 Poems of the Great War by Various Authors Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachok DUTY by William Watson Give gladly, you rich, tis no more than you owe, for the wheel of your country, your wealth's overflow, even I that am poor am performing my part, I am giving my brain, I am giving my heart. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain. Wake Up, England, by Robert Bridges, poet laureate, read for LibriVox.org. Thou careless, awake, thou peacemaker, fight, stand, England, for honour, and God guard the right, thy mirth lay aside, thy cavill and play, the foe is upon thee, and grave is the day. The monarch ambition hath harnessed his slaves, but the folk of the ocean are free as the waves, for peace thou art armed, thy freedom to hold, thy courage as iron, thy good faith as gold, through fire, air, and water, thy trial must be, but they that love life best die gladly for thee. The love of their mothers is strong to command, the fame of their fathers is might to their hand, much suffering shall cleanse thee, but thou through the flood shalt win to salvation, to beauty, through blood, up careless, awake, ye peacemakers, fight, England stands for honour, God defend the right. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Vigil, by Henry Newbolt, read for LibriVox.org. England, where the sacred flame burns before the inmost shrine, where the lips that love thy name, consecrate their hopes and thine, where the banners of thy dead weave their shadows overhead, watch beside thine arms to-night, pray that God defend the right. Think that when to-morrow comes, war shall claim command of all, thou must hear the roll of drums, thou must hear the trumpets call, now before they silence Ruth, commune with the voice of truth, England, on thine knees to-night, pray that God defend the right. Vigil hearted, unafraid, hither all thy heroes came, on this altar's steps were laid, Gordon's life and Uttram's fame, England, if thy will be yet by their great example set, hear beside thine arms to-night, pray that God defend the right. So shout thou when morning comes, rise to conquer or to fall, joyful hear the rolling drums, joyful hear the trumpets call, then let memory tell thy heart, England, what thou wert, thou wert, gird thee with thine ancient might, forth and God defend the right. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To the Troubler of the World, by William Watson, read for LibriVox.org. At last we know you, warlord, you that flung the gauntlet down, fling down the mask you wore, publish your heart and let its pent-hate pour, you that had God forever on your tongue. We are old in war, and if in guile we are young, young also is the spirit that ever more burns in our bosom, even as here too for. Nor are these thews unbraced, these nerves unstrung. We do not with God's name make wanton play. We are not on such easy terms with heaven. But in earth's hearing we can verily say, our hands are pure for peace, for peace we have striven, and not by earth shall he be soon forgiven, who lit the fire, a cursed that flames today. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To England, to Strike Quickly, by Maurice Hewlett, read for LibriVox.org. Right since thou must strike quick and fierce, so when this tyrant for too long hath shook the blood out of his ears, he may have learned the price of wrong. Let him learn this, that the due grief of his own vice he cannot ban by outrage of a highway thief. Let him remember the Corsican, whom England only durst not dread by sea or shore, but faced alone, nor stayed for pity of her dead, until the despots day was done. Strike England quickly, make an end of him who seeks a deal with thee, if he would bargain for thy friend. What would he trade for liberty? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Fourth of August, by Lawrence Binion, read for LibriVox.org. Now in thy splendor go before us, spirit of England, ardent hide, and kindle this dear earth that bore us in the hour of peril, purified. The cares we hugged drop out of vision, our hearts with deeper thoughts dilate. We step from days of sour division into the grandeur of our fate. For us the glorious dead have striven, they battled, that we might be free. We to that living cause are given, we arm for men that are to be. Among the nations noblest chartered, England recalls her heritage. With her is that which is not bartered, which force can neither quell nor cage. For her immortal stars are burning, with her the hope that's never done, the seed that's in the springs returning, the very flower that seeks the sun. We fight the fraud that feeds Desiron, lies in a lust to enslave or kill, the barren creed of blood and iron. Whereof Europe's wasted will endure a worth and thou awaken, purged by this dreadful winnowing fan, a wronged, untameable, unshaken soul of divinely suffering man. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain. The United Front, by Alfred Noise, read for LibriVox.org. Thus only should it come, if come it must, not with a riot of flags or a mob-born cry, but with a noble faith, a conscience high and pure and proud as heaven wherein we trust. We who have fought for peace have dared the thrust of Calamity for peace, and watched her die, her scutians rent from sky to outraged sky by felon hands and trampled into the dust. We fought for peace, and we have seen the law cancelled not once nor twice by felon hands, but shattered again, again, and yet again. We fought for peace. Now in God's name we draw the sword, not with a riot of flags and bans, but silence and a mustering of men. They challenge truth, an empire makes reply, one faith, one flag, one honor, and one might. From sea to sea, from height to war-worn height, the old world rings out to conquer or to die. And we shall conquer, though their eagles fly through heaven, around this ancient isle unite powers that were never vanquished in the fight, the unconquerable powers that cannot lie. But they who challenge truth, law, justice, all the bases on which God and man stand sure throughout all ages, fools, they thought us torn so far with discord that the blow might fall unanswered, and while all those powers endure, this is our answer, unity and scorn. We trust not in the multitude of unhosted nations that greatly build, greatly stand. In those dark hours, the splendor of a hand has moved behind the darkness, till that coast where hate and factions seemed to triumph most reveals itself, a buckler and a brand, our rough-hewn work shining o'er sea and land, but shaped to nobler ends than man could boast. It is God's answer, though for many a year this land forgot the faith that made her great. Now as her fleets cast off the North Sea foam, casting aside all faction and all fear, thrice armed in all the majesty of her fate, Britain remembers, and her sword strikes home. This recording is in the public domain. England, to the sea, by R. E. Verned, read for LibriVox.org. Harkon, O mother, harkon to thy daughter, fain would I tell thee what men tell to me, saying that henceforth no more on any water shall I be first, or great, or loved, or free, but that these others, so the tale is spoken, who have not known thee, all these centuries by fire and sword shall yet turn England broken back from thy breast and beaten from thy seas. Me, whom thou barest where thy waves should guard me, me, whom thou suckledst on thy milk of foam, me, whom thy kisses shaped what while they marred me, to whom thy storms are sweet and ring of home, behold, they cry, she is grown soft and strenseless, all her proud memories change to fear and fret, say thou who hast watched through ages that are lengthless, whom have I feared, and when did I forget? What sons of mine have shunned thy whirls and races, have I not reared for thee time and time again, and bid go forth to share thy fierce embraces? See ducks, see wolves, see rovers, and see men, names that thou knowest, great hearts that thou holdest, rocking them, rocking them in an endless wake, captains the world can match not with its boldest, Hawke, Howard, Grenville, Frobisher, Drake, Nelson, the greatest of them all, the master who swept across thee like a shooting star, and while the earth stood veiled before disaster, caught death and slew him, there at Trafalgar, mother, they knew me then as thou didst know me, then I cried, peace, and every flag was furled, but I am old, it seems, and they would show me that nevermore my peace shall bind the world. Wherefore, O sea, I, standing thus before thee, stretch forth my hands unto thy surge and say, when they come forth who seek this empire or thee, and I go forth to meet them, on that day, God grant to us the old armada-weather, the winds that rip, the heavens that stoop and lower, not till the sea and England sink together, shall they be masters? Let them boast that hour. This recording is in the public domain. THE HOUR By James Bernard Fagan Read for LibriVox.org We've shut the gates by Dover Straits, and north where the tides run free, Cheek by Jowell, our watchdog's prowl, Gray hawks in a grayer sea, and the prayer that England prays to night, O Lord of our destiny. As the foam of our plunging prowls is white, we have stood for peace, and we war for right. God give us victory. Now slack, now strung, from the main-mast flung, the flag throbs fast in the breeze, and o'er the foam, like the hearts at home, that beat for their sons on the seas. For mothers and wives are praying to night, O Lord of our destiny. But we've no time, for our lips are tight, our fists are clenched, and we're stripped to fight. God give us victory. The west winds blow, in the face of the foe, old Drake is beating his drum. They drank to the day, for the hour we pray, the day and the hour have come. The sea-strewn empire prays to night, O Lord of our destiny. Thou didst give the seas into Britain's might, for the freedom of thy seas we smite. God give us victory. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Wife of Flanders by G. K. Chesterton, read for LibriVox.org. Low and brown barns, thatched and repatched and tattered, where I had seven sons until to-day. A little hill of hay your spur has scattered. This is not Paris. You have lost the way. You staring at your sword to find it brittle, surprised at the surprise that was your plan, who, shaking and breaking barriers, not a little, find never more the death-door of sedan. Must I, for more than carnage, call you claimant, paying you a penny for each son you slay? Man, the whole globe in gold were no repayment for what you have lost, and how shall I repay? What is the price of that red spark that caught me, from a kind farm that never had a name? What is the price of that dead man they brought me? For other dead men do not look the same. How should I pay for one poor graven steeple, whereon you shattered what you shall not know? How should I pay you, miserable people? How should I pay you, everything you owe? Unhappy, can I give you back your honour, though I forgave? Would any man forget, while all the great green land has trampled on her, the treason and terror of the night we met? Not any more in vengeance or in pardon, one old wife bargains for a bean, that's hers. You have no word to break, no heart to harden. Ride on, and prosper, you have lost your spurs. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Stars in Their Courses By John Freeman Read for LibriVox.org And now, while the dark, vast earth shakes and rocks in this wild dream-like snare of mortal shocks, how look I muse those cold and solitary stars on these magnificent cruel wars. Venus, that brushes with her shining lips, surely the wakeful edge of the world, and mocks with hers its all-ungentle wantonness. O'er the large moon, pricked by the spars of ships, creeping and creeping in their restlessness, the moon pouring strange light on things more strange, looks she, unheedfully, unsees and lands, trembling with change and fear of counter-change. O, not earth trembles, but the stars, the stars, the sky is shaken and the cool air is quivering. I cannot look up to the crowded height and see the fair stars trembling in their light, or thinking of the star-like spirits of men, crowding the earth and with great passion quivering, stars quenched in anger and hate, stars sick with pity. I cannot look up to the naked skies because a sorrow on dark midnight lies, death on the living world of sense, because on my own land a shadow lies that may not rise, because from bare-grey hillside and rich city streams of uncomprehending sadness pour, thwarting the eager spirit's pure intelligence. How look I muse those cold and solitary stars on these magnificent cruel wars! Stars trembled in broad heaven, faint with pity, an hour to dawn I looked, beside the trees, wet mist-shaped other trees that branching rose, covering the woods and putting out the stars. There was no murmur on the seas, no wind blew, only the wandering air that grows with dawn, then murmurs, sighs, and dies. The mist climbed slowly, putting out the stars, and the earth trembled when the stars were gone, and moving strangely everywhere upon the trembling earth, thickened the watery mist. And for a time the holy things are veiled. England's wise thoughts are swords, her quiet hours are trodden underfoot like wayside flowers, and every English heart is England's holy. In starless night a serious passion streams the heaven with light. A common beating is in the air. The heart of England throbbing everywhere, and all her roads are nerves of noble thought, and all her people's brain is but her brain, and all her history, lest her shame, is part of her re-quickened consciousness. Her courage rises clean again, her children's inspiration is her name, even in victory their hides defeat. The spirit's murder through the body survives, except the cause for which a people strives, burn with no covetous foul heat, fights she against herself who infamously draws the sword against man's secret spiritual laws, but thou, England, because a bitter heel hath sought to bruise the brain, the sensitive will, the conscience of the world, for this England art risen and shall fight purely through long profoundest night, making their quarrel thine who are grieved like thee, and, if to thee the stars yield victory, tempering their hate of the great foe, that hurled vainly her strength against the conscience of the world, though all their dead be countless as the stars, and all the living bitter as the sea. I looked again, or dreamed I looked, and saw the stars again, and all their peace again, the moving mist had gone, and shining still the moon went high and pale above the hill. Not now those lights were trembling in the vast ways of the nervy heaven, nor trembled earth, profound and calm they gazed as the soft shod hours passed, and with less fear, not with less awe, remembering England, all the blood and pain, how, look, I cried, ye stern and solitary stars, on these disastrous wars. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Commandeered by L. G. Mowberley, read for LibriVox.org. Last year he drew the harvest home, along the winding upland lane, the children twisted marigolds, and clover flowers to deck his main. Last year he drew the harvest home. Today, with puzzled patient face, with ears adrope and weary feet, he marches to the sound of drums and draws the gun along the street. Today he draws the guns of war. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Man Who Keeps His Head by Harold Begbie, read for LibriVox.org. He's a man who fights for England, and he'll keep her, still atop. He will guard her from dishonor, in the market and the shop. He will save her homes from terror, on the fields of daily bread. He's the man who sticks to business. He's the man who keeps his head. Let the foe who strikes at England hear her wheels of commerce turn. Let the ships that war with England see her factory furnace burn. For the foe most fears the cannon, and his heart most quails with dread. When behind the man in khaki is the man who keeps his head. Brand him traitor, and assassin, who with miser's coward mood has his gold locked up in secret, and his larders stored with food, who has cast adrift his workers, who lies sweating in his bed, and who snarls to hear the laughter of the man who keeps his head. Let the poor man teach the rich man, for the poor man's constant strife is from day to day to seek work, day by day to war with life, and the poor man's home hangs ever by a frail and brittle thread, and the poor man's often hungry, but the poor man keeps his head. When the ships come back from slaughter, and the troops march home from war, when the havoc strewn behind us threats the road that lies before. Every hero shall be welcomed, every orphan shall be fed by the man who's stuck to business, by the man who kept his head. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain. France, by Cecil Chesterton, read for LibriVox.org. Because for once the sword broke in her hand, the words she spoke seemed perished for a space. All wrong was brazen, and in every land the tyrants walked abroad with naked face. The waters turned to blood, as rose the star of evil fate, denying all release. The rulers smote the feeble, crying war. The usurers robbed the naked, crying peace. And her own feet were caught in nets of gold, and her own soul profaned by sex that squirm. And little men climbed her high seats, and sold her honor to the vulture and the worm. And she seemed broken, and they thought her dead, the overmen so brave against the weak. As your last word of sophistry been said, O cult of slaves, then it is hers to speak. Clear the slow mists from her half-darkened eyes, as slow mists parted over Valmy fell, and once again her hands in high surprise take hold upon the battlements of hell. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain. We willed it not, by John Drinkwater, read for LibriVox.org. We willed it not, we have not lived in hate, loving too well the shires of England, thrown from sea to sea to covet your estate, or wish one flight of fortune from your throne. We had grown proud because the nation stood, hoping together against the calamity, that tortured of its old barbarian blood, barbarian still, the heart of man should be. Builders there are who name you overlord, building with us the citadels of light, who hold as we this chartered sin abhorred, and cry you risen Caesar of the night. Beethoven speaks with Milton on this day, and Shakespeare's word with Goethe's beats the sky, in witness of the birthright you betray, in witness of the vision you deny. We love the hearth, the quiet hills, the song, the friendly gossip come from every land, and very peace we're now a nameless wrong. You thrust this bitter quarrel to our hand. For this your pride, the tragic armies go, and the grim navies watch along the seas. You trade in death, you mock at life, you throw to God the tumult of your blasphemies. You rob us of our love right. It is said, in treason to the world you are enthroned. We rise, and by the yet ungathered dead, not lightly, shall the treason be atoned. And a poem. This recording is in the public domain. Propatria by Owen Seaman. Read for LibriVox.org. England, in this great fight to which you go, because where honour calls you, go you must be glad whatever comes, at least to know you have your quarrel just. Peace was your care, before the nation's bar, her cause you pleaded, and her ends you sought. But not for her sake, being what you are. Could you be bribed and bought? Others may spurn the pledge of land to land. May would the brute sword stay in a gallant past, but by the seal to which you set your hand. Thank God you still stand fast. Fourth, then, to front that peril of the deep, with smiling lips, and in your eyes the light, steadfast and confident, of those who keep their storied scotching bright. And we, whose burden is to watch and wait, high-hearted ever, strong in faith and prayer, we ask what offering we may consecrate, what humble service share, to steal our souls against the lust of ease, to find our welfare in the general good, to hold together, merging all degrees in one wide brotherhood, to teach that he who saves himself is lost, to bear in silence, though our hearts may bleed, to spend ourselves, and never count the cost for others greater need, to go our quiet ways, subdued and sane, to hush all vulgar clamour of the street, with level calm to face alike the strain of triumph or defeat. This be our part, for so we serve you best. So best confirm their prowess and their pride. Your warrior sons, to whom, in this high test, our fortunes we confide. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain. Him Before Action by Rudyard Kipling Read for LibriVox.org The earth is full of anger. The seas are dark with wrath. The nations, in their harness, go up against our path. There yet we lose the legions. There yet we draw the blade. Jehovah of the Thunders, Lord God of Battles, aid. High lust and forward bearing, proud heart, rebellious brow, deaf ear, and soul uncaring, we seek thy mercy now. The sinner that forswore thee, the fool that passed thee by. Our times are known before thee. Lord grant us strength to die. From panic, pride, and terror, revenge that knows no rain. Light haste and lawless error, protect us yet again. Cloak thou, our undeserving, make firm the shuddering breath, in silence and unswerving, to taste thy lesser death. A merry, pierced with sorrow. Remember, reach, and save, the soul that comes to-morrow, before the God that gave. Since each was born of woman, for each at utter need, true comrade and true foment, Madonna, intercede. He now, their vanguard gathers. He now, we face the fray. As thou didst help our fathers, help thou our host today. Fulfilled of signs and wonders, in life, in death made clear. Jehovah of the Thunders, Lord God of Battles, here. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Him in wartime. Yattenden hymnal, number 54, by Robert Bridges, poet laureate. Read for LibriVox.org. Tune, Talas's Canon, original setting. Rejoice, O land, in God thy might, his will obey, him serve a right, for thee the saints uplift their voice. Fear not, O land, in God rejoice. Glad shalt thou be, with blessing crowned, with joy and peace thou shalt abound. Yea, love with thee shall make his home until thou see God's kingdom come. He shall forgive thy sins untold. Remember thou, his love of old. Walk in his way, his word adore, and keep his truth forever more. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. End of Poems of the Great War by various authors.