Fallen

He rattled the sword in its sheath;
    He threatened; he boasted of might;
Earth trembled, his thunder beneath;
    Day passed for the terrors of night.

He planned for the conquest of man;
    He vapoured and posed as a king
Of the world, in a century's van.
    Whose glory the future would sing.

He rattled his sword in its sheath,
    He claimed irresistible might;
His millions have fallen beneath
    The heroes of freedom and right.

He formed alliances strong
    With hell and hell's legions on earth;
His alliance is shattered along
    The whole line for the new age’s birth.

Fallen! fallen! he fell by his pride,
    By the wrong he for selfish aims joined:
'Twas his own soul he sold when he lied,
    And by perjury himself purloined.

Yes, fallen and fled from his land,
    Abhorred and hated by those,
The bondslaves at his command,
    Now changed to his bitterest foes.

For fallen is all his array
    Of powers united for war.
All his people drank to "The Day";
    It came – and broken they are.

All fallen, while millions are dead,
    And hunger and woe stalk abroad,
While the nations of free men are led
    To sing Hallelujahs to God.

Oh, the dear dead we mourn shall arise
    From the dust that affords them long sleep,
To reign with their Lord in the skies,
    And mourners shall no longer weep.

While he is in shame and disgrace,
    Like Pharaoh, only a name,
That one time had eminent place,
    But has passed to perpetual shame.

R. W. R. RENTOUL.

Poem: The Witness, 29 November 1918
Image: 'The Sands Run Out' from Punch, 13 November 1918.

Peace! Be still!

 “Master, the battle is raging!
  The shrapnel is falling nigh!
The air is polluted with gas fumes,
  And round me dead comrades lie.
Carest Thou not that we perish?
  How canst Thou silence keep
When each moment so madly is threatening
  A grave in a shell hole deep?”

 “Proud man and his hosts shall obey My will!
  Peace! be still! Whether the rush of torpedo at sea,
Or demons on land, or whatever they be, might against
  Right shall not long defy the Master of ocean and
Earth and sky. They all shall surely obey My will;
  Peace! be still! Peace! be still!
     They all shall sorely obey My will;
     Peace! peace! be still

Master, the struggle is over.
   The elements sweetly rest;
Man’s pride to the dust is humbled,
   And hope’s high within my breast,
leave us no more, blest Redeemer,
   To man’s own unhallowed caprice;
And in humbled contrition we’ll ever
   Seek brotherhood, love, and peace.

J. M.

Adapted from Sankey’s "Peace, be Still.”

Poem: The Witness, 29 November 1918. 
Image: Crop from Zonnebeke 1918 a painting by Sir William Orpen

Autumn

The leaves of autumn rustle ’neath my feet,
    And trees, that in the spring, have looked so fair,
And shelter gave through storm or summer heat,
  Now stretch their arms to heaven, all bleak and bare.
The winds that whistle o'er the lea proclaim
  The approach of darker days that follow fast;
No more is heard the thrush’s glad refrain,
  The joys of spring and summer days are past.
The Honeysuckle’s delicate perfume
  In evening walks shall gladden us no more;
The flowers are dead that decked the fields with bloom,
  Their little life of bright and beauty’s o’er.
And in our hearts a warning note we hear—
  “The sweets of life, how quickly all are past;
Our pleasant dreams, how soon they disappear;
  No joy on earth is ever given to last.”
And yet, why need we sadly mourn lost joy.
  Or pleasures fair that held our lives enthralled;
The sweets of life, are mixed with life’s alloy.
  Its brightest day some shadows doth enfold.
But ’tis not death that autumn winds foretell,
  But tired nature, gently lulled to sleep
By unseen hands, that ruleth all things well,
  And in His keeping rest, secure and, deep.
To wake again, with fresher beauty given,
  Renewed in strength, and all that now seem lost.
Healed from the wounds, which storm-clouds oft have riven.
  Anew shall bloom those buds onoe nipped by frost.
So we shall wake some happy morn to find
  Our winter days, and all their clouds have passed;
The storms that rent our hearts lie far behind.
  Secure we’ll rest in that fair haven at last.
No autumn days will sadden that fair spring—
  The “eternal spring” for which our lives were planned;
What tho’ these fleeting years, their sorrows bring,
  New joys await us in that “Better Land."

IVY. Londonderry.

Poem: The Witness, 15 November 1918

The Road to Victory

Thorny and broken, crimson paven,
  Chill with the winds that blow from night;
With many footsteps deeply graven,
  Hidden in shade and bathed in light.

Winding afar thro’ dale and valley.
  Twining on high, up hill and steep;
Trodden by hosts that may not dally,
  Followed by eyes that never sleep.

Beaten of old by travellers lonely,
  Bordered with hopes and joys and fears;
Followed by hosts, yet each one only.
  Beating his way thro' blood and tears.

This is the way that we must follow.
  Grief scarred and dark, incarnadined;
And at the end the bauble hollow.
  Or the Great Crown, which may we find.

GRACE GIBSON.

Poem: The Witness, 22nd November 1918.
Image: Men of the 8th Battalion, East Yorkshire Regiment going up to the line near Frezenberg during the Third Battle of Ypres 1917. IWM Q 2978.

Unknown British Soldier – An Epitaph

He was killed just there, and they buried him
Where the wind fills up her cup to brim
Of the dews of evening pure and sweet
That she shall pour on the Traveller's Feet
Who comes, where the crosses cluster round
And makes of the grey earth holy ground.

The crimson sunset lent a pall,
Whispering, “This is best of all,"
And the Dawn laid downher robe of day,
Tender and soft where the sleeper lay.
“Not yet enough," the good God said,
And He spread poppies, flaming red.

That they may not miss him who come to find
The grave of the lad long left behind;
For the winds are rich with fragrance rare,
And the touch of the Saviour's hand is there,
Twining around the humble tomb
Borne of Calvary’s richest bloom.

GRACE I. GIBSON.

Poem for The Witness, 11 October 1918

Seaside Thoughts

I looked on the silver, shimmering sea,
And a message of peace it brought to me,
As it mirrored the infinite blue above
’Twas an emblem fair of eternal love;
A message of peace to a world of woe,
A healing balm to the souls that know
Of the wounds of sorrow, and pangs of grief,
Unto tired hearts a sweet relief.

A holy calm like a healing balm
Or hallowed hush at the close of day;
Were life’s sea like thee from tempests free
What a peaceful haven this earth would be;
Not a ripple of care on its bosom fair,
No sob of sorrow, or dark despair.

Then the glassy bosom rose and fell
As if a sob caused that surging swell;
But presently like a child at play
Over the rocks tossed the feathery spray;
And I thought of the varying scenes of life,
The playful prank's and the storms of strife,
The peaceful calm and the sunshine fair,
The nights of sorrow and days of care.

O ever changing, restless sea!
Such must life’s ocean ever be;
Not always for us the sunshine sweet,
The holy calm and restful retreat;
But storms and sorrows, tempests and tears,
Mingle with joys thro' the passing years.

I looked on the sea when the billows roared
And the frowning sky its torrents poured,
While not a gleam illumed the grey,
Save the seething foam of the silv’ry spray,
And all night long the storm raged high;
But morning came with a cloudless sky,
And I thought of the conflicts stern and grim
When my flickering faith waxed weak and dim.

When life’s skies were grey and on my way
No beacon gleamed or sunshine lay;
But dawning came at the darkest hour,
God’s sunshine dispelled the storm-cloud’s power;
So may the woes of warfare cease,
And Freedom’s dawn bring eternal peace.

MARGARET S. NORRIS

Poem from The Witness, 20th September 1918

Lough Neagh, and Home.

Son of Old Ireland, but his lot
Lies in a foreign, far-off spot;
He pauses oft, to think of — what?
   Lough Neagh; and home!

Twin pictures they have ever been,
A white familiar sheet — no scene
To thrill strange eyes — then fields of green,
    Lough Neagh, and home!

A house p’rhaps near the water’s edge,
Where grows the reed and clusters sedge,
And broods the crane like any sage;
    Lough Neagh, and home!

Maybe the Lough was miles away,
A treasured, view, as fair it lay —
How it sparkled in the morning ray!
    Lough Neagh, and home!

With water calm and weather fine
Someone, remembering Moore’s line.
Would try to see the “Round Towers” shine.
    Lough Neagh, and home!

Then bits of folklore, some old saying,
And some old tale is heard again,
Links here and there in memory’s chain:
    Lough Neagh, and home!

And will he not recall with both
The kindly province of his youth,
The very heart of which, in truth,
    Is Lough Neagh — and home?

And should he meet a pal or host,
Perchance, who makes the self-same boast,
Athrill they’d drink the common toast:
    “Lough Neagh, and Home!”

“NEAR LOUGH NEAGH.”

Poem from The Witness, 13 September 1918.
Image: Across Lough Neagh by John Halliday.