III

In other lands they may,

With public joy or dole along the way,
With pomp and pageantry and loud lament
Of drums and trumpets, and with merriment
Of grateful hearts, lead into rest and sted
The nation's dead.

If we had drums and trumpets, if we had
Aught of heroic pitch or accent glad
To honor you as bids tradition old,

With banners flung or draped in mournful fold,
And pacing cortege; these would we not bring
For your last journeying.

We have no drums or trumpets; naught have we
But some green branches taken from a tree,
"And flowers that grow at large in mead and vale;
Nothing of choice have we, or of avail

To do you honor as our honor deems,
And as your worth beseems.

Sleep, drums and trumpets, yet a little time;

All ends and all begins, and there is chime
At last where discord was, and joy at last
Where woe wept out her eyes: be not downcast,
Here is prosperity and goodly cheer,

For life does follow death, and death is here.
-James Stephens.

AUSTRALIA TO ENGLAND

By all the deeds to Thy dear glory done,
By all the life blood spilt to serve Thy need,
By all the fettered lives Thy touch hath freed,
By all Thy dream in us anew begun;

By all the guerdon English sire to son

Hath given of highest vision, kingliest deed,
By all Thine agony, of God decreed

For trial and strength, our fate with Thine is one.

Still dwells Thy spirit in our hearts and lips,
Honor and life we hold from none but Thee,
And if we live Thy pensioners no more
But seek a nation's might of men and ships,
'Tis but that when the world is black with war
Thy sons may stand beside Thee strong and free.
-Archibald T. Strong.

August, 1914.

SAILOR, WHAT OF THE DEBT WE OWE YOU?

SAILOR, what of the debt we owe you?
Day or night is the peril more?
Who so dull that he fails to know you,
Sleepless guard of our island shore?

Safe the corn to the farmyard taken;
Grain ships safe upon all the seas;
Homes in peace and a faith unshaken
Sailor, what do we owe for these?

Safe the clerk at his desk; the trader
Counts unruined his honest gain;
Safe though yonder the curs't invader
Pours red death over hill and plain.

Sailor, what of the debt we owe you?
Now is the hour at last to pay,
Now in the stricken field to show you
What is the spirit you guard to-day.

Andrew John Stuart.

(Eldest son of the Earl of Castlestewart, Lieut. 6th Royal Scots Fusiliers, killed in action in France between Sept. 25 and 27, 1915.)

FROM AMERICA

OH, England, at the smoking trenches dying

For all the world,

Our hearts beat and we watch your bright flag flying While ours is furled;

We who are neutral (yet each lip with fervor
The word abjures) :

Oh, England, never name us the time-server!
Our hearts are yours:

We that so glory in your high decision,

So trust your goal;

All Europe in our blood, but yours our vision,

Our speech, our soul!

Elizabeth Townsend Swift.

THE TRUMPET

THY trumpet lies in the dust.

The wind is weary, the light is dead. Ah, the evil day!

Come fighters, carrying your flags and singers with your songs!

Come pilgrims, hurrying on your journey!

The trumpet lies in the dust waiting for us.

I was on my way to the temple with my evening offerings,

Seeking for the heaven of rest after the day's dusty

toil;

Hoping my hurts would be healed and stains in my garments washed white,

When I found thy trumpet lying in the dust.

Has it not been the time for me to light my lamp?
Has my evening not come to bring me sleep?
O, thou blood-red rose, where have my poppies
faded?

I was certain my wanderings were over and my debts

all paid

When suddenly I came upon thy trumpet lying in the dust,