EUROPEAN WAR—POEMS

Gifts of the Dead Ye who in Sorrow's tents abide, Mourning your dead with hidden tears, Bethink ye what a wealth of pride They've won you for the coming years. Grievous the pain; but, in the day When all the cost is counted o'er, Would it be best that ye should say: "We lost no loved ones in the war?" Who knows? But proud then shall ye stand That best, most honored boast to make: "My lover died for his dear land," Or, "My son fell for England's sake." Christlike they died that we might live; And our redeemed lives would we bring, With aught that gratitude may give To serve you in your sorrowing. And never a pathway shall ye tread, No foot of seashore, hill, or lea, But ye may think: "The dead, my dead, Gave this, a sacred gift, to me." —Habberton Lulhaut.

The war is like the Judgment Day— All sham, all pretext torn away; And swift the searching hours reveal Hearts good as gold, souls true as steel. Blest saints and martyrs in disguise, Concealed ere-while from holden eyes. And now we feel that all around Have angels walked the well-known ground; Not winged and strange beyond our ken, But in the form of common men. God's messengers from Heaven's own sphere— Unrecognized because so near. —Ella Fuller Maitland.

For Thee They Died For thee their pilgrim swords were tried, Thy flaming word was in their scrips, They battled, they endured, they died To make a new Apocalypse. Master and Maker, God of Right, The soldier dead are at thy gate, Who kept the spears of honor bright And freedom's house inviolate. —John Drinkwater.

After-Days. When the last gun has long withheld Its thunder, and its mouth is sealed, Strong men shall drive the furrow straight On some remembered battle-field. Untroubled they shall hear the loud. And gusty driving of the rains, And birds with immemorial voice Sing as of old in leafy lanes. The stricken, tainted soil shall be Again a flowery paradise— Pure with the memory of the dead And purer for their sacrifice. —Eric Chilman.