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Title: The Red Flower: Poems Written in War Time

Author: Henry Van Dyke

Release date: November 1, 2005 [eBook #9388]

Most recently updated: August 30, 2012

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Ted Garvin, Tonya Allen and PG Distributed Proofreaders

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RED FLOWER: POEMS WRITTEN IN WAR TIME ***

Produced by Ted Garvin, Tonya Allen and PG Distributed Proofreaders

THE RED FLOWER

POEMS WRITTEN IN WAR TIME

BY HENRY VAN DYKE D.O.L. (OXON.)

1919

PREFACE

These are verses that came to me in this dreadful war time amid the cares and labors of a heavy task.

Two of the poems, "A Scrap of Paper" and "Stand Fast," were written in 1914 and bore the signature Civis Americanus—the use of my own name at the time being impossible. Two others, "Lights Out" and "Remarks about Kings," were read for me by Robert Underwood Johnson at the meeting of the American Academy in Boston, November, 1915, at which I was unable to be present.

The rest of the verses were printed after I had resigned my diplomatic post and was free to say what I thought and felt, without reserve.

The "Interludes in Holland" are thoughts of the peaceful things that will abide for all the world after we have won this war against war.

SYLVANORA, October 1, 1917.

CONTENTS

PREMONITION THE RED FLOWER (JUNE, 1914)

THE TRIAL AS BY FIRE A SCRAP OF PAPER STAND FAST LIGHTS OUT (1915) REMARKS ABOUT KINGS WAR-MUSIC MIGHT AND RIGHT THE PRICE OF PEACE STORM-MUSIC

FRANCE AND BELGIUM THE BELLS OP MALINES (AUGUST 17, 1914) THE NAME OF FRANCE JEANNE D'ARC RETURNS (1914-1916)

INTERLUDES IN HOLLAND THE HEAVENLY HILLS OF HOLLAND THE PROUD LADY FLOOD-TIDE OF FLOWERS (IN HOLLAND)

ENTER AMERICA AMERICAN'S PROSPERITY THE GLORY OF SHIPS MARE LIBERUM "LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE WORLD" THE OXFORD THRUSHES (FEBRUARY, 1917) HOMEWARD BOUND

PREMONITION

THE RED FLOWER

June 1914

In the pleasant time of Pentecost,

By the little river Kyll,

I followed the angler's winding path

Or waded the stream at will.

And the friendly fertile German land

Lay round me green and still.

But all day long on the eastern bank

Of the river cool and clear,

Where the curving track of the double rails

Was hardly seen though near,

The endless trains of German troops

Went rolling down to Trier.

They packed the windows with bullet heads

And caps of hodden gray;

They laughed and sang and shouted loud

When the trains were brought to a stay;

They waved their hands and sang again

As they went on their iron way.

No shadow fell on the smiling land,

No cloud arose in the sky;

I could hear the river's quiet tune

When the trains had rattled by;

But my heart sank low with a heavy sense

Of trouble,—I knew not why.

Then came I into a certain field

Where the devil's paint-brush spread

'Mid the gray and green of the rolling hills

A flaring splotch of red,

An evil omen, a bloody sign,

And a token of many dead.

I saw in a vision the field-gray horde

Break forth at the devil's hour,

And trample the earth into crimson mud

In the rage of the Will to Power,—

All this I dreamed in the valley of Kyll,

At the sign of the blood-red flower.

A SCRAP OF PAPER

"Will you go to war just for a scrap of paper?"—Question of the

German Chancellor to the British Ambassador, August 3, 1914.

A mocking question! Britain's answer came

Swift as the light and searching as the flame.

"Yes, for a scrap of paper we will fight

Till our last breath, and God defend the right!

"A scrap of paper where a name is set

Is strong as duty's pledge and honor's debt.

"A scrap of paper holds for man and wife

The sacrament of love, the bound of life.

"A scrap of paper may be Holy Writ

With God's eternal word to hallow it.

"A scrap of paper binds us both to stand

Defenders of a neutral neighbor land.

"By God, by faith, by honor, yes! We fight

To keep our name upon that paper white."

September, 1914

STAND FAST

Stand fast, Great Britain!

Together England, Scotland, Ireland stand

One in the faith that makes a mighty land,

True to the bond you gave and will not break

And fearless in the fight for conscience' sake!

Against Giant Robber clad in steel,

With blood of trampled Belgium on his heel,

Striding through France to strike you down at last,

Britain, stand fast!

Stand fast, brave land!

The Huns are thundering toward the citadel;

They prate of Culture but their path is Hell;

Their light is darkness, and the bloody sword

They wield and worship is their only Lord.

O land where reason stands secure on right,

O land where freedom is the source of light,

Against the mailed Barbarians' deadly blast,

Britain, stand fast!

Stand fast, dear land!

Thou island mother of a world-wide race,

Whose children speak thy tongue and love thy face,

Their hearts and hopes are with thee in the strife,

Their hands will break the sword that seeks thy life;

Fight on until the Teuton madness cease;

Fight bravely on, until the word of peace

Is spoken in the English tongue at last,

Britain, stand fast!

September, 1914.

LIGHTS OUT

(1915)

"Lights out" along the land,

"Lights out" upon the sea.

The night must put her hiding hand

O'er peaceful towns where children sleep,

And peaceful ships that darkly creep

Across the waves, as if they were not free.

The dragons of the air,

The hell-hounds of the deep,

Lurking and prowling everywhere,

Go forth to seek their helpless prey,

Not knowing whom they maim or slay—

Mad harvesters, who care not what they reap.

Out with the tranquil lights,

Out with the lights that burn

For love and law and human rights!

Set back the clock a thousand years:

All they have gained now disappears,

And the dark ages suddenly return.

Kaiser who loosed wild death

And terror in the night

God grant you draw no quiet breath,

Until the madness you began

Is ended, and long-suffering man,

Set free from war lords, cries, "Let there be Light."

October, 1915.

Read at the meeting of the American Academy, Boston,

November, 1915.

REMARKS ABOUT KINGS

God said, "I am tired of kings."—EMERSON.

God said, "I am tired of kings,"—

But that was a long time ago!

And meantime man said, "No,

I like their looks in their robes and rings."

So he crowned a few more,

And they went on playing the game as before

Fighting and spoiling things.

Man said, "I am tired of kings!

Sons of the robber-chiefs of yore,

They make me pay for their lust and their war;

I am the puppet, they pull the strings;

The blood of my heart is the wine they drink.

I will govern myself for while I think,

And see what that brings!"

Then God, who made the first remark,

Smiled in the dark.

Read at the meeting of the American Academy, Boston.

November, 1915.

WAR-MUSIC

Break off! Dance no more!

Danger is at the door.

Music is in arms.

To signal war's alarms,

Hark, a sudden trumpet calling

Over the hill

Why are you calling, trumpet, calling?

What is your will?

Men, men, men!

Men who are ready to fight

For their country's life, and the right.

Of a liberty-loving land to be

Free, free, free!

Free from a tyrant's chain,

Free from dishonor's stain,

Free to guard and maintain

All that her fathers fought for,

All that her sons have wrought for,

Resolute, brave, and free!

Call again, trumpet, call again,

Call up the men!

Do you hear the storm of cheers

Mingled with the women's tears

And the tramp, tramp, tramp of marching feet?

Do you hear the throbbing drum

As the hosts of battle come

Keeping time, time, time to its beat?

O Music give a song

To make their spirit strong

For the fury of the tempest they must meet.

The hoarse roar

Of the monster guns;

And the sharp bark

Of the lesser guns;

The whine of the shells,

The rifles' clatter

Where the bullets patter,

The rattle, rattle, rattle

Of the mitrailleuse in battle,

And the yells

Of the men who charge through hells

Where the poison gas descends.

And the bursting shrapnel rends

Limb from limb

In the dim

Chaos and clamor of the strife

Where no man thinks of his life

But only of fighting through,

Blindly fighting through, through!

'Tis done

At last!

The victory won,

The dissonance of warfare past!

O Music mourn the dead

Whose loyal blood was shed,

And sound the taps for every hero slain;

Then lend into the song

That made their spirit strong,

And tell the world they did not die in vain.

Thank God we can see, in the glory of morn,

The invincible flag that our fathers defended;

And our hearts can repeat what the heroes have sworn,

That war shall not end till the war-lust is ended,

Then the bloodthirsty sword shall no longer be lord

Of the nations oppressed by the conqueror's horde,

But the banners of freedom shall peacefully wave

O'er the world of the free and the lands of the brave.

May, 1916

MIGHT AND RIGHT

If Might made Right, life were a wild-beasts' cage;

If Right made Might, this were the golden age;

But now, until we win the long campaign

Right must gain Might to conquer and to reign.

July 1, 1915.

THE PRICE OF PEACE

Peace without Justice is a low estate,—

A coward cringing to an iron Fate!

But Peace through Justice is the great ideal,—

We'll pay the price of war to make it real.

December 28, 1916.

STORM MUSIC

O Music hast thou only heard

The laughing river, the singing bird,

The murmuring wind in the poplar-trees,—

Nothing but Nature's melodies?

Nay, thou hearest all her tones,

As a Queen must hear!

Sounds of wrath and fear,

Mutterings, shouts, and moans,

Mildness, tumult, and despair,—

All she has that shakes the air

With voices fierce and wild!

Thou art a Queen and not a dreaming child,—

Put on thy crown and let us hear thee reign

Triumphant in a world of storm and strain!

Echo the long-drawn sighs

Of the mounting wind in the pines;

And the sobs of the mounting waves that rise

In the dark of the troubled deep

To break on the beach in fiery lines.

Echo the far-off roll of thunder,

Rumbling loud

And ever louder, under

The blue-black curtain of cloud,

Where the lightning serpents gleam,

Echo the moaning

Of the forest in its sleep

Like a giant groaning

In the torment of a dream.

Now an interval of quiet

For a moment holds the air

In the breathless hush

Of a silent prayer.

Then the sudden rush

Of the rain, and the riot

Of the shrieking, tearing gale

Breaks loose in the night,

With a fusillade of hail!

Hear the forest fight,

With its tossing arms that crack and clash

In the thunder's cannonade,

While the lightning's forkèd flash

Brings the old hero-trees to the ground with a crash!

Hear the breakers' deepening roar,

Driven like a herd of cattle

In the wild stampede of battle,

Trampling, trampling, trampling, to overwhelm the shore.

Is it the end of all?

Will the land crumble and fall?

Nay, for a voice replies

Out of the hidden skies,

"Thus far, O sea, shalt thou go,

So long, O wind, shalt thou blow:

Return to your bounds and cease,

And let the earth have peace!"

O Music, lead the way—

The stormy night is past,

Lift up our heads to greet the day,

And the joy of things that last.

The dissonance and pain

That mortals must endure

Are changed in thine immortal strain

To something great and pure.

True love will conquer strife,

And strength from conflict flows,

For discord is the thorn of life

And harmony the rose.

May, 1916.

FRANCE AND BELGIUM

THE BELLS OF MALINES

AUGUST 17, 1914

The gabled roofs of old Malines

Are russet red and gray and green,

And o'er them in the sunset hour

Looms, dark and huge, St. Rombold's tower.

High in that rugged nest concealed,

The sweetest bells that ever pealed,

The deepest bells that ever rung,

The lightest bells that ever sung,

Are waiting for the master's hand

To fling their music o'er the land.

And shall they ring to-night, Malines?

In nineteen hundred and fourteen,

The frightful year, the year of woe,

When fire and blood and rapine flow

Across the land from lost Liége,

Storm-driven by the German rage?

The other carillons have ceased;

Fallen is Hasselt, fallen Diesl,

From Ghent and Bruges no voices come,

Antwerp is silent, Brussels dumb!

But in thy belfry, O Malines,

The master of the bells unseen

Has climbed to where the keyboard stands,—

To-night his heart is in his hands!

Once more, before invasion's hell

Breaks round the tower he loves so well,

Once more he strikes the well-worn keys,

And sends aërial harmonies

Far-floating through the twilight dim

In patriot song and holy hymn.

O listen, burghers of Malines!

Soldier and workman, pale béguine.

And mother with a trembling flock

Of children clinging to thy frock,—

Look up and listen, listen all!

What tunes are these that gently fall

Around you like a benison?

"The Flemish Lion," "Brabançonne,"

"O brave Liége," and all the airs

That Belgium in her bosom bears.

Ring up, ye silvery octaves high,

Whose notes like circling swallows fly;

And ring, each old sonorous bell,—

"Jesu," "Maria," "Michaël!"

Weave in and out, and high and low,

The magic music that you know,

And let it float and flutter down

To cheer the heart of the troubled town.

Ring out, "Salvator," lord of all,—

"Roland" in Ghent may hear thee call!

O brave bell-music of Malines,

In this dark hour how much you mean!

The dreadful night of blood and tears

Sweeps down on Belgium, but she hears

Deep in her heart the melody

Of songs she learned when she was free.

She will not falter, faint, nor fail,

But fight until her rights prevail

And all her ancient belfries ring

"The Flemish Lion," "God Save the King!"

THE NAME OF FRANCE

Give us a name to fill the mind

With the shining thoughts that lead mankind,

The glory of learning, the joy of art,—

A name that tells of a splendid part.

In long, long toil and the strenuous fight

Of the human race to win its way

From the feudal darkness into the day

Of Freedom, Brotherhood, Equal Right,—

A name like a star, a name of light.

I give you France!

Give us a name to stir the blood

With a warmer glow and a swifter flood,

At the touch of a courage that knows not fear,—

A name like the sound of a trumpet, clear.

And silver-sweet, and iron-strong,

That calls three million men to their feet,

Ready to march, and steady to meet

The foes who threaten that name with wrong,—

A name that rings like a battle-song.

I give you France!

Give us a name to move the heart

With the strength that noble griefs impart,

A name that speaks of the blood outpoured

To save mankind from the sway of the sword,—

A name that calls on the world to share

In the burden of sacrificial strife

When the cause at stake is the world's free life

And the rule of the people everywhere,—

A name like a vow, a name like a prayer.

I give you France!

The Hague, September, 1916.

JEANNE D'ARC RETURNS

1914 1916

What hast thou done, O womanhood of France,

Mother and daughter, sister, sweetheart, wife,

What hast thou done, amid this fateful strife,

To prove the pride of thine inheritance.

In this fair land of freedom and romance?

I hear thy voice with tears and courage rife,—

Smiling against the swords that seek thy life—

Make answer in a noble utterance:

"I give France all I have, and all she asks.

Would it were more! Ah, let her ask and take;

My hands to nurse her wounded, do her tasks,—

My feet to run her errands through the dark,—

My heart to bleed in triumph for her sake,—

And all my soul to follow thee, Jeanne d'Arc!"

April 16, 1916.

INTERLUDES IN HOLLAND

THE HEAVENLY HILLS OF HOLLAND

The heavenly hills of Holland,—

How wondrously they rise

Above the smooth green pastures

Into the azure skies!

With blue and purple hollows,

With peaks of dazzling snow,

Along the far horizon

The clouds are marching slow,

No mortal fool has trodden

The summits of that range,

Nor walked those mystic valleys

Whose colors ever change;

Yet we possess their beauty,

And visit them in dreams,

While the ruddy gold of sunset

From cliff and canyon gleams.

In days of cloudless weather

They melt into the light;

When fog and mist surround us

They're hidden from our sight;

But when returns a season

Clear shining after rain,

While the northwest wind is blowing,

We see the hills again.

The old Dutch painters loved them,

Their pictures show them clear,—

Old Hobbema and Ruysduel,

Van Goyen and Vermeer,

Above the level landscape,

Rich polders, long-armed mills,

Canals and ancient cities,—

Float Holland's heavenly hills.

The Hague, November, 1916.

THE PROUD LADY

When Stävoren town was in its prime

And queened the Zuyder Zee,

Its ships went out to every clime

With costly merchantry.

A lady dwelt in that rich town,

The fairest in all the land;

She walked abroad in a velvet gown,

With many rings on her hand.

Her hair was bright as the beaten gold,

Her lips as coral red,

Her roving eyes were blue and bold,

And her heart with pride was fed.

For she was proud of her father's ships,

As she watched them gayly pass;

And pride looked out of her eyes and lips

When she saw herself in the glass.

"Now come," she said to the captains ten,

Who were ready to put to sea,

"Ye are all my men and my father's men,

And what will ye do for me?"

"Go north and south, go east and west,

And get me gifts," she said.

"And he who bringeth me home the best,

With that man will I wed."

So they all fared forth, and sought with care

In many a famous mart,

For satins and silks and jewels rare,

To win that lady's heart.

She looked at them all with never a thought

And careless put them by;

"I am not fain of the things ye brought,

Enough of these have I."

The last that came was the head of the fleet,

His name was Jan Borel;

He bent his knee at the lady's feet,—

In truth he loved her well.

"I've brought thee home the best i' the world,

A shipful of Danzig corn!"

She stared at him long; her red lips curled,

Her blue eyes filled with scorn.

"Now out on thee, thou feckless kerl,

A loon thou art," she said.

"Am I a starving beggar girl?

Shall I ever lack for bread?"

"Go empty all thy sacks of grain

Into the nearest sea,

And never show thy face again

To make a mock of me."

Young Jan Borel, he answered naught,

But in the harbor cast

The sacks of golden corn he brought,

And groaned when fell the last.

Then Jan Borel, he hoisted sail,

And out to sea he bore;

He passed the Helder in a gale

And came again no more.

But the grains of corn went drifting down

Like devil-scattered seed,

To sow the harbor of the town

With a wicked growth of weed.

The roots were thick and the silt and sand

Were gathered day by day,

Till not a furlong out from land

A shoal had barred the way.

Then Stävoren town saw evil years,

No ships could out or in.

The boats lay rolling at the piers,

And the mouldy grain in the bin.

The grass-grown streets were all forlorn,

The town in ruin stood,

The lady's velvet gown was torn,

Her rings were sold for food.

Her father had perished long ago,

But the lady held her pride.

She walked with a scornful step and slow,

Till at last in her rags she died.

Yet still on the crumbling piers of the town,

When the midnight moon shines free,

A woman walks in a velvet gown

And scatters corn in the sea.

FLOOD-TIDE OF FLOWERS

IN HOLLAND

The laggard winter ebbed so slow

With freezing rain and melting snow,

It seemed as if the earth would stay

Forever where the tide was low,

In sodden green and watery gray.

But now from depths beyond our sight,

The tide is turning in the night,

And floods of color long concealed

Come silent rising toward the light,

Through garden bare and empty field.

And first, along the sheltered nooks,

The crocus runs in little brooks

Of joyance, till by light made bold

They show the gladness of their looks

In shining pools of white and gold.

The tiny scilla, sapphire blue,

Is gently sweeping in, to strew

The earth with heaven; and sudden rills

Of sunlit yellow, sweeping through,

Spread into lakes of daffodils.

The hyacinths, with fragrant heads,

Have overflowed their sandy beds,

And fill the earth with faint perfume,

The breath that Spring around her sheds.

And now the tulips break in bloom!

A sea, a rainbow-tinted sea,

A splendor and a mystery,

Floods o'er the fields of faded gray:

The roads are full of folks in glee,

For lo,—to-day is Easter Day!

April, 1916.

ENTER AMERICA

AMERICA'S PROSPERITY

They tell me thou art rich, my country: gold

In glittering flood has poured into thy chest;

Thy flocks and herds increase, thy barns are pressed

With harvest, and thy stores can hardly hold

Their merchandise; unending trains are rolled

Along thy network rails of East and West;

Thy factories and forges never rest;

Thou art enriched in all things bought and sold!

But dost thou prosper? Better news I crave.

O dearest country, is it well with thee

Indeed, and is thy soul in health?

A nobler people, hearts more wisely brave,

And thoughts that lift men up and make them free.—

These are prosperity and vital wealth!

The Hague, October 1, 1916.

THE GLORY OF SHIPS

The glory of ships is an old, old song,

since the days when the sea-rovers ran

In their open boats through the roaring surf,

and the spread of the world began;

The glory of ships is a light on the sea,

and a star in the story of man.

When Homer sang of the galleys of Greece

that conquered the Trojan shore,

And Solomon lauded the barks of Tyre that

brought great wealth to his door,

'Twas little they knew, those ancient men,

what would come of the sail and the oar.

The Greek ships rescued the West from the East,

when they harried the Persians home;

And the Roman ships were the wings of strength

that bore up the empire, Rome;

And the ships or Spain found a wide new world

far over the fields of foam.

Then the tribes of courage at last saw clear

that the ocean was not a bound,

But a broad highway, and a challenge to seek

for treasure as yet unfound;

So the fearless ships fared forth to the search,

in joy that the globe was round.

Their hulls were heightened, their sails spread out.

they grew with the growth of their quest;

They opened the secret doors of the East,

and the golden gates of the West;

And many a city of high renown

was proud of a ship on its crest.

The fleets of England and Holland and France

were at strife with each other and Spain;

And battle and storm sent a myriad ships

to sleep in the depths of the main;

But the seafaring spirit could never be drowned,

and it filled up the fleets again.

They greatened and grew, with the aid of steam,

to a wonderful, vast array,

That carries the thoughts and the traffic of men

into every harbor and bay;

And now in the world-wide work of the ships

'tis England that leads the way.

O well for the leading that follows the law

of a common right on the sea!

But ill for the leader who tries to hold

what belongs to mankind in fee!

The way of the ships is an open way,

and the ocean must ever be free!

Remember, O first of the maritime folk,

how the rise of your greatness began.

It will live if you safeguard the round-the-world road

from the shame of a selfish ban;

For the glory of ships is a light on the sea,

and a star in the story of man!

September 12, 1916.

MARE LIBERUM

I

You dare to say with perjured lips,

"We fight to make the ocean free"?

You, whose black trail of butchered ships

Bestrews the bed of every sea

Where German submarines have wrought

Their horrors! Have you never thought,—

What you call freedom, men call piracy!

II

Unnumbered ghosts that haunt the wave,

Where you have murdered, cry you down;

And seamen whom you would not save,

Weave now in weed grown depths a crown

Of shame for your imperious head,—

A dark memorial of the dead,—

Women and children whom you sent to drown.

III

Nay, not till thieves are set to guard

The gold, and corsairs called to keep

O'er peaceful commerce watch and ward

And wolves do herd the helpless sheep,

Shall men and women look to thee,

Thou ruthless Old Man of the Sea,

To safeguard law and freedom on the deep!

IV

In nobler breeds we put our trust;

The nations in whose sacred lore

The "Ought" stands out above the "Must,"

And honor rules in peace and war.

With these we hold in soul and heart,

With these we choose our lot and part,

Till Liberty is safe on sea and shore.

London Times, February 12, 1917.

"LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE WORLD"

Thou warden of the western gate, above Manhattan Bay,

The fogs of doubt that hid thy face are driven clean away:

Thine eyes at last look far and clear, thou liftest high thy hand

To spread the light of liberty world-wide for every land.

No more thou dreamest of a peace reserved alone for thee,

While friends are fighting for thy cause beyond the guardian sea;

The battle that they wage is thine; thou fallest if they fall;

The swollen flood of Prussian pride will sweep unchecked o'er all.

O cruel is the conquer-lust in Hohenzollern brains;

The paths they plot to gain their goal are dark with shameful stains:

No faith they keep, no law revere, no god but naked Might;—

They are the foemen of mankind. Up, Liberty; and smite!

Britain, and France, and Italy, and Russia newly born,

Have waited for thee in the night. Oh, come as comes the morn!

Serene and strong and full of faith, America, arise,

With steady hope and mighty help to join thy brave Allies.

O dearest country of my heart, home of the high desire,

Make clean thy soul for sacrifice on Freedom's altar-fire;

For thou must suffer, thou must fight, until the war-lords cease,

And all the peoples lift their heads in liberty and peace.

London Times, April 12, 1917.

THE OXFORD THRUSHES

FEBRUARY, 1917

I never thought again to hear

The Oxford thrushes singing clear,

Amid the February rain,

Their sweet, indomitable strain.

A wintry vapor lightly spreads

Among the trees, and round the beds

Where daffodil and jonquil sleep,

Only the snowdrop wakes to weep.

It is not springtime yet. Alas,

What dark, tempestuous days must pass,

Till England's trial by battle cease,

And summer comes again with peace.

The lofty halls, the tranquil towers,

Where Learning in untroubled hours

Held her high court, serene in fame,

Are lovely still, yet not the same.

The novices in fluttering gown

No longer fill the ancient town,

But fighting men in khaki drest—

And in the Schools the wounded rest.

Ah, far away, 'neath stranger skies

Full many a son of Oxford lies,

And whispers from his warrior grave,

"I died to keep the faith you gave."

The mother mourns, but does not fail,

Her courage and her love prevail

O'er sorrow, and her spirit hears

The promise of triumphant years.

Then sing, ye thrushes, in the rain

Your sweet, indomitable strain.

Ye bring a word from God on high

And voices in our hearts reply.

HOMEWARD BOUND

Home, for my heart still calls me;

Home, through the danger zone;

Home, whatever befalls me,

I will sail again to my own!

Wolves of the sea are hiding

Closely along the way,

Under the water biding

Their moment to rend and slay.

Black is the eagle that brands them,

Black are their hearts as the night,

Black is the hate that sends them

To murder but not to fight.

Flower of the German Culture,

Boast of the Kaiser's Marine,

Choose for your emblem the vulture,

Cowardly, cruel, obscene!

Forth from her sheltered haven

Our peaceful ship glides slow,

Noiseless in flight as a raven,

Gray as a hoodie crow.

She doubles and turns in her bearing,

Like a twisting plover she goes;

The way of her westward faring

Only the captain knows.

In a lonely bay concealing

She lingers for days, and slips

At dusk from her covert, stealing

Thro' channels feared by the ships.

Brave are the men, and steady,

Who guide her over the deep,—

British mariners, ready

To face the sea-wolf's leap.

Lord of the winds and waters,

Bring our ship to her mark,

Safe from this game of hide-and-seek

With murderers in the dark!

On the S.S. Baltic, May, 1917.

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Table of Contents

THE RED FLOWER

PREFACE

CONTENTS

PREMONITION THE RED FLOWER (JUNE, 1914)

PREMONITION THE RED FLOWER

A SCRAP OF PAPER

STAND FAST

LIGHTS OUT

REMARKS ABOUT KINGS

WAR-MUSIC

MIGHT AND RIGHT

THE PRICE OF PEACE

STORM MUSIC

FRANCE AND BELGIUM

THE BELLS OF MALINES

THE NAME OF FRANCE

JEANNE D'ARC RETURNS

INTERLUDES IN HOLLAND THE HEAVENLY HILLS OF HOLLAND

THE PROUD LADY

FLOOD-TIDE OF FLOWERS

ENTER AMERICA AMERICA'S PROSPERITY

THE GLORY OF SHIPS

MARE LIBERUM

I

II

III

IV

"LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE WORLD"

THE OXFORD THRUSHES

HOMEWARD BOUND

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE