"RANK ON RANK OF GHOSTLY SOLDIERS"

As I sat musing by the frozen dyke, There was one man marching with a bright steel pike, Marching in the daylight, like a ghost came he, And behind me was the moaning and the murmur of the sea. As I sat musing, 'twas not one but ten— Rank on rank of ghostly soldiers marching o'er the fen, Marching in the misty air they showed in dreams to me, And behind me was the shouting and the shattering of the sea. As I sat musing, 'twas a host in dark array, With their horses and their cannon wheeling onward to the fray, Moving like a shadow to the fate the brave must dree, And behind me roared the drums, rang the trumpets of the sea.

A Ballad of Ninety-eight The soul of the fair young man sprang up From the earth where his body lay, And he was aware of a grim dark soul Companioning his way. "Who are you, brother?" the fair soul said, "We wing together still!" And the soul replied that was swart and red, "The spirit of him who shot you dead By the blockhouse on the hill. "Your men and you on the crest were first, And the last foe left was I, In the crackle of rifles I dropped and cursed, Lightning-struck as the cheer outburst And the hot charge panted nigh. "You saw me writhe at the side of the trench; You bade—I know not what; With one last gnash, with one last wrench, I sped my last, sure shot. "The thing that lies on the sodden ground Like a wrack of the whirlwind's track, Your men have made of the body of me, But they could not call you back! "In that black game I won, I won! But had you worked your will, Speak now the shame that you would have done In the blockhouse under the hill!" "God judge my men!" said the fair young soul, "He knows you tried them sore. Had He given me power to bide an hour I had wrought that they forebore. "I bade them, ere your bullet brought This swift, this sweet release, To bear your body out of the fire That you might rest in peace." Said the grim dark soul, "Farewell, farewell, Farewell 'twixt you and me Till they set red Judas free from Hell To kneel at the Lord Christ's knee!" "Not so, not so," said the fair young soul, "But reach me out your hand: We two will kneel at the Lord Christ's knee, And he that was hanged on the cruel tree Will remember and understand. "We two will pray at the Lord Christ's knee That never on earth again The breath of the hot brute guns shall cloud The sight in the eyes of men!" The clean stars came into the sky, The perfect night was still; Yet rose to heaven the old blood-cry From the blockhouse under the hill.

By day Golgotha sleeps, but when night comes The army rallies to the beating drums; Columns are formed and banners wave O'er armies summoned from the grave. The wheat field waves with reddened grain And the wounded wail and writhe in pain. The hard-held Bloody Angle drips anew And Pickett charges with a ghostly crew, While where the road to the village turns Stands the tall shadow of old John Burns!

Rheims is down in fire and smoke, The hour of God is at the stroke, Round and round the ruined place,— Jesus, Mary, give us grace! There are two riders clad in mail Silver as the moon is pale. One is tall as a knight's spear, The younger one is lowlier. Small and slim and like a maid— Steeds and riders cast no shade. Who are then these cavaliers? There was a sound as Heaven dropt tears. Who are those who ride so light, Soundless in the flaming light, Where Rheims burns, that was given By France to Mary, Queen of Heaven? Oh, our Rheims, our Rheims is down, Naught is left of her renown. Hist! what sound is in the breeze Like the sighing of forest trees? Or the great wind, or an army, Or the waves of the wild sea? The tall knight rides fierce and fast To the sound of a trumpet-blast. The little knight in fire and flame, Slender and soft as a dame, Rides and is not far behind: His long hair floats on the wind, And ever the tramp of chivalry Comes like the sound of the sea. This is Michael rides abroad, Prince of the army of God, And this like a lily arrayed Is Joan, the blesséd Maid. Rheims is down in fire and smoke And the hour of God's at the stroke.

Under our curtain of fire, Over the clotted clods, We charged, to be withered, to reel And despairingly wheel When the signal bade us retire From the terrible odds. As we ebbed with the battle-tide, Fingers of red-hot steel Suddenly closed on my side. I fell, and began to pray. I crawled on my hands and lay Where a shallow crater yawned wide; Then,—I swooned.... When I woke, it was yet day. Fierce was the pain of my wound, But I saw it was death to stir, For fifty paces away Their trenches were. In torture I prayed for the dark And the stealthy step of my friend Who, stanch to the very end, Would creep to the danger zone And offer his life as a mark To save my own. Night fell. I heard his tread, Not stealthy, but firm and serene, As if my comrade's head Were lifted far from that scene Of passion and pain and dread; As if my comrade's heart In carnage took no part; As if my comrade's feet Were set on some radiant street Such as no darkness might haunt; As if my comrade's eyes No deluge of flame could surprise, No death and destruction daunt, No red-beaked bird dismay, Nor sight of decay. Then in the bursting shells' dim light I saw he was clad in white. For a moment I thought that I saw the smock Of a shepherd in search of his flock. Alert were the enemy, too, And their bullets flew Straight at a mark no bullet could fail; For the seeker was tall and his robe was bright; But he did not flee nor quail. Instead, with unhurrying stride He came, And gathering my tall frame, Like a child, in his arms.... Again I slept, And awoke From a blissful dream In a cave by a stream. My silent comrade had bound my side. No pain now was mine, but a wish that I spoke,— A mastering wish to serve this man Who had ventured through hell my doom to revoke, As only the truest of comrades can. I begged him to tell me how best I might aid him, And urgently prayed him Never to leave me, whatever betide;— When I saw he was hurt— Shot through the hands that were clasped in prayer! Then as the dark drops gathered there And fell in the dirt, The wounds of my friend Seemed to me such as no man might bear. Those bullet-holes in the patient hands Seemed to transcend All horrors that ever these war-drenched lands Had known or would know till the mad world's end. Then suddenly I was aware That his feet had been wounded too; And, dimming the white of his side, A dull stain grew. "You are hurt, White Comrade!" I cried. His words I already foreknew: "These are old wounds," said he, "But of late they have troubled me."

You can hear them at night when the moon is hidden; They sound like the rustle of winter leaves, Or lone lost winds that arise, unbidden, Or rain that drips from the forest eaves, As they glide again from their silent crosses To meet and talk of their final fight, Where over the group some stark tree tosses Its eerie shadow across the night. If you'll take some night with its moonless weather, I know you will reason beyond a doubt That the rain and the wind and the leaves together Are making the sounds you will hear about: The wintry rustle of dead leaves falling, The whispering wind through the matted glen; But I can swear it's a sergeant calling The ghostly roll of his squad again. They talk of war and its crimson glory, And laugh at the trick which Fate has played; And over and over they tell the story Of their final charge through the Argonne glade; But gathering in by hill and hollow With their ghostly tramp on the rain-soaked loam, There is one set rule which the clan must follow: They never speak of returning home. They whisper still of the rifles' clatter, The riveting racket machine guns gave, Until dawn comes and the clan must scatter As each one glides to his waiting grave; But here at the end of their last endeavor However their stark dreams leap the foam There is one set rule they will keep forever: "Death to the Phantom who speaks of home!"

It was three slim young wraiths that met in the heart of a great play-ground, And two of them watched the shining sports in the fields that ringed them round, But one of them bent an earthward ear to follow a far-off sound. "Listen," he cried, "they know, down there! Oh! don't you hear the bells?" "Not I," said one, with a wise young smile, "I used to hear the shells. Not now; oh, not for ages now! I came from the Dardanelles." "I from the Marne," the third one sighed, "but these are only names. Eh bien, mon vieux, one must forget those little strifes and fames! Here is a host of Golden Lads, that play at golden games." But the new boy ran to the turf's green rim and bent with an anxious frown,— "It's the curfew bell! I hear them cheer! It's my little own home town! I hear my dad! I can almost see—" and his eager gaze plunged down. "Soon, mon ami," soothed the dark-eyed wraith, "these teasing dreams will cease! One plays all day, one leaps the stars, one seeks the Golden Fleece!" Still the new boy turned his white young face from the Land of the Great Release.— "But I was killed two hours ago, while they signed the terms of peace."