Fifes and Drums — Poems of America at War. The Vigilantes
on!
I can hear it, clear and urgent, over all the breakers' rage;
It is pleading for the memory of a noble heritage;
'Twas a woman's voice that sang it, in a past heroic age—
Its call is sounding on.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored. He has loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword; His truth is marching on. It is calling with the sea-winds far across the troubled wave, Where Belgium in her beauty lies all one trampled grave, And still her proud defenders lift the pæan of the brave— Her soul is marching on! It cries along the bloody fields, from Russia back to France, Where the great united nations hold the savage foe's advance; Where the stars above the trenches meet the soldier's dying glance— Its call is sounding on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel; "As ye deal with My contemners, so with you My grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on." My country—oh, my country! Clear-sighted then and strong, A shield for the defenceless and a flame against the wrong, True to the ringing echoes of that mighty marching song That still is sounding on— My country—oh, my country! The old brave call has come; Too long your steps were lagging, too long your soul was dumb; Tune now your wakening pulses to the throbbing of the drum, While God is marching on. He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat; Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! Be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on.
Marion Couthouy Smith.
PEACE WITH A SWORD
Peace! How we love her and the good she brings
On broad, benignant wings!
And we have clung to her—how close and long,
While she has made us strong!
Now we must guard her lest her power cease,
And in the harried world be no more peace.
Even with a sword,
Help us, O Lord!
For us no patient peace, the weary goal
Of a war-sickened soul;
No peace that battens on misfortune's pain,
Swollen with selfish gain,
Bending slack knees before a calf of gold,
With nerveless fingers impotent to hold
The freeman's sword—
Not this, O Lord!
Not peace bought for us by the martyred dead
Of countries reeking red;
No peace flung to us from a tyrant's hand,
Sop to a servile land.
Our Peace the State's strong arm holds high and free,
The "placid Peace she seeks in liberty,"
Yea, "with a sword."
Help us, O Lord!
Bring out the banners that defied a king;
Then tattered colors bring
That made a nation one from sea to sea,
In godly liberty.
Unsheathe the patriot sword in time of need,
America! Forth, forth your armies lead!
"Peace, with a sword!
Help us, O Lord!"
Abbie Furwell Brown.
THE PACIFIST'S LAMENT
The world is so full of a number of thugs,
I'm sure we should all be as humble as bugs.
Don Marquis.
AT ANY PRICE
De Puyster Jones at twenty-three
Is not a pleasant sight to see;
Although his duds cost many dollars,
From silken socks to five-ply collars,
Though shaved and bathed and deftly scented—
One feels he should have been prevented.
His lips hang loose, his chest caves in,
His face is minus brow or chin;
And when one hears the creature chatter
Somehow it simply doesn't matter.
Yet young De Puyster Jones has money,
And when his money talks—it's funny
(Or sad) to note that many listen;
His brain is slime, and slime will glisten. In fact, the moron, more's the pity, Is sometimes spoken of as witty; And though obscenely idiotic, His ancient anecdotes erotic Are often greeted with guffaws; And his views meet with wild applause. Now what—I ask in thunderous tones— What are the views of D. P. Jones? "Patriotism's just an ism! A fellah ought to be Above the lingo Of the Jingo; Flags don't appeal to me." "If a chap's rational, he's international; He knows there's nothing in The stuff that's local; I'm not a yokel To cheer when the bands begin." 'And politicians who yap of missions, Ideals, and all that junk— Just let 'em gab, brag, And hold the grab-bag; But don't fall for their bunk!" "You take this crisis! A glance suffices To wise you what it means; Munition makers And journalist fakers Stuffing millions in their jeans!" "We're safe and happy, so why get scrappy? Say, what's the sense in war? For God's sake chuck it! The whole show's muck! It 'S not what I'm living for!" "Not this little Willy! I'm not that silly— No drums and guns for mine! What's the odds if they rat us? They can't get at us. Georgie's fleet is doing fine!" Such—I repeat in thunderous tones— Such are the views of D. P. Jones.
Lee Wilson Dodd.
THE ANSWER
There is one answer to all dreams of ease—
Belgium!
One answer to the Teuton's cunning pleas—
Belgium!
One test and touchstone for all hearts that feel;
One word that is a stroke of steel on steel,
A stroke whose clangor sets a long note ringing
That falls upon our ears like distant singing.
One word for you who say the strife must cease—
Belgium!