Part 41

So all my spirit fills With pleasure infinite, And all the feathered wings of rest Seem flocking from the radiant West To bear me thro' the night.

See, how they close me in. They, and the sisters' arms. One eye is closed, the other lid Is watching how my spirit slid Toward some red-roofed farms, And having crept beneath them slept Secure from war's alarms.

Gilbert Waterhouse

HILLS OF HOME

Oh! yon hills are filled with sunlight, and the green leaves paled to gold, And the smoking mists of Autumn hanging faintly o'er the wold; I dream of hills of other days whose sides I loved to roam When Spring was dancing through the lanes of those distant hills of home.

The winds of heaven gathered there as pure and cold as dew; Wood-sorrel and wild violets along the hedgerows grew, The blossom on the pear-trees was as white as flakes of foam In the orchard 'neath the shadow of those distant hills of home.

The first white frost in the meadow will be shining there to-day And the furrowed upland glinting warm beside the woodland way; There, a bright face and a clear hearth will be waiting when I come, And my heart is throbbing wildly for those distant hills of home.

Malcolm Hemphrey

THE RED CROSS SPIRIT SPEAKS

Wherever war, with its red woes, Or flood, or fire, or famine goes, There, too, go I; If earth in any quarter quakes Or pestilence its ravage makes, Thither I fly.

I kneel behind the soldier's trench, I walk 'mid shambles' smear and stench, The dead I mourn; I bear the stretcher and I bend O'er Fritz and Pierre and Jack to mend What shells have torn.

I go wherever men may dare, I go wherever woman's care And love can live, Wherever strength and skill can bring Surcease to human suffering, Or solace give.

I helped upon Haldora's shore; With Hospitaller Knights I bore The first red cross; I was the Lady of the Lamp; I saw in Solferino's camp The crimson loss.

I am your pennies and your pounds; I am your bodies on their rounds Of pain afar: I am you, doing what you would If you were only where you could-- Your avatar.

The cross which on my arm I wear, The flag which o'er my breast I bear, Is but the sign Of what you'd sacrifice for him Who suffers on the hellish rim Of war's red line.

John Finley

CHAPLAIN TO THE FORCES

Ambassador of Christ you go Up to the very gates of Hell, Through fog of powder, storm of shell, To speak your Master's message: "Lo, The Prince of Peace is with you still, His peace be with you, His good-will."

It is not small, your priesthood's price. To be a man and yet stand by, To hold your life while others die, To bless, not share the sacrifice, To watch the strife and take no part-- You with the fire at your heart.

But yours, for our great Captain Christ, To know the sweat of agony, The darkness of Gethsemane, In anguish for these souls unpriced. Vicegerent of God's pity you, A sword must pierce your own soul through.

In the pale gleam of new-born day, Apart in some tree-shadowed place, Your altar but a packing-case, Rude as the shed where Mary lay, Your sanctuary the rain-drenched sod, You bring the kneeling soldier God.

As sentinel you guard the gate 'Twixt life and death, and unto death Speed the brave soul whose failing breath Shudders not at the grip of Fate, But answers, gallant to the end, "Christ is the Word--and I his friend."

Then God go with you, priest of God, For all is well and shall be well. What though you tread the roads of Hell, Your Captain these same ways has trod. Above the anguish and the loss Still floats the ensign of His Cross.

Winifred M. Letts

SONG OF THE RED CROSS

O gracious ones, we bless your name Upon our bended knee; The voice of love with tongue of flame Records your charity. Your hearts, your lives right willingly ye gave, That sacred ruth might shine; Ye fell, bright spirits, brave amongst the brave, Compassionate, divine.

Example from your lustrous deeds The conqueror shall take, Sowing sublime and fruitful seeds Of aidos in this ache. And when our griefs have passed on gloomy wing, When friend and foe are sped, Sons of a morning to be born shall sing The radiant Cross of Red; Sons of a morning to be born shall sing The radiant Cross of Red.

Eden Phillpotts