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diff --git a/3305-h/3305-h.htm b/3305-h/3305-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cb50b58 --- /dev/null +++ b/3305-h/3305-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2225 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="us-ascii"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Ballads of Peace in War, by Michael Earls + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ballads of Peace in War, by Michael Earls + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ballads of Peace in War + +Author: Michael Earls + +Release Date: October 9, 2009 [EBook #3305] +Last Updated: January 26, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BALLADS OF PEACE IN WAR *** + + + + +Produced by Alan Earls, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + BALLADS OF PEACE IN WAR + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Michael Earls + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> HIS LIGHT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE COUNTERSIGN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE COUNTERSIGN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> A HILL O' LIGHTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> OFF TO THE WAR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE TOWERS OF HOLY CROSS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> ALWAYS MAYTIME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> THE STORYTELLER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> MY FATHER'S TUNES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> A SONG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> A BALLAD OF FRANCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> TO ONE IN SUCCESS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> THE LIFELONG WAR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> LINDEN LANE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> THE BOUNDARIES OF A HOUSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> ATTAINMENT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> THE PHILOSOPHERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> THE PHILOSOPHERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> PREPAREDNESS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> I. THE DRUMMER + BOY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> II. THE SAILOR + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> WAR IN THE NORTH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> THE HAPPY TIME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> THE TIME OF TRUCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> BETHLEHEM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> A VOW-DAY FLOWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> THE TREE IN THE TENEMENT YARD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> OLD HUDSON ROVERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> A WINTER MINSTER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> THE DARK LITTLE ROSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> THE MONK MAELANFAID </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> THE YOUNG ADVENTURERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> THE BONNIE PRINCE O' SPRING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> ON A TRAIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> THE COLUMBINE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> TWO SEANICHIES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> THE GREEN BRIGADE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> ALLELUIA HEIGHT </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + HIS LIGHT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Gray mist on the sea, + And the night coming down, + She stays with sorrow + In a far town. + + He goes the sea-ways + By channel lights dim, + Her love, a true light, + Watches for him. + + They would be wedded + On a fair yesterday, + But the quick regiment + Saw him away. + + Gray mist in her eyes + And the night coming down: + He feels a prayer + From a far town. + + He goes the sea-ways, + The land lights are dim; + She and an altar light + Keep watch for him. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE COUNTERSIGN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Along Virginia's wondering roads + While armies hastened on, + To Beauregard's great Southern host, + Manassas fields upon, + Came Colonel Smith's good regiment, + Eager for Washington. + + But Colonel Smith must halt his men + In a dangerous delay, + Though well he knows the countryside + To the distant host of grey. + He cannot join with Beauregard + For Bull Run's bloody fray. + + And does he halt for storm or ford, + Or does he stay to dine? + Say, No! but death will meet his men, + Onward if moves the line: + He dares not hurry to Beauregard, + Not knowing the countersign. + + Flashed in the sun his waving sword; + "Who rides for me?" he cried, + "And ask of the Chief the countersign, + Upon a daring ride; + Though never the lad come back again + With the good that will betide. + + "I will send a letter to Beauregard," + The Colonel slowly said; + "The bearer dies at the pickets' line, + But the letter shall be read + When the pickets find it for the Chief, + In the brave hand of the dead." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE COUNTERSIGN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Ready I ride to the Chief for the sign," + Said little Dan O'Shea, + "Though never I come from the picket's line, + But a faded suit of grey: + Yet over my death will the road be safe, + And the regiment march away." + + "In a mother's name, I bless thee, lad," + The Colonel drew him near: + "But first in the name of God," said Dan, + "And then is my mother's dear— + Her own good lips that taught me well, + With the Cross of Christ no fear." + + Quickly he rode by valley and hill, + On to the outpost line, + Till the pickets arise by wall and mound, + And the levelled muskets shine; + "Halt!" they cried, "count three to death, + Or give us the countersign." + + Lightly the lad leaped from his steed, + No fear was in his sigh, + But a mother's face and a home he loved + Under an Irish sky: + He made the Sign of the Cross and stood, + Bravely he stood to die. + + Lips in a prayer at the blessed Sign, + And calmly he looked around, + And wonder seized his waiting soul + To hear no musket sound, + But only the pickets calling to him, + Heartily up the mound. + + For this was the order of Beauregard + Around his camp that day— + The Sign of the Cross was countersign, + (And a blessing to Dan O'Shea) + And the word came quick to Colonel Smith + For the muster of the grey. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A HILL O' LIGHTS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Turn from Kerry crossroads and leave the wooded dells, + Take the mountain path and find where Tip O'Leary dwells; + Tip O'Leary is the name, I sing it all day long, + And every bird whose heart is wise will have it for a song. + + Tip O'Leary keeps the lights of many lamps aglow, + Little matters it to him the seasons come or go, + Sure if spring is in the air his hedges are abloom, + And fairy buds like candles shine across his garden room. + + Roses in the June days are light the miles around, + Tapers of the fuchsias move along the August ground, + Sumachs light the flaming torches by October's grave + And like the campfires on the hills the oaks and maples wave. + + All the lights but only one die out when summer goes, + One that Tip O'Leary keeps is brighter than the rose, + Through the window comes the bloom on any winter night, + And every sense goes wild to it, soft and sweet and bright. + + Lamps are fair that have the light from flowers all day long, + When the birds are here and sing the Tip O'Leary song, + But a winter window is the fairest rose of all, + When Tip O'Leary's hearth is lit and lamps upon the wall. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OFF TO THE WAR + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (For Jack) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In a little ship and down the bay, + Out to the calling sea, + A young brave lad sailed off today, + To the one great war went he: + The one long war all men must know + Greater than land or gold, + Soul is the prince and flesh the foe + Of a kingdom Christ will hold. + + With arms of faith and hope well-wrought + The brave lad went away, + And the voice of Christ fills all his thought, + Under two hands that pray: + The tender love of a mother's hands + That guarded all his years, + Fitted the armor, plate and bands, + And blessed them with her tears. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Older than Rhodes and Ascalon + And the farthest forts of sea, + Is the Master voice that calls him on + From the hills in Galilee: + From hills where Christ in gentle guise + Called, as He calls again, + With His heart of love and His love-lit eyes + Unto His warrior men. + + Christ with the brave young lad to-day + Who goes to the sweet command, + Strengthen his heart wherever the way, + Whether he march or stand: + And whether he die in a peaceful cell, + Or alone in the lonely night, + The Cross of Christ shall keep him well, + And be his death's delight. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TOWERS OF HOLY CROSS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (For W. M. Letts) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The roads look up to Holy Cross, + The sturdy towers look down, + And show a kindly word to all + Who pass by Worcester Town; + And once you'd see the boys at play, + Or marching cap and gown. + + The gallant towers at Holy Cross + Are silent night and day, + A few young lads are left behind + Who still may take their play; + The Cross and Flag look out afar + For them that went away. + + And mine are gone, says Beaven Hall, + To camps by hill and plain, + And mine along by Newport Sea, + Says the high tower of O'Kane; + I follow mine, Alumni calls, + Across the watery main. + + Their sires were in the old Brigade + That won at Fontenoy, + Stood true at Washington's right hand, + that were his faith and joy: + From Holy Cross to Fredericksburg + Is many a gallant boy. + + Then God be with you, says the Cross, + And the brave towers looking down; + I'll be your cloth, sings out the Flag, + For other cap and gown, + And may we see you safe again, + On the hills of Worcester Town. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ALWAYS MAYTIME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (for Gerry) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When May has spent its little song, + And richer comes the June, + Through former eyes the heart will long + For May again in tune; + Though large with promise hope may be, + By future visions cast, + Our memoried thoughts will yearn to see + The happy little past. + + And you, my loyal little friend, + (From May to June you go), + What years of loyalty attend + Great comradeship we know; + Yet joy have me in place of tears + To see your road depart, + For whether east or west your years, + A friend stays home at heart. + + Then gladly let the Springtime pass + And Summer in its wake; + Ahead are fields of flower and grass + All fragrant for your sake: + With hearts of joy we say farewell, + With laughter, wave and nod, + It's always May for us who dwell + In seasons close to God. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE STORYTELLER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tim of the Tales they call me, + With a welcome heart and hand; + But little they hold my brother + For all his cattle and land. + + If I be walking the high road + From Clare that goes to the sea, + A troop of the young run leaping + To gather a story from me. + + Tim of the Tales, the folk say, + Is known the world around, + For children by taking his stories + To their homes in foreign ground. + + I pity my brother his fortunes, + And how he sits alone, + With the money that keeps his body, + But leaves his heart a stone. + + And sometimes do I be feeling + A dream of death in my ear, + And a heaven of children calling, + "Tim of the Tales is here." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MY FATHER'S TUNES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My father had the gay good tunes, the like you'd seldom hear, + A whole day could he whistle them, an' thin he'd up an' sing, + The merry tunes an' twists o'them that suited all the year, + An' you wouldn't ask but listen if yourself stood there a king. + Early of a mornin' would he give "The Barefoot Boy" to us, + An' later on "The Rocky Road" or maybe "Mountain Lark," + "Trottin' to the Fair" was a liltin' heart of joy to us, + An' whin we heard "The Coulin" sure the night was never dark. + + An' what's the good o' foolish tunes, the moilin' folks 'ud say, + It's better teach the children work an' get the crock o' gold; + Thin sorra take their wisdom whin it makes them sad an' gray,— + A man is fitter have a song that never lets him old. + A stave of "Gillan's Apples" or a snatch of "Come Along With Me" + Will warm the cockles o' your heart, an' life will keep its prime. + Yarra, gold is all the richer whin it's "Danny, sing a song for me" + Or what's the good o' money if you're dead afore your time. + + It's sense to do your turn o' work, it's healthy to be wise, + An' have the little crock o' gold agin the day o' rain; + But whin the ground is heaviest, your heart will feel the skies, + If you know a little Irish song to lift the road o' pain. + The learnin' an' the wealth we have are never sad an' gray with us, + The dullest times in all the year are merry as the June: + For we've the heart to up an' sing "Arise, an' come away with us," + The way my father gave it, an' we laughin' in the tune. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A SONG + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (For John McCormack) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + June of the trees in glory, + June of the meadows gay! + O, and it works a story + To tell an October day. + + Blooms of the apple and cherry + Toil for the far-off hours; + Never is idleness merry, + In song of the garden bowers. + + Brooks to the sea from mountains, + Yea, and from field and vine: + Rain and the sun are fountains + That gather for wheat and wine. + + Cellar and loft shall glory, + Table and hearth shall praise, + Hearing October's story + Of June and the merry days. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BALLAD OF FRANCE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ye who heed a nation's call + And speed to arms therefor, + Ye who fear your children's march + To perils of the war,— + Soldiers of the deck and camp + And mothers of our men, + Hearken to a tale of France + And tell it oft again. + + * * * + + In the east of France by the roads of war, + (God save us evermore from Mars and Thor!) + Up and down the fair land iron armies came, + (Pity, Jesu, all who fell, calling Thy name). + + Pleasant all the fields were round every town, + Garden airs went sweetly up, heaven smiled down; + Till under leaden hail with flaming breath, + Graves and ashen harvest were the keep of death. + + One little town stood, white on a hill, + Chapel and hostel gates, farms and windmill, + Chapel and countryside met the gunner's path, + Till no blade of kindly grass hid from his wrath. + + Lo! When the terrain cleared out of murky air, + When mid the ruins stalked death and despair, + One figure stood erect, bright with day,— + Christ the Crucified, though His Cross was shot away. + + Flame and shot tore away all the tender wood, + Yet with arms uplifted Christ His Figure stood; + Out reached the blessing hands, meek bowed the head, + Christ! The saving solace o'er the waste of dead. + + France tells the story, make our hearts know well, + Christ His Figure stands against the gates of hell: + Flame and shot may rive the fortress walls apart, + Christ the Crucified will heal the breaking heart. + + Wear Him day and night, wherever be the war, + (God save us evermore from Mars and Thor!) + Flag and heart that keep Him fear not shot and flame, + (Strengthen, Jesu, all who stand, calling Thy name). + + * * * + + Ye who guard a nation's call + And speed to arms therefor, + Ye who pray for brave lads gone + To perils of the war; + Soldiers of the fleet and fort + And mothers of our men, + In the shadow of the Cross + Shall we find peace again. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO ONE IN SUCCESS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A world's new faces greet you, + Ten thousand quick with praise, + But truer stay to meet you + Old friends and other days: + Let fickle changes hurt you, + (The new go quick apart) + One fame shall ne'er desert you + In true hearts like this heart. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LIFELONG WAR + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Still goes the strife; the anguish does not die. + Stronger the flesh is grown from earthy years, + In siege about my soul that upward peers + To see and hold its Good. The spirit's eye + Approves the better things; but senses spy + The passing sweets, spurning the present fears, + And take their moment's prize. Ah, then hot tears + Deluge my soul, and contrite moans my cry! + + Courage, my heart: bright patience to the end! + Few years remain; then goes the warring wall + Of sensely flesh, that men will throw to earth. + So be it; so the contrite soul shall wend + A homeward way unto the Captain's call, + Eternally to know contrition's worth. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LINDEN LANE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HOLY CROSS: MAY, 1917 + + (For Major Joseph W. O'Connor, '03) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Birds are merry and the buds + Come along with May: + Lonely is the linden land + For lads that went today. + + What calls the May of song + But the fair young spring? + Heard our boys another tune + Sterner voices sing. + + Bugles blew by land and sea, + And the tocsin drum; + See, brave hearts go down the hill, + Shouting, "Hail, we come." + + From the towers that show the Cross, + Staunch the Flag waved out, + And the royal Purple shook + Joyous with the shout. + + Heigh-ho! And a lusty cheer, + Down the linden lane: + The pine grove looked but cannot tell + If they'll come home again. + + Few may take the homeward road + When the war is done: + Where they fall or when they come, + Hail, to the cause they won. + + Till the buds and the merry birds + Come another May, + Cross and Flag aloft shall bless + Brave lads who went today. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BOUNDARIES OF A HOUSE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Along the north a mountain crest, + A row of trees runs towards the west; + The south is all a field for play, + For work the east has marked a way; + The night shows all the stars above, + And the long, long day, a mother's love. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ATTAINMENT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Let me go back again. There is the road, + O memory! The humble garden lane + So young with me. Let me rebuild again + The start of faith and hope by that abode; + Amend with morning freshness all the code + Of youth's desire; remap my chart's demesne + With tuneful joy, and plan a far campaign + For better marches in ambition's mode. + + Ah, no, my heart! More certain now the skies + For joy abide: the cage of tree and sod, + Horizons firm that faith and hope attain, + Far realms of innocence in children's eyes, + And hearts harmonious with the will of God:— + These might I miss if I were back again. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PHILOSOPHERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The best of true philosophers + Are the children, after all,— + The children with laughing hearts + And the serious field and ball: + They have a bowl and bubbles, + And hours where rainbows are; + They find, if ever the sun is hid, + In every dark a star. + + But, O, the sorry men that make + The wise books of our day! + They cannot smile athwart a cloud, + When black thoughts lead astray; + They cannot add a simple sum, + But talk like drunken men, + And shut their eyes to keep out God + When spring comes in again. + + Far simpler than the Rule of Three + Are the laws of earth and sky; + Yet fools will muddle all true thought, + And pride will have its cry; + The banners with their deadly words + Go reeling on unfurled, + And sin and sadness march along + To the heartbreak of the world. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PHILOSOPHERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But the children are the wise men, + With the clearest heart and mind; + If two and one are three, they say, + Then truth is near to find; + If this be now that once was not, + If things must have a cause, + Then very simple is the sum + That God is in His laws. + + The world's men that are fools enough, + They will not speak that way, + But with a cloud of muddled thought + They hide the light of day; + Yet laughing words and candid truth + Abide by field and hall, + Where the best of true philosophers + Are the children, after all. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREPAREDNESS + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I. THE DRUMMER BOY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You never know when war may come, + And that is why I keep a drum: + For if all sudden in the night + From east or west came battle fright, + And you were sound asleep in bed, + And very soon to join the dead, + You then would gladly wish my drum + Would warn you that the war had come. + + So that is why on afternoons + I tell the neighborhood my tunes: + Sometimes behind a fortress bench, + Or where the hedges make a trench, + I beat the drum with all my might, + While people look with awful fright, + Just as they would if war had come, + And heard the warning of my drum. + + They must be thankful, I am sure, + Because they now may feel secure, + And rest so safe and sound in bed, + Without wild dreams of fearful dread; + For now they hear me all the day, + As round the yard I march and play, + To let them know if war should come + They'll get the warning of my drum. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. THE SAILOR + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A sailor that rides the ocean wave, + And I in my room at home: + Where are the seas I fear to brave, + Or the lands I may not roam? + At the attic window I take my stand, + And tighten the curtain sail, + Then, ahoy! I ride the leagues of land, + Whether in calm or gale. + + Tree at anchor along the road + Bow as I speed along; + At sunny brooks in the valley I load + Cargoes of blossom and song; + Stories I take on the passing wind + From the plains and forest seas, + And the Golden Fleece I yet will find, + And the fruit of Hesperides. + + Steady I keep my watchful eyes, + As I range the thousand miles, + Till evening tides in western skies + Turn gold the cloudland isles; + Then fast is the hatch and dark the screen, + And I bring my cabin light; + With a wink I change to a submarine + And drop in the sea of Night. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WAR IN THE NORTH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Not from Mars and not from Thor + Comes the war, the welcome war, + Many months we waited for + To free us from the bondage + Of Winter's gloomy reign: + Valor to our hope is bound, + Songs of courage loud resound, + Vowed is Spring to win her ground + Through all our northern country, + From Oregon to Maine. + + All our loyal brave allies + In the Southlands mobilize, + Faith is sworn to our emprise, + The scouting breezes whisper + That help is sure today: + Vanguards of the springtime rains + Cannonade the hills and plains, + Freeing them from Winter's chains, + So birds and buds may flourish + Around the throne of May. + + Hark! and hear the clarion call + Bluebirds give by fence and wall! + Look! The darts of sunlight fall, + And red shields of the robins + Ride boldly down the leas; + Hail! The cherry banners shine, + Onward comes the battle line,— + On! White dogwood waves the sign, + And exile troops of blossoms + Are sailing meadow seas. + + Winter's tyrant king retires; + Spring leads on her legion choirs + Where the hedges sound their lyres; + The victor hills and valleys + Ring merrily the tune: + April cohorts guard the way + For the great enthroning day, + When the Princess of May + Shall wed within our northlands + The charming Prince of June. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HAPPY TIME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Two gloomy scenes may be, + Or count you three: + A building hope all crushed at morn, + A bridal day in clouds of rain, + And night that keeps a mother's pain + For tidings of a child forlorn. + + Of happy times count more, + Admit these four: + A flower of promise rich with day, + A son with victories that wear + A halo on his mother's way: + And friends whose hearts ring like a chime + Across the world at Christmas time. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TIME OF TRUCE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Two young lads from childhood up + Drank together friendship's cup: + Joe was glad with Bill at play, + Bill was home to Joe alway. + + On their friendship came the blight + Of a little thoughtless fight; + Then, alas! each passing day + Farther bore these friends away. + + There was grief in either heart, + Bleeding deep from sorrow's dart, + When in thoughtfulness again + Each beheld the other's pain. + + But the shades of night are furled + When the morning takes the world, + And the Christmas days of peace + Make our little quarrels cease. + + Bill and Joe on Christmas Day + Met as in the olden way; + Bill put out his hand to Joe,— + It was Christmas Day, you know. + + Bill and Joe are friends again, + And to them long years remain; + Time may take them far away, + They keep Christmas every day. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BETHLEHEM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O ye who sail Potomac's even tide + To Vernon's shades, our Chieftain's hallowed mound; + Or who at distant shrines high paeans sound + In Alfred's cult, old England's morning pride; + Or seek Versailles, conceited as a bride, + With garish memories of kins strewn round; + Or lay your spirit's cheek on Forum ground, + For here a mighty Caesar lived and died: + To these and other stones, O ye who speed, + Since there, forsooth, a prince was passing great, + More zealous let your heart's adoring heed + The Child most Royal in a crib's estate. + No poor so poor, no king more king than He: + Come, better pilgrims, to this mystery. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A VOW-DAY FLOWER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (POVERTY, CHASTITY, OBEDIENCE) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Three little leaves like shamrock, + And the trefoil's love-lit eyes, + Whether it takes the sunshine + Or the shadows from the skies. + + And richer than rose or lily + Is the flower he wears today, + With triune bloom and fragrance + From earth to heaven alway. + + Poverty is the low leaf, + And one is chastely white, + And the red love of obedience + Goes up to God a light. + + Grow, good flower, and keep him + Who wears your bloom today, + Shadow and sunshine bless him, + And the trefoil's heavenward way. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TREE IN THE TENEMENT YARD + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (For T. A. Daly) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + America, Ireland and Italy, + All have known this poor old tree. + + * * * + + A rickety fence goes round the yard + And the noisy streets stand high: + The grassless ground is brown and hard, + And the cinder pathways, lined with shard, + Sees but a bit of sky. + + Once the yard was fertile and fair, + And lilac bushes near: + And a Yankee counted with fretful care, + Under the solacing shadows there, + The gain of every year. + + The crowded walls of trade arose + And gloomed the avenue: + But a Munster man at each day's close + Built in the tree his hope's rainbows, + And saw his dreams come true. + + The years have thickened the darkened air, + But the tree is still on guard: + It comforts the young Italian there, + Who sees the future blossoming fair + From the tree in the tenement yard. + + * * * + + America, Ireland and Italy + All have loved this poor old tree. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OLD HUDSON ROVERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (For Joyce Kilmer) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When the dreamy night is on, up the Hudson river, + And the sheen of modern taste is dim and far away, + Ghostly men on phantom rafts make the waters shiver, + Laughing in the sibilance of the silver spray. + Yea, and up the woodlands, staunch in moonlit weather, + Go the ghostly horsemen, adventuresome to ride, + White as mist the doublet-braize, bandolier and feather, + Fleet as gallant Robin Hood in an eventide. + + Times are gone that knew the craft in the role of rovers, + Fellows of the open, care could never load: + Unalarmed for bed or board, they were leisure's lovers, + Summer bloomed in story on the Hyde Park Road. + Summer was a blossom, but the fruit was autumn, + Fragrant haylofts for a bed, cider-cakes in store, + Warmer was a cup they know, when the north wind caught 'em + Down at Benny Havens' by the West Point shore. + + Idlers now-and loafers pass, joy is out of fashion, + Honest fun that fooled a dog or knew a friendly gate, + Now the craft are vagabonds, sick with modern passion, + Riding up and down the shore, on an aching freight; + Sullen are the battered looks, cheerless talk or tipsy, + Sickly in the smoky air, starving in the day, + Pining for a city's noise at Kingston or Po'keepsie, + Eager more for Gotham and a great White Way. + + Rich is all the countryside, but glory has departed, + What if yachts and mansions be, by the river's marge! + Dim though was a hillside, lamps were happy-hearted, + Near the cove of Rondout in a hut or barge. + Silken styles are tyrants, fashion kills the playtime, + Robs the heart of largess that is kindly to the poor, + Richer were the freemen, welcome as the Maytime, + Glad was boy or maiden, seeing Brennan of the moor. + + Send us back the olden knights, tell no law to track 'em, + Give to boy and maid the storytellers as of yore, + Millionaires in legend-wealth, though no bank would back 'em, + But old Benny Havens by the West Point Shore. + Off with lazy vagabonds, social ghosts that shiver, + Give to worthy road-men the great green way, + And we'll hear a song again up the Hudson river, + Ringing from a drifting raft, set in silver spray. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A WINTER MINSTER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (For Fr. C. L. O'Donnell) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The interlacing trees + Arise in Gothic traceries, + As if a vast cathedral deep and dim; + And through the solemn atmosphere + The low winds hymn + Such thoughts as solitude will hear. + To lead your way across + Gray carpet aisles of moss + Unto the chantry stalls, + The sumach candelabra are alight; + Along the cloister walls, + Like chorister and acolyte, + The shrubs are vested white; + The dutiful monastic oak + In his gray-friar cloak + Keeps penitential ways + And solemn orisons of praise; + For beads upon the cincture-vine + Red berries warm with color shine, + And to their constant rosary + The bedesmen firs incline; + And fair as frescoes be + Among the shrines of Italy, + These lights and shadows are, + Impalpable in gray and green + Upon the hills afar + And the gold westering sun between. + The music! Hark! + Oh, an it be no rapturous lark, + Yet has the lesser chant + The blessedness of song. + The snowbird mendicant + Intones the antiphon— + Et laboremus nos; + + And all the grottoed aisles along, + Where servitors rejoice, + The chorused echoes run— + + Oremus nos. + + The inspiration of the breeze + Gives every reed a voice + From tenebrae and silences; + Over the valleys borne, + Come organ harmonies; + And when the low winds call, + The pines with miserere mourn + A requiem musical, + Softer than moonbeams fall + Across the starry oriels of night, + Flooding the azure round + With hushed delight + And sanctity of sound. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DARK LITTLE ROSE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IRELAND +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When shall we find the spring come in, + And the fragrant air it blows? + And when shall the bounty of summer win + Fairer than fields of Camolin + For the dark little Rose? + + Long was the winter, the storms how long! + What flower may live i' the snows! + No bloom shall last under heels of wrong, + If the heart-blood be not deathless strong, + As the dark little Rose. + + Sing hers the culture sweeter than rain + That healed old Europe's woes; + Older than bowers of Lille and Louvain + Grew by the Rhine and the towns of Spain + From the dark little Rose. + + Leagues in the sunlight never shall fail + While the broad, round ocean flows; + Though never a fleet goes up Kinsale, + See, all the world is within the pale + Of the dark little Rose. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MONK MAELANFAID + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Maelanfaid saw a tiny bird + A-grieving on the ground, + And O, the sad lament he heard, + That sorrow's self might sound: + He could not read a note or word + The song of grief inwound. + + Maelanfaid went within his cell + To keep a fast and pray, + To listen to a voice would tell + The mystery away: + What was the red long pain befell + The bird of grief all day? + + "Maelanfaid," airy voices call, + "MacOcha Molv is dead, + Who killed no creature great or small, + Who helped all life instead: + Now griefs of bird and blossom fall + Around his funeral bed." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE YOUNG ADVENTURERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We will go adventuring, will you come adventuring, + Hail, to all who sail with us the seven pleasant seas: + All the shores with lily bells, all the flutes of woodland dells + Are calling like a legend upon a fragrant breeze. + + Throw away the haughty cares, children here are millionaires, + Laughter take for baggage and give your laugh a song; + We must sail the seas of grass, round the isles of clover pass, + And delve in leagues of shadowland, when clouds come along. + + Caves are walled with treasure trove, rich as any south-sea cove, + Bullion of the meadow where the gold sun flows; + + Round the reefs of mignonette, up the waves of violet, + Fragrant go our sails and spars with attar of the rose. + + On, gay adventurers, bravely ride the billowy furze, + Golden foil and dewy pearls are swaying to a tune: + Quaff the brew of red raspberry through the vine veils gossamery. + Till we turn when night comes down alleys of the moon. + + Yea, with laughter in our sails and our hearts a book of tales, + Down the silver roadways, a homeward hymn we say:— + Praise the Lord ye great and small, flower and weed majestical, + For pleasant seas that God gave adventurers today. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (For Osceola and Pocahontas) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Was it a hundred years ago, + Or was it but yesterday, + When we found the roads that grow + Blossom and song of May? + Maybe it was but yesterday, + Or a hundred years ago. + + The roads from Bersabee to Dan + Are old and quickly tire, + But to the heart of child or man + Youth is a fairy fire: + Our youthful roads, they never tire + From Bersabee to Dan. + + Ponce de Leon found no spring, + But legend's long, long ruth; + But the grace of God is a magic thing + Abides with chivalrous youth: + The grace of God that brings no ruth + For them who find the spring. + + There is a land, there is a May + Beyond the graveyard tree; + Ten thousand years are like a day + Of a youth that we shall see: + Our young hearts pass the graveyard tree + To a land forever in May. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BONNIE PRINCE O' SPRING + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The little green soldiers are here at last, + With their waving blades and spears; + And across the hills they are marching fast + With the drill of a thousand years: + And I wave afar, and I shout, Hurrah! + Till I hear their echoing cheers. + + A bonnie prince is at their head, + And his love the legions know: + For he gives them rest where the twigs are red + At the hedges cool in a row: + And afoot are they soon to a birdlike tune + On the northward march to go. + + Oh, I am leal to the marching men, + To my bonnie Prince I'm true; + For he tells me the way to his tented glen, + And the secret password too: + And he sets in my hair a blossom to wear, + Like his own good horsemen do. + + Then I will follow on all the day + Where the bonnie Prince has led, + Till we drive the Winter foeman away + And throne my Prince instead: + And sing willaloo! With the birds, willaloo! + For the Winter King is dead. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON A TRAIN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (For Christine and Tom) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oases are charming 'mid the Afric sands, + Beautiful is summer after rain; + But the sweetest blossoms may be eyes and hands, + And two playful children on a train. + + Aileen and her brother, home from holiday, + Left behind them Narragansett town; + Innocence like music followed all the way, + Summer glowed upon the cheeks of brown. + + She that was their escort read a magazine: + They were young, and trains are dull at night; + All the passing signals, red and blue and green, + Counted up the miles for young delight. + + I was there behind them, earnest in a book: + Lo, the journey turned to fairyland, + When, like magic mirrors, dusty windows took + Aileen's dancing eyes and waving hand! + + That is how it happened on a creeping train, + How a play began without a word,— + Peekaboo reflections in a window-pane, + Such a story-hour was never heard. + + Aileen and her brother, strangers were to me; + They were friendly for the cloth I wore; + And through leagues of window, youthful play could see + We were friends to be for evermore. + + So we passed the hamlets, passed the miles of night + In a fairyland of silent games, + Till the travel ended in the Worcester light,— + Yet we parted, strangers in our names. + + But a fortnight later, by an autumn tree, + Aileen and her brother came my way, + And another, glad to tell the names of them and me, + And to hear how travellers can play. + + Life is but a journey, say we evermore, + Passing lights the years have, like a train; + Three good friends will travel up to heaven's door, + With the world a merry window-pane. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE COLUMBINE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Gray lonely rocks about thee stand, + Ignored of sun and dew, + Yet is thy breath upon the land, + To thy vocation true. + + So come they character to me + That works in sunless ways, + And I shall learn to give with thee + Dark hills a constant praise. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TWO SEANICHIES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (For Aedh) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Tis the queerest trade we have, the two of us that go about, + I that do the talkin', and the little lad that sings, + We to tell the story of a Land you ought to know about,— + The wonder land of Erin and the memories it brings. + + Sure it is a wonder land, richer than the books it is, + Full of magic stories and a hopeful heart of song; + Faith, and near the mountains and the sunny lakes and brooks it is, + Like the olden seanichies, the pair of us belong. + + Far and broad our journeyin', up and down the land we go, + Today among the mountains and tomorrow by the sea; + Pleasant are the roads with us, and to a welcome grand we go, + Erin wins the heart of you, whoever you may be. + + Erin's heart will capture you, if you will but listen now, + Great she was afore the Danes and all her Saxon foes, + After that the sorrows came, sure your eyes will glisten now, + Up, my lad, and sing for them "The Dark Little Rose." + + Rest awhile and I will tell the fame of Tara's Hall to them, + All the deeds of valor and a thousand scenes of joy, + Wicklow hills and Derry fields where Killarney calls to them. + Come, my lad, it's Ninety-Eight and sing "The Croppy Boy." + + Long ago the stranger came and learned to love the ways of her, + Irish more than Irish the Norman foe became; + Sure and here across the sea you give your hearts to praise of her, + The tear and smile within her eyes that ever are the same. + + Not for gold or little fame the two of us to go about, + I that do the talkin', and the little lad that sings, + We to win your love for her, the Land you're glad to know about, + The wonder land of Erin and the memories it brings. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GREEN BRIGADE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ON THE FIELD OF CORN +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Where is the war ye march unto, + From the early tents of morn? + And what are the deeds ye hope to do, + Brave Grenadiers of Corn? + Pearls of the dew are on your hair, + And the jewels of morning light, + Pennants of green ye fling to the air, + And the tall plumes waving bright. + + Gaily away and steady ye go, + Never a faltering line: + Forward! I follow and try to know + Word of your countersign: + Hist! The spies of the tyrant sun + Eagerly watch your plan, + Lavish with bribes of gold, they run + Down to your outmost man. + + Steady, good lads, go bravely on + By the parching hills of pain, + An armor of shade ye soon may don + And meet the allies of rain: + And night in the bivouac hours will sing + Praise of the march ye made, + And into your pockets good gold will bring, + Men of the Green Brigade. + + Yea, and upon September's field, + When the long campaign is done, + With arms up-stacked, your hearts will yield + Conquest of rain and sun: + The pennants and plumes will then be sere, + Your pearls delight no morn, + But tents of plenty will bless the year, + Brave Grenadiers of Corn. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ALLELUIA HEIGHT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Obedience to the seasons' marshall-rod, + That is a law of God, + Here beauty passes with her gorgeous train, + On paths that range from bud to grain. + O, here the searching eyes + In traffic for the soul's good gain + Earn wealth of rare delight. + Far pathways of surprise, + In color's frumenty bedight, + Lead off from avenues of day + Through miles of pageantries: + And from the starry chancels of the night + And the inscrutable farther skies, + Beyond where trackless comets stray, + Outspreads a world in thought's array. + And lo! the heart's true voices sing + From the exulting reverent breast, + And lips proclaim, with adoration blessed, + Glad Alleluias to the King. + + Prompt is our praise unto a jewelled queen + In all her courtly splendor set, + (Fair as those fairylands are seen + By childhood's other sight): + But if in pauper mien, + Too poor for stray regret + Where crowded streets affright + She stood in beggary, + Unknown, though faithful to her high degree,— + O, then her praise 'twere easy to forget. + Yet ever here, + For all of time's prompt fickleness— + From plenteous June and wide largess + Of full midsummer days, + To dwarf December pitiless + Amid the earth's uncomplimented ways— + Yea, constant through the changeful year, + This queenly Height commands our praise. + To stand in meek unflinching hardihood + When fortune blows its storm of fright, + And work to full effect that good + Resolved in open days of clearer sight— + O, this is worth! + That daily sees the soul + To braver liberties give birth, + That heeds not time's annoy, + And hears surrounding voices roll + Perennial circumstance of joy. + Then come not only when the springtime blows + The old familiar strangeness of its breath + Across the long-lain snows, + And chants her resurrected songs + About the tombs of death; + Nor yet when summer glows + In roseate throngs + And works her plenitude of deeds + By tangled dells and waving meads, + Come here in beauty's pilgrimage: + Nor when the autumn reads + Illuminate her page + With tints of magicry besprent + Of iridescent wonderment— + (As scrolls in old monastic towers, + Done in an earnest far-off age). + But choose to come in winter hours + To see how character can live, + How noble character will give + Through desolate distress + And cold neglect's duress, + The fulness of its powers + And win the soul its victor sign. + Yea, come when in a peasant gown, + Amid the ample banners of the pine, + And the resounding harpers of the vine, + Lone winter holds upon the Height + Her court in full renown. + Obedient her courtiers go, + Their gonfalons aloft and bright, + And scatter pearls of snow; + Her sturdy knighthood wear for crown + Prismatic sheen in young delight, + And wave the cedar oriflamme on high; + While windward heralds cry, + Across the battlements of earth + To parapets along the sky, + The lauds of character's full worth. + + The winter passes and the days come in + Vibrant with spring. + And men find welcome at the Easter tomb, + Reward they win, + Who make their hearts with courage sing + Through Lenten opportunity of gloom: + (Not as the Pharisees, + With faces lacrimose, + Who wear pretence of ashen woes, + And murmur like the tuneless bees, + Whose honies are hypocrisies), + But men of character's delight, + Who like this valiant Height + Still serving through the bleakest day, + With humble offerings of sound and sight, + Do steadfast stand and pray: + O, count those souls of noble worth, + And God's good pleasure on His earth, + Who still, if joy or pain + Brings sun or rain, + Heroic sing + The law of Alleluia to the King. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Ballads of Peace in War, by Michael Earls + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BALLADS OF PEACE IN WAR *** + +***** This file should be named 3305-h.htm or 3305-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/0/3305/ + +Produced by Alan Earls, and David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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