.

Oh! there was a time when I supped sweet potions,
   And lightly uttered profound belief,
Before I went down in the swirling oceans
   And fought with madness and doubt and grief.
Now I am climbing the Hills of Knowledge,
   And I speak unfearing, and say ‘I know,’
Though it be not to church, or to book, or college,
   But to God Himself that my debt I owe.

There are not many sins when once we sift them.
In actions of evolving human souls
Striving to reach high goals
And falling backward into dust and mire,
Some element we find that seems to lift them
Above our condemnation—even higher
Into the realm of pity and compassion.
So beauteous a thing as love itself can fashion
A chain of sins; descending to desire,
It wanders into dangerous paths, and leads
To most unholy deeds,
And light-struck, walks in madness toward the night.

God! though all other sins on earth persist,
Strike dumb the blatant, loud-mouthed atheist.

In the face of the sun are great thunderbolts hurled,
   And the storm-clouds have shut out its light;
But a Rainbow of Promise now shines on the world,
   And the universe thrills at the sight.

’Tis the flag of our Union, the red, white, and blue,
   Our Star-spangled Banner—our pride;
Fair symbol of all that is noble and true,
   Flung out over continents wide.

Flung out in its glory o’er land and o’er sea,
   With a message from God in each star;
And a glorious promise of peace yet to be
   In the fluttering folds of each bar.

Whatever the strength of our foes is now,
   Whatever it may have been,
This is our slogan, and this our vow—
   They shall not win, they shall not win.

Though out of the darkness they call the aid
   Of the evil forces of Sin,
We utter our slogan unafraid—
   They shall not win, they shall not win.

We know we are right, and know they are wrong,
   So to God above and within—
We make our vow and we sing our song
   They shall not win, they shall not win.