Part 33

We were fighting two foes--Time and Prussia--the moments were worth more than troops. We must blow up the bridge. A lone soldier darts out from the Royals and swoops For the fuse! Fate seems with us. We cheer him; he answers--our hopes are reborn! A ball rips his visor--his khaki shows red where another has torn.

Will he live--will he last--will he make it? Hélas! And so near to the goal! A second, he dies! then a third one! A fourth! Still the Germans take toll! A fifth, magnifique! It is magic! How does he escape them? He may.... Yes, he does! See, the match flares! A rifle rings out from the wood and says "Nay!"

Six, seven, eight, nine take their places, six, seven, eight, nine brave their hail; Six, seven, eight, nine--how we count them! But the sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth fail! A tenth! Sacré nom! But these English are soldiers--they know how to try; (He fumbles the place where his jaw was)--they show, too, how heroes can die.

Ten we count--ten who ventured unquailing--ten there were--and ten are no more! Yet another salutes and superbly essays where the ten failed before. God of Battles, look down and protect him! Lord, his heart is as Thine-- let him live! But the mitrailleuse splutters and stutters, and riddles him into a sieve.

Then I thought of my sins, and sat waiting the charge that we could not withstand. And I thought of my beautiful Paris, and gave a last look at the land, At France, my belle France, in her glory of blue sky and green field and wood. Death with honor, but never surrender. And to die with such men--it was good.

They are forming--the bugles are blaring--they will cross in a moment and then.... When out of the line of the Royals (your island, mon ami, breeds men) Burst a private, a tawny-haired giant--it was hopeless, but, ciel! how he ran! Bon Dieu please remember the pattern, and make many more on his plan!

No cheers from our ranks, and the Germans, they halted in wonderment too; See, he reaches the bridge; ah! he lights it! I am dreaming, it cannot be true. Screams of rage! Fusillade! They have killed him! Too late though, the good work is done. By the valor of twelve English martyrs, the Hell-Gate of Soissons is won!

Herbert Kaufman

THE VIRGIN OF ALBERT

(NOTRE DAME DE BREBIÈRES)

Shyly expectant, gazing up at Her, They linger, Gaul and Briton, side by side: Death they know well, for daily have they died, Spending their boyhood ever bravelier; They wait: here is no priest or chorister, Birds skirt the stricken tower, terrified; Desolate, empty, is the Eastertide, Yet still they wait, watching the Babe and Her.

Broken, the Mother stoops: the brutish foe Hurled with dull hate his bolts, and down She swayed, Down, till She saw the toiling swarms below,-- Platoons, guns, transports, endlessly arrayed: "Women are woe for them! let Me be theirs, And comfort them, and hearken all their prayers!"

George Herbert Clarke

RETREAT

Broken, bewildered by the long retreat Across the stifling leagues of southern plain, Across the scorching leagues of trampled grain, Half-stunned, half-blinded, by the trudge of feet And dusty smother of the August heat, He dreamt of flowers in an English lane, Of hedgerow flowers glistening after rain-- All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet.

All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet-- The innocent names kept up a cool refrain-- All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet, Chiming and tinkling in his aching brain, Until he babbled like a child again-- "All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet."

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

A LETTER FROM THE FRONT

I was out early to-day, spying about From the top of a haystack--such a lovely morning-- And when I mounted again to canter back I saw across a field in the broad sunlight A young Gunner Subaltern, stalking along With a rook-rifle held at the ready, and--would you believe it?-- A domestic cat, soberly marching beside him.

So I laughed, and felt quite well disposed to the youngster, And shouted out "the top of the morning" to him, And wished him "Good sport!"--and then I remembered My rank, and his, and what I ought to be doing: And I rode nearer, and added, "I can only suppose You have not seen the Commander-in-Chief's order Forbidding English officers to annoy their Allies By hunting and shooting." But he stood and saluted And said earnestly, "I beg your pardon, Sir, I was only going out to shoot a sparrow To feed my cat with." So there was the whole picture, The lovely early morning, the occasional shell Screeching and scattering past us, the empty landscape,-- Empty, except for the young Gunner saluting, And the cat, anxiously watching his every movement.

I may be wrong, and I may have told it badly, But it struck me as being extremely ludicrous.

Henry Newbolt

RHEIMS CATHEDRAL--1914

A wingèd death has smitten dumb thy bells, And poured them molten from thy tragic towers: Now are the windows dust that were thy flower Patterned like frost, petalled like asphodels. Gone are the angels and the archangels, The saints, the little lamb above thy door, The shepherd Christ! They are not, any more, Save in the soul where exiled beauty dwells.

But who has heard within thy vaulted gloom That old divine insistence of the sea, When music flows along the sculptured stone In tides of prayer, for him thy windows bloom Like faithful sunset, warm immortally! Thy bells live on, and Heaven is in their tone!

Grace Hazard Conkling

I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH....

I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air-- I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair.