POLICEMAN X

"Shall it be Peace?

A voice within me cried and would not cease,'One man could do it if he would but dare.'" (From "Policeman X" in "Bees in Amber.")

EPILOGUE, 1914

He did not dare!

His swelling pride laid wait

On opportunity, then dropped the mask

And tempted Fate, cast loaded dice,-and lost; Nor recked the cost of losing.

"Their souls are mine.

Their lives were in thy hand;

Of thee I do require them!"

The Voice, so stern and sad, thrilled my heart's

core

And shook me where I stood.

Sharper than sharpest sword, it fell on him Who stood defiant, muffle-cloaked and helmed, that burned, impatient to be gone.

With eyes

EPILOGUE, 1914 (continued)

"The fetor of thy grim burnt offerings Comes up to me in clouds of bitterness. Thy fell undoings crucify afresh

Thy Lord who died alike for these and thee. Thy works are Death;-thy spear is in my side,

O man! O man!-was it for this I died?

Was it for this?—

A valiant people harried to the void,-
Their fruitful fields a burnt-out wilderness,-
Their prosperous country ravelled
ravelled into

waste,

Their smiling land a vast red sepulchre.

For this?

-Thy work!

-Black clouds of smoke that vail the sight of heaven;

Black piles of stones which yesterday were homes;

And raw black heaps which once were villages; Fair towns in ashes, spoiled to suage thy spleen; My temples desecrate, My priests out-cast;— Black ruin everywhere, and red,—a land

EPILOGUE, 1914 (continued)

All swamped with blood, and savaged raw and bare;

All sickened with the reek and stench of war, And flung a prey to pestilence and want;

For this?

-Thy work!

—Life's fair white flower of manhood in the

dust;

Ten thousand thousand hearts made desolate;
My troubled world a seething pit of hate;
My helpless ones the victims of thy lust;-
The broken maids lift hopeless eyes to Me,
The little ones lift handless arms to Me,
The tortured women lift white lips to Me,
The eyes of murdered white-haired sires and
dames

Stare up at Me.-And the sad anguished eyes
Of My dumb beasts in agony.

-Thy work!

Outrage on outrage thunders to the sky
The tale of thy stupendous infamy,-
Thy slaughterings, thy treacheries,―thy

thefts,

Thy broken pacts,-thy honour in the mire,

EPILOGUE, 1914 (continued)

Thy poor humanity cast off to sate thy pride;'Twere better thou hadst never lived,-or died Ere come to this.

Thou art the man! The scales were in thy hand.

For this vast wrong I hold thy soul in fee. Seek not a scapegoat for thy righteous due, Nor hope to void thy countability.

Until thou purge thy pride and turn to Me,As thou hast done, so be it unto thee!"

The shining eyes, so stern, and sweet, and sad, Searched the hard face for sign of hopeful grace. But grace was none. Enarmoured in his pride, With brusque salute the other turned, and strode Adown the night of Death and fitful fires.

Then, as the Master bowed him, sorrowing,
I heard a great Voice pealing through the heavens,
A Voice that dwarfed earth's thunders to a

Woe! Woe! Woe!-to him by whom this

came.

His house shall unto him be desolate.

And, to the end of time, his name shall be

EPILOGUE, 1914 (continued)

A byword and reproach in all the lands
He rapined. . . And his own shall curse him
For the ruin that he brought.

Who without reason draws the sword

By sword shall perish!

The Lord hath said .

So be it, Lord!"

WHAT?

God grant the sacrifice be not in vain!

Those valiant souls who set themselves with pride To hold the Ways . . and fought

fought. . . and died,

They rest with Thee.

and

But, to the end of time,

The virtue of their valiance shall remain,
To pulse a nobler life through every vein
Of our humanity.

No drop of hero-blood e'er runs to waste,
But springs eternal, Fountain pure and chaste,
For cleansing of men's souls from earthly grime.
Life knows no waste. The Reaper toils in vain,
In vain piles high his grim red harvesting,-
His dread, red harvest of the slain!

God's wondrous husbandry is oft obscure,