POETICAL PICTURES — OF — THE GREAT WAR Suitable for Recitation BY MACKENZIE BELL Xon&on: THE KINGSGATE PRESS 4, Southampton Row, W.C. 1915- Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2014 https://archive.org/details/poeticalpicturesOObell POETICAL PICTURES OF THE GREAT WAR. AUGUST, 19 14. Methought before mine inner sight there came A vision of the present. Line on line Of brown-clad listening men, with eyes aflame, Stood waiting, brows intent, to hear the sign Of combat. As I looked, and looked, alas! Full many a good man dropped, and, writhing, fell, For lol I saw, — I saw, as in a glass, Foe slain by unseen foe— a glimpse of Hell. Once more I gazed. I heard young children cry In yonder villages, where rolling smoke Showed where large shells had burst, while far and nigh Women clasped tight their babes, who ne'er awoke. Britain's Appeal to her Men. Then, there, the corn stood, all unreaped, till crushed, Futile for human food, while ravening strife Made earth Gehenna. Gaunt-eyed Famine hushed Myriads of silent mothers, worn with life. * ***** Methought before mine inner sight arose A vision of the future. Gone for aye Were " war-lords," and the peoples bowed to those Who worshipped calm-eyed Peace, and only they. BRITAIN'S APPEAL TO HER MEN. Yours, not for self, to wield the sword — Yours, not for self, to speak the word Duty — which leads, perchance, to death, Ay, self-less death, your mortal breath Is doubly glorified, thereby; 'Tis ever thus that heroes die. Awakened from inglorious ease, Your call has come at length, Floats now your flag in every breeze, Put on, put on, your strength! Soldier's Song. Remember, English, lads, Louvain; Dream, stalwart Scotsmen, once again Of old oppression; ye from Wales Think how a little State prevails When just. Let sons of Ireland feci For Belgium 'neath the foeman's heel. Let each, awakening from his ease, Hear his " clear call " at length, Behold his flag in every breeze, And so put forth his strength. What I though amid the noontide glare, What! though amid the balmy air Of August nights your comrades died Retreating. Let it be your pride Aye to outshine them — till at last War's lurid stormclouds all are past. Awakened from inglorious ease Here sounds your call at length 1 There! floats your flag o'er lands and seas I Be glad! put forth your strength! September 12th. SOLDIER'S SONG. March on, my lads! March on, my lads! Not dreaming of the morrow; While all is well, let well suffice, Why should we dream of sorrow? A Song for Belgium. Still on, still on, with backs unbowed, Faces alert and bright, Remembering, aye, that all we do Helps Britain and the right. An hour ago poor Ned was hit, I fear he lies in pain, Tis sad, no doubt, yet sooner now He'll see his Bess again. Still on, still on, with backs unbowed, And give another blow; Aim straight ! strike hard ! nor think of self, Faces toward the foe. Still on, still on, with backs unbowed, So, when the night is here, Mayhap we'll sleep, though autumn mist Makes trenches cold and drear — Mayhap we'll sleep, yet wake to fight, To fight, and, once more fight, Remembering, aye, that all we do Helps Britain and the right. September 28th, 19 14. A SONG FOR BELGIUM. October gth, 19 14. Not a throb of our hearts but in anguish responds To the sight of the dire desolation! Autumn, 1914. Oh! cruel the thraldom and bitter the bonds Of our wretched and down-trodden nation I And in scarce-spoken words we are heard to declare, War hath made us well-nigh broken-hearted, Ah! often, alas! we are fain to despair Since joy from our land hath departed. Yet, arouse ye, undaunted, remembering that still Retribution is certainly waiting, Still strive with the foemen who work us such ill 'Mid their bland hypocritical prating. Keep our nation awake ! though down-trodden she lies ! Not a moment be longer down-hearted ! And rejoicing will come if fair Belgium arise, And her freedom return which departed. AUTUMN, 1914. Death's work had lyddite and shrapnel done On friend, on foe, ere set of sun, And yet Hell's havoc ceased not with night, But still went on till dawn of light. But then, with the rose-hued hint of day, The rouse of battle passed away. Then, then, was shown what night had hid, Alas! that eyes should see what they did. Autumn, 1914. Behold a prospect half ridge, half plain, Cumbered, good God, with maimed and slain. Here lies a soldier, scarce more than boy; Tending rare flowers his home employ. His jaw is shattered, his face all blood, Near is his dead horse, smeared with mud. There lies one dead ; to his evil face Even Death itself hath brought no grace. And here is one, who, once, was a man, By Nature built on her kindly plan, One leg is mangled ; two hands are gone, — And yet,— and yet— life lingers onl Unseen by the searchers, and longing for death, Painfully heaves he breath after breath. But why prolong the gruesome tale Of what now cumbers hill and dale? Because, even here, there comes oft-times Heaven's light, amid War's sin and crimes. Yonder a Frenchman and German lie, Mortally wounded, and, soon, to die. The German, his water-bottle burst, Feels all the pangs of a feverish thirst ; And, by a look of mute appeal, Makes even the heart of his foeman feel, The Chief Rabbi of Lyons. And says, as he shares the Frenchman's store, " Where we are going is no more war." And, as he passed to the Other Land, He bent and kissed his foeman's hand. **•»** O I who shall say that none keep tryst Here, on this grisly field, with Christ ? THE CHIEF RABBI OF LYONS. (Autumn, 1914). Among the sunny vineyards of fair France Creeps the slow agony of War's mischance ; And, day by day, more villagers awake To find their homesteads, wrapt in battle, quake ; To find their low, ridged terraces of vines, On which, it seems to them, the kind sun shines In countless autumns past, so lovingly, Are trampled by the surge of cavalry. On yonder wooded heights men see for days The charge and counter-charge 'mid sulphurous haze. Yet, hourly, hourly, men of mercy stir With gentle touch to tend the wounded there, A Song for Belgium. Or soothe the dying in their direst need- Men of kind hearts, though differing as to creed. A rabbi here, bravest of these brave souls, Who know no fear although War's thunder rolls, Happily, hitherto, untouched by scathe, Still cheers and comforts those of his own faith. Once, as he moves on his heroic round, To him, faint yet distinct, there comes a sound Of piteous entreaty, and he sees A little way, removed among the trees A soldier dying. He deceived, perchance, By grievous pain, or by a fleeting glance, The rabbi, in his dark-hued garb, mistakes For some good cure, and, with voice which quakes With death on-coming, asks before his eyes The crucifix be held. Without surprise The rabbi does his bidding. O wise man! To rank Humanity above the ban Of dogma. Shall not this be thy reward Thy soul made happy by thy high soul's Lord? Spain [The Peninsula]. SPAIN [THE PENINSULA]. MARRIED "ON THE STRENGTH" IN THE OLD TIME. An episode after the taking of Badajoz, 1812. The sun, reluctant, rises o'er a field Heaped high with corpses, ghastly in his light, Where Horror holds her court, and reigns supreme. A woman wends Her weary way, amid the weltering slain, Powerless to doubt, yet dreading to be sure Of what may prove her loss. Clasped to her breast A babe she hath, while, at her side, there walks Her first-born son, a tiny, prattling child. Lo ! now she looks upon a prostrate form Loathing yet fascinated, torturing Suspense in every gesture. Till at length Fearful, yet eager, touching close the corpse, Slowly she turns the face, and gazes swiftly. Alas ! it is her husband. Not a wail From her parched lips ruffles the silent air, But, sinking on her knees upon the sward, Convulsed she is in voiceless agony. Spain [The Peninsula]. The moments pass; until her boy, who clings Close to the woman's raiment, lifts his head, And murmurs softly, " Mammy." When that word Awakes no answer, once again he cries, " Oh mammy, mammy, what is this I see? Is this poor daddy lying here so still ? I'll rouse him." Toddling forward, he, with arm Outstretched, touches the clammy hand, but then Half strange, and half afraid, and shrinking back, He calls in childish treble : " Cold, how cold ! " Upstarts the mother, then, All woe-begone her mien, hues of despair Bestrewing cheek and brow, and, 'mid her sobs And moans, these words are heard: "Would I could weep My God, my heart will burst, my brain's on fire ! I used to weep when 1 displeased him ; now When he is dead, for him have I no tears ? Oh, my poor children, what will come of you, Lonely and friendless in a foreign land I "