WAR

Our hearts were not set on fighting, We did not pant for the fray, And whatever wrongs need righting, We would not have met that way. But the way that has opened before us Leads on thro’ a blood-red field; And we swear by the great God o’er us, We will die, but we will not yield.

The battle is not of our making, And war was never our plan; Yet, all that is sweet forsaking, We march to it, man by man. It is either to smite, or be smitten, There’s no other choice to-day; And we live, as befits the Briton, Or we die, as the Briton may.

We were not fashioned for cages, Or to feed from a keeper’s hand; Our strength which has grown thro’ ages Is the strength of a slave-free land. We cannot kneel down to a master, To our God alone can we pray; And we stand in this world disaster, To fight, like a lion at bay.

Ruined? destroyed? Ah, no; though blood in rivers ran Down all her ancient streets; though treasures manifold Love-wrought, Time-mellowed, and beyond the price of gold Are lost, yet Belgium’s star shines still in God’s vast plan.

Rarely have Kings been great, since kingdoms first began; Rarely have great kings been great men, when all was told. But, by the lighted torch in mailèd hands, behold, Immortal Belgium’s immortal king, and Man.

At the concert and the play Everywhere you see them sitting, Knitting, knitting. Women who the other day Thought of nothing but their frocks Or their jewels or their locks, Women who have lived for pleasure, Who have known no work but leisure, Now are knitting, knitting, knitting For the soldiers over there.

On the trains and on the ships With a diligence befitting, They are knitting. Some with smiles upon their lips, Some with manners debonair, Some with earnest look and air. But each heart in its own fashion, Weaves in pity and compassion In their knitting, knitting, knitting For the soldiers over there.

Hurried women to and fro From their homes to labour flitting, Knitting, knitting, Busy handed come and go. Broken bits of time they spare, Just to feel they do their share, Just to keep life’s sense of beauty In the doing of a duty, They are knitting, knitting, knitting For the soldiers over there.

Oh the Kings of earth have mobilised their men. See them moving, valour proving, To the fields of glory going, Banners flowing, bugles blowing, Every one a mother’s son, Brave with uniform and gun, Keeping step with easy swing, Yes, with easy step and light marching onward to the fight, Just to please the warlike fancy of a King; Who has mobilised his army for the strife.

Oh the King of Death has mobilised his men. See the hearses huge and black How they rumble down the track; With their coffins filled with dead, Filled with men who fought and bled; Now from fields of glory coming To the sound of muffled drumming They are lying still and white, But the Kings have had their fight; Death has mobilised his army for the grave.

That pale word ‘Neutral’ sits becomingly On lips of weaklings. But the men whose brains Find fuel in their blood, the men whose minds Hold sympathetic converse with their hearts, Such men are never neutral. That word stands Unsexed and impotent in Realms of Speech. When mighty problems face a startled world No virile man is neutral. Right or wrong His thoughts go forth, assertive, unafraid To stand by his convictions, and to do Their part in shaping issues to an end. Silence may guard the door of useless words, At dictate of Discretion; but to stand Without opinions in a world which needs Constructive thinking, is a coward’s part.

A book has been made for the King, A book of beauty and art; To the good king’s eyes A smile shall rise Hiding the ache in his heart— Hiding the hurt and the grief As he turns it, leaf by leaf.

A book has been made for the King, A book of blood and of blight; To the Great King’s eyes A look shall rise That will blast and wither and smite— Yes, smite with a just God’s rage, As He turns it, page by page.

Said the Kaiser’s god to the god of the Czar: ‘Hark, hark, how my people pray. Their faith, methinks, is greater by far Than all the faiths of the others are; They know I will help them slay.’

Said the god of the Czar: ‘My people call In a medley of tongues; they know I will lend my strength to them one and all. Wherever they fight their foes shall fall Like grass where the mowers go.’

Then the god of the Gauls spoke out of a cloud To the god of the King nearby: ‘Our people pray, tho’ they pray not loud; They ask for courage to slaughter a crowd, And to laugh, tho’ themselves may die.’

And far out into the heart of Space Where a lonely pathway crept, Up over the stars, to a secret place, Where no light shone but the light of His face, Christ covered His eyes and wept.

There was no wind, and yet the air Seemed suddenly astir; There were no forms, and yet all space Seemed thronged with growing hosts. They came from Where, and from Nowhere, Like phantoms as they were; They came from many a land and place— The ghosts, the ghosts, the ghosts.

And some were white, and some were grey, And some were red as blood— Those ghosts of men who met their death Upon the field of war. Against the skies of fading day, Like banks of cloud they stood; And each wraith asked another wraith, ‘What were we fighting for?’

One said, ‘I was my mother’s all; And she was old and blind.’ Another, ‘Back on earth, my wife And week-old baby lie.’ Another, ‘At the bugle’s call, I left my bride behind; Love made so beautiful my life I could not bear to die.’

In voices like the winds that moan Among pine trees at night, They whispered long, the newly dead, While listening stars came out. ‘We wonder if the cause is known, And if the war was right, That killed us in our prime,’ they said, ‘And what it was about.’

They came in throngs that filled all space— Those whispering phantom hosts; They came from many a land and place, The ghosts, the ghosts, the ghosts.

Why should the poet of these pregnant times Be asked to sing of war’s unholy crimes?

To laud and eulogise the trade which thrives On horrid holocausts of human lives?

Man was a fighting beast when earth was young, And war the only theme when Homer sung.

’Twixt might and might the equal contest lay: Not so the battles of our modern day.

Too often now the conquering hero struts, A Gulliver among the Lilliputs.

Success no longer rests on skill or fate, But on the movements of a syndicate.

Of old, men fought and deemed it right and just, To-day the warrior fights because he must;

And in his secret soul feels shame because He desecrates the higher manhood’s laws.

Oh, there are worthier themes for poet’s pen In this great hour than bloody deeds of men:

The rights of many—not the worth of one— The coming issues, not the battle done;

The awful opulence and awful need— The rise of brotherhood—the fall of greed;

The soul of man replete with God’s own force, The call ‘to heights,’ and not the cry ‘to horse.’

Are there not better themes in this great age For pen of poet, or for voice of sage,

Than those old tales of killing? Song is dumb Only that greater song in time may come.

When comes the bard, he whom the world waits for, He will not sing of War.

Little lads and grandsires, Women old with care; But all the men are dying men Or dead men over there.

No one stops to dig graves; Who has time to spare? The dead men, the dead men How the dead men stare.

Kings are out a-hunting— Oh, the sport is rare; With dying men and dead men Falling everywhere.

Life for lads and grandsires; Spoils for kings to share; And dead men, dead men, Dead men everywhere.

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.

Angel of Peace, the hounds of war, Unleashed, are all abroad, And war’s foul trade again is made Man’s leading aim in life. Blood dyes the billow and the sod; The very winds are rife With tales of slaughter. Angel, pray, What can we do or think or say In times like these? ‘Child, think of God!’

‘Before this little speck in space Called Earth with light was shod, Great chains and tiers of splendid spheres Were fashioned by His hand. Be thine the part to love and laud, Nor seek to understand. Go lift thine eyes from death-charged guns To one who made a billion suns; And trust and wait. Child, dwell on God!’

Peace should not come along this foul, earth way. Peace should not come, until we cleanse the path. God waited for us; now in awful wrath He pours the blood of men out day by day To purify the highroad for her feet. Why, what would Peace do, in a world where hearts Are filled with thoughts like poison-pointed darts? It were not meet, surely it were not meet For Peace to come, and with her white robes hide These industries of death—these guns and swords,— These uniformed, hate-filled, destructive hordes,— These hideous things, that are each nation’s pride. So long as men believe in armèd might Let arms be brandished. Let not Peace be sought Until the race-heart empties out all thought Of blows and blood, as arguments for Right. The world has never had enough of war, Else war were not. Now let the monster stand, Until he slays himself with his own hand; Though no man knows what he is fighting for. Then in the place where wicked cannons stood Let Peace erect her shrine of Brotherhood.