********************START OF HEADER******************** This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place. Title: Flower of Youth: Poems in War Time, an electronic edition Author: Tynan, Katharine, 1861-1931 Publisher: Sidgwick & Jackson Place published: Date: 1915 ********************END OF HEADER******************** Katharine TynanFlower of Youth: Poems in War TimeLondon: Sidgwick and Johnson, LTD.JOINING THE COLOURS (WEST KENTS, DUBLIN, August 1914)THERE they go marching all in step so gay!Smooth-cheeked and golden, food for shells and guns.Blithely they go as to a wedding day,The mothers' sons. The drab street stares to see them row on rowOn the high tram-tops, singing like the lark. Too careless-gay for courage, singing they go Into the dark. With tin whistles, mouth-organs, any noise, They pipe the way to glory and the grave; Foolish and young, the gay and golden boysLove cannot save. High heart! High courage! The poor girls they kissedRun with them : they shall kiss no more, alas! Out of the mist they stepped-into the mistSinging they pass. THE LOWLANDS OF FLANDERS(An Old Song Resung)THE night that I was marriedOur Captain came to me: Rise up, rise up, new-married manAnd come at once with me. For the Lowlands of Flanders, It's there that we must fight; So look your last and buss your last, For we shall sail to-night. 'Tis all for our CounterieAnd for our King we goTo the Lowlands of FlandersAgainst the German foe. The girl that weds a soldierMust never blench for fear; I kissed my last and looked my lastUpon my lovely dear. The Lowlands of Flanders, Their rivers run so red. But I must say Good-bye, my dear, My only dear, I said. For now I must go sailingUpon the stormy main; Good-bye, good-bye, my only Love, Till I shall come again. I put her white arms from me, Her cheek was cold as clay. The night that I was married No longer I might stay. Our bugles they are blowing, And I must sail the sea, For the Lowlands of FlandersBetwixt my love and me. THE CALLI hear an Army!Millions of men coming up from the edge of the world,The ring of unnumbered feet ever louder and louderComes on and an like a mighty untameable tide, Steady, implacable, out of the North and the South, Out of the East, and the West, they answer the callOf her who stands, her eyes towards God and the stars, Liberty, daughter of God, calling her men. What manner of men are these? Like the desert sandsUncounted, many as locusts, darkening the sky? White men, black men, men of the tawny gold, Golden-eyed like the lion, sons of the sun, Men from the snow, their eyes like frost or a sword: They have but one heart, one desire, they run one way. Hurrying, hurrying to the shrill trumpet call. Men from the ice-floes, men from the jungles come; This from the arms of his bride, that from his dead. Men from the plough, the mart, the mill and the streetThey run: they are heroes: the fire fuses them all. Head uplifted and proud, like heroes they step, Singing their battle song in the troubled dawnOf the day of Liberty, flaming torch of the world. I hear an Army!THE GOLDEN BOYIN times of peace, so clean and bright, And with a new-washed morning face, He walked Pall Mall, a goodly sight, The finished flower of all the race. Or through Bond Street and Piccadilly,Went spick-and-span, without a soil, As careless as the July lilyThat spins not, neither does she toil. He took his soldiering as sport,And beauteous in his mufti stirredRomance i' the simple female sortThat loves a guardsman or a lord.And now, knee-deep in muddy water, Unwashed, unshaven, see him go! His garments stained with mud and slaughterWould break the heart of Savile Row. The danger's in his blood like wine, The old heroic passion leaps; The son of the mighty fighting lineGoes glad whatever woman weeps. He plays the game, winning or losing, As in the playing-fields at home; This picnic's nothing of his choosing, But since it's started, let it come! He lives his hour with keenest zest, And midst the flying death he sparesA laugh to the light-heart schoolboy jest, Mingled with curses and with prayers. Gay as at Eton or at Harrow, Counts battles as by goals and runsGod keep him from Death's flying arrowTo give his England fighting sons. THE GREAT CHANCENOW strikes the hour upon the clockThe black sheep may rebuild the years May lift the father's pride he brokeAnd wipe away his mother's tears. To him, the mark for thrifty scorn; God hath another chance to give, Sets in his heart a flame new-bornBy which his muddied soul may live. This is the day of the prodigal, The decent people's shame and grief, When he shall make amends for all. The way to Glory's bloody and brief. Clean from his baptism, of blood, New from the fire he springs again, In shining raiment white and good, Beyond the wise, home-keeping man. Somewhere to-night--no tears be shed!-- With shaking hands they turn the sheetTo find his name among the dead, Flower of the Army and the Fleet. They tell, with proud and stricken face, Of his white boyhood far away--Who talked of trouble or disgrace? "Our splendid son is dead!" they say. THE WATCHERSTHE cottages all lie asleep; The sheep and lambs are folded in Winged sentinels the vale will keepUntil the hours of life begin. The children with their prayers all saidSleep until cockcrow shall awake The gardens in their gold and redAnd robins in the bush and brake. The fields of harvest golden-white, The fields of pasture rich and green, Sleep on nor fear the kindly night, The watching mountains set between. The river sings its sleepy song, Nought stirs the wakeful owl beside: Our peace is builded sure and strongNo evil beast can creep inside. St Patrick and St Brigid holdThe vale its little houses all, While men-at-arms in white and goldGlide swiftly by the outer wall. St Brendan and St Kevin pluckThe robes of God that He may hear--And Colum: "Keep the Irish flockSo that no shame or sin come near." What news of Belgian folk to-day? How fare the village and the town? O Belgium's all on fire they say, And all her towers are toppling down. What are her angels doing then, And are the Belgian saints asleep, That in this night of dule and painThe Belgians mourn, the Belgians weep? THE BRIDEWEAVE me no wreath of orange blossom, No bridal white shall me adorn; I wear a red rose in my bosom; To-morrow I shall wear the thorn. Bring me no gauds to deck my beauty, Put by the jewels and the lace; My love to honour and to dutyWas plighted ere he saw my face. I hear his impatient charger neighing, I hear the trumpets blow afar! His comrades ride, as to a Maying, Jesting and splendid to the war. Why is my lady-mother weeping? Why is my father grievèd sore? Oh, love, God have you in His keeping, The day you leave your true-love's door. Gay is the golden harvest spreading, The orchard's all in rose and gold; Who said it was a mournful wedding? My hand in yours, Love, is not cold. Go glad and gay to meet the foeman, I love you to my latest breath; Oh, love, there is no happier woman. See, I am smiling! Love-till death! THE RIDERSRHEIMS is down in fire and smoke, The hour of God is at the stroke. Round and round the ruined place,-- Jesu, Mary, give us grace! There are two riders clad in mail, Silver as the moon pale. One is tall as a knight's spear, The younger one is lowlier. Small and slim and like a maid-Steeds and riders cast no shade. Who are then these cavaliers? There was a sound as Heaven dropt tears. Who are these that ride so light, Soundless in the flaming light, Where Rheims burns, that was givenBy France to Mary, Queen of Heaven? O our Rheims, our Rheims is down, Naught is left of her renown. Hist! what sound is in the breeze, Like the sighing of forest trees? Or a great wind, or an army, Or the waves of the wild sea? The tall knight rides fierce and fastTo the sound of a trumpet-blast. The little knight in fire and flame, Slender and soft as a dame, Rides and is not far behind: His long hair floats on the wind. And ever the tramp of chivalryComes like the sound of the sea. This is Michael rides abroad, Prince of the army of God, And this like a lily arrayed, Is Joan, the blessed Maid. Rheims is down in fire and smokeAnd the hour of God's at the stroke. "WHAT TURNED THE GERMANS BACK?"WHAT turned the German myriads backFrom Paris whither they had won? The sword dropped from their hold grown slack; Children of Attila the Hun, Like Attila, went backward drivenBy a young shepherdess of Heaven. A shepherdess is Genevieve, And though her flock should wander light, This shepherdess is quick to saveThe black, the speckled and the white. She takes her golden crook and goesAnd deals destruction to its foes. She who turned Attila back, so slim, A shepherdess that keeps the flock, Waited as once she did for him, Slight as a reed or her own crook; "Turn back in God's Name!" They went back. The tide is stemmed for her sweet sake. White Genevieve upon her hillPrays, and the German hosts retreat. She plucks the Robes of Heaven stillThat Heaven give victory for defeat; And keeps her motley flock in sight, The black, the speckled and the white. A GIRL'S SONGTHE Meuse and Marne have little waves; The slender poplars o'er them lean. One day they will forget the gravesThat give the grass its living green. Some brown French girl the rose will wearThat springs above his comely head; Will twine it in her russet hair, Nor wonder why it is so red. His blood is in the rose's veins, His hair is in the yellow corn. My grief is in the weeping rainsAnd in the keening wind forlorn. Flow softly, softly, Marne and Meuse; Tread lightly, all ye browsing sheep; Fall tenderly, O silver dews, For here my dear Love lies asleep. The earth is on his sealèd eyes, The beauty marred that was my pride; Would I were lying where he lies, And sleeping sweetly by his side! The Spring will come by Meuse and Marne, The birds be blithesome in the tree. I heap the stones to make his cairnWhere many sleep as sound as he. THE YOUNG MOTHER IN dreadful times of tears and warShe sails, a little fixed star, Or like a little ship she glides With gentle winds and favouring tidesUp to the harbour bar. Wrapped in all mild tranquillities She muses: inward gaze her eyes; And lest she slip upon a stoneGabriel or some shining one Guards her high destinies. No rumour reaches her at all, Beyond her safe encompassing wall, Of a mad world that slays and slays: She sees a little one that plays And sleeps at evenfall. She is in the House of Life: and where She goes the angels bend to her, A little secret garden-close, Sweet with the lily and the rose, With frankincense and myrrh. THE TEMPLEWHAT of Louvain and of RheimsMade for God by man? What then? Here be temples more than man'sWrought by God for His own men. Scattered in the rain and frost, Marred of beauty, there they be, Temples of the Holy Ghost, Broken, ruined piteously. Bodies all so finely wrought, Cunning deftness shaped them well; These, God's ultimate, loving thoughtFor His Spirit's citadel. Beautiful from head to foot, Young, dear darlings all unflawedFor their mother's kiss. What bruteDares deface the image of God? Oh, the Temple's down! all marredGay and golden boys must lie: Bitter-sweet as spikenardIs the old name we called them by. Hush! God's Temple in its fallBreaks to set the spirit freeFrom the golden cage and thrall. Into heaven-winged liberty. From the cage the bird is flown, Sings so high above our sphere. Hush,--be never a sigh or moan: The fledged bird flies without fear. All our loves are gathered in, Every gay and golden lad; On new raiment, white and clean, They behold God and are glad. THE SUMMONS (V. L., 14th September 1914)STRAIGHT to his death he went, A smile on his lips, All his life's joy unspent, Into eclipse. The song of the shell he heardCleaving the dark, As though 'twere the song of a bird, Linnet or lark. Why would he go so fastOut to the dead, All in a heavenly hasteNot to be stayed? What did he see afarThat drew him after? Light from a merry star, Singing and laughter? Nay, but a face was his Only in dreams, Only in dreams of bliss In the star-gleams. Nay, but a face that watched Long years to seeWho came by the door unlatched, If it were he. What was the voice beforeThat lured him on? "Oh, thou long-hungered for, My son, my son!" Lo, he hath heard, hath seen, He hath slipped overWhere the great days begin For friend and lover. THE LITTLE FLOCKCHRIST, now keep the little flockWhich Thou bad'st not to fear: Childing women and old folkAnd the little children dear. In this night of Hell revealedCall them that they run with Thee, And come out in a green fieldWhere they gather round Thy knee. All poor women that give suck, All that are with child, lead Thou, By the margins of a brookWhere is daisied peace enow. Christ, remember now the sick; Feeble knees and hanging head. When they cry on Thee, come quick, And their sickness shall be stayed. Where Thou temperest the wind, Where the drenching rains leave off, When they run with Thee, O Kind! Dear, they shall be well enough! A LAMENT (FOR Holy Cross Day, 1914)CLOUDS is under clouds and rainFor there will not come again Two, the beloved sire and son Whom all gifts were rained upon. Kindness is all done, alas, Courtesy and grace must pass, Beauty, wit and charm lie dead, Love no more may wreathe the head. Now the branch that waved so high No wind tosses to the sky; There's no flowering time to come, No sweet leafage and no bloom. Percy, golden-hearted boy, In the heyday of his joy Left his new-made bride and choseThe steep way that Honour goes. Took for his the deathless song Of the love that knows no wrong: Could I love thee, dear, so true Were not Honour more than you? (Oh, forgive, dear Lovelace, laid In this mean Procrustean bed!) Dear, I love thee best of all When I go, at England's call. In our magnificent sky aglow How shall we this Percy know Where he shines among the suns And the planets and the moons? Percy died for England, why, Here's a sign to know him by! There's one dear and fixèd star, There's a youngling never far. Percy and his father keep The old loved companionship, And shine downward in one ray Where at Clouds they wait for day. A HERO (September 1914)HE was so foolish, the poor lad, He made superior people smile Who knew not of the wings he hadBudding and growing all the while; Nor that the laurel wreath was made Already for his curly head. Silly and childish in his ways; They said: "His future comes to naught." His future! In the dreadful daysWhen in a toil his feet were caughtHe hacked his way to glory bright Before his day went down in night. He fretted wiser folk--small blame! Such futile, feeble brains were his. Now we doff hats to hear his name, Ask pardon where his sprit is, Because we never guessed him for A hero in the disguise he wore. It matters little how we liveSo long as we may greatly die. Fashioned for great things, O forgiveOur dullness in the days gone by! Now glory wraps you like a cloak From us, and all such common folk. 'MID THE PITEOUS HEAPS OF DEAD'MID the piteous heaps of dead Goes one weary golden head Tossing ever to and fro, Calling loud and calling low. Mother, mother, step so light, Mother, lay your fingers white On my forehead like a dew ! Mother, mother, where are you?Still so loud he makes his cry That the dying cannot die; All the writhing field's one groanWhile he lies and cries alone. But his mother's far away; Cannot hear him cry and say: Mother, I am dying, come!Mother, I am lost from home!Mary, Mother of all men, Come and comfort him in pain. Take his young head to the breast Where your Child and God had rest. Mary, Mary, step so light. Mary, lay your fingers white On his forehead! He shall dream That his mother comforts him. Mary, Mother, croon him o'er Lullabies you sang before! Mary, ease him, crooning low, In the way that mothers know! TO ONE IN GRIEF (FOR June 1913. September 1914)SIMON the Cyrenean boreThe Cross of Christ up Calvary Hill. Blessed be Simon's lot beforeHonour and ease and world's good-willYou,--you would choose his lot above All gifts and glories, yea, all love! Now when for your two glorious menYour heart is broken, and your joyOn earth shall not be built again,-- Oh, what a lover, what a boy !-- Dear heart, look up! Who helps you on The way that you must walk alone ? For when the Cross that you must bearGalls your poor shoulders till they bleed, And when the thorns are on your hair, And Love-lies-bleeding: then indeed One will come stepping light and take The tears the burden, the heart-break. Happy is she who to Thine ears Pours all her lamentations! Yea, When Thou dost wipe away her tearsAnd healing words of comfort say. Thou makest Thy Cross both sweet and light For souls like hers that walk in white. INDIAN SUMMERThis is the sign! THIS flooding splendour, golden and hyaline, This sun a golden sea on hill and plain,-- That God forgets not, that He walks with men. His smile is on the mountain and the pool And all the fairy lakes are beautiful. This is the word! That makes a thing of flame the water-bird. This mercy of His fulfilled in the magical Clear glow of skies from dawn to evenfall, Telling His Hand is over us, that we Are not delivered to the insatiable sea. This is the pledge! The promise writ in gold to the water's edge: His bow's in Heaven and the great floods are over. Oh, broken hearts, lift up! The Immortal LoverEmbraces, comforts with the enlivening sun, The sun He bids stand still till the day is won. TO TWO BEREAVED (FOR G. S. C., 20th October, R. S. C., 28th October 1914)Now in your days of worst distress, The empty days that stretch before, When all your sweet's turned bitterness;-- The Hand of the Lord is at your door. And when at morn beside your bedGrief waits to tell you it is true, That both your darling boys are dead; The Mercy of the Lord bends down to you. When you are frozen and stripped bareAnd over your joy is raised a stone, The foot of the Lord is on your stair; The Lord's mercy is never done. More than the joys of common men,-- The gifts of the Lord are past desire--They shall be given to you again, They shall sit down beside your fire. The young and laurelled heads shall shine, Making a glory in your daysAs a light burns in a secret shrine: The Love of the Lord is passing praise. The Lord recalls not gifts once given : They shall sit down beside your hearth; They shall come in, in white, new-shriven, Make you new Heaven and a new earth. The Will of the Lord is great and good, The cup of your joy shall He brim o'er; They shall come in with life renewed. They shall go out from you no more. AUTUMNALTHE Autumn leaves are dying quietly, Scarlet and orange, underfoot they lie; They had their youth and prime And now's the dying time; Alas, alas, the young, the beloved, must die! They are dying like the leaves of Autumn fast, Scattered and broken, blown on every blast: The darling young, the brave, Love had no power to save. Poor Love-lies-bleeding, Love's in ruins, downcast. Alas, alas, the Autumn leaves are flying! They had their Summer and 'tis time for dying. But these had barely Spring. Love trails a broken wing, Walks through deserted woods, moaning and sighing. MEDIATION (After St Anselm)IF Thou, Lord God, willest to judge This, Thy very piteous clayWhich to save Christ did not grudge His last dying, I shall say: Lord, I interpose Christ's death'Twixt these children and Thy wrath.Then if Thou shouldst say: Their shameIs as scarlet in Mine eyes--I shall ask : Who took their blame? Look, Lord, on this Sacrifice! Is Thy Son's blood not more brightWhich hath washed their scarlet white?Then, if Thou Thy wrath should'st keep And Thy gaze should'st still avertFrom Thy Son's most piteous sheep, I shall ask : Who bare the hurt? I Present Christ's death and Pain'Twixt Thine anger and these men. Lord, they die by millions And they look to Thee--take thought!-- This dear flock, that is Thy Son's, By the richest ransom bought. See, Thy dead Son lies between, Thee, the High judge, and their sin. THE HEROESBy such strange and wonderful waysGod would save His world again. All our days are holy days, Starry heroes all our men. There's naught common or uncleanIn this splendid new-made earth: Hearts uplifted, eyes serene, Grief goes gayer now than mirth. Quietly in the sacred nightTears must fall, O noble tears! That are shed in the Lord's sightAnd are only for His ears. Who would mourn aloud for sonsGorgeous in our firmament, Starry constellationsIn the way their fathers went? From the innumerable graveThere will spring a world new-born, With the austerest eyes and braveAnd its clear gaze towards the morn.He who gave His Son to dieFor man's purchase, gives once more These, His beloved sons, to buyHim a world worth dying for. THE GREAT MERCYBetwixt the saddle and the ground Was mercy sought and mercy found.Yea, in the twinkling of an eye, He cried; and Thou hast heard his cry. Between the bullet and its mark Thy face made morning in his dark. And while the shell sang on its pathThou hast run, Thou hast run, preventing death. Thou hast run before and reached the goal, Gathered to Thee the unhoused soul. Thou art not bound by Time or Space: So fast Death runs : Thou hast won the race. Thou hast said to beaten Death: Go tellOf victories thou once hadst. All's well! Death, here none die but thee and Sin Now the great days of Life begin. And to the Soul: This day I rise And thee with Me to Paradise. Betwixt the saddle and the groundWas Mercy sought and Mercy found.MEETINGSAs up and down I fare by road and street The mothers of our men-at-arms I meetWho die for mine and me, That we go safe and free, Sit in the sun, sleep soft and find life sweet. I have two sons too young to fight, too young, God grant if my hour comes I may be strong, And caught in such a strait May praise God and be great, Giving my sons to save some woman from wrong! Oh, mothers of dead heroes, ye I know, My heart sends you a greeting, soft and low; Blessed are ye whose sons Amid the ransomed onesThrong to the banners of Heaven as white as snow. Somehow, by some secret and certain sign, The mothers of the beloved I divine Who died in my sons' place. My heart kneels and gives grace. Gives thanks for you, for you, proud sisters of mine! FLOWER OF YOUTHLEST Heaven be thronged with grey-beards hoary, God, who made boys for His delight, Stoops in a day of grief and gloryAnd calls them in, in from the night. When they come trooping from the warOur skies have many a new gold star. Heaven's thronged with gay and careless faces, New-waked from dreams of dreadful things, They walk in green and pleasant placesAnd by the crystal water-springs Who dreamt of dying and the slain, And the fierce thirst and the strong pain. Dear boys! They shall be young for ever. The Son of God was once a boy. They run and leap by a clear riverAnd of their youth they have great joy. God who made boys so clean and good Smiles with the eyes of fatherhood. Now Heaven is by the young invaded; Their laughter's in the House of God. Stainless and simple as He made itGod keeps the heart o' the boy unflawed. The old wise Saints look on and smile, They are so young and without guile. Oh, if the sonless mothers weeping, And widowed girls could look insideThe glory that hath them in keepingWho went to the Great War and died, They would rise and put their mourning off, And say: "Thank God, he has enough!" "Flower of Youth" (Pages 54, 55)In response to numerous applications, the publishers can supply copies of this poem printed separately at twopence each (post free, 2 1/2d., or a dozen copies, 2s. 1d.). The profits will be given to the Dublin Castle Red Cross Hospital.SIDGWICK & JACKSON LTD.3 ADAM STREET, LONDON, W.C."UNHOUSEL'D, UNANOINTED, UNANEL'D"WHEN these men must go aloneSans an absolution, When their sins are heavy as lead, Thou Thyself will lift the head ; Thou, High Priest, wilt whisper low, Te Absolvo! ere they go. When there is no sacrifice, Bread and Wine for Thy disguise, Come Thou in the Spirit then; As at Agincourt our men With desire a blade of grassServed as Eucharist and Mass. Lay Thyself the oil on lips, Limbs and eyes, before the eclipse--As once Magdalen did to Thee--And so speed them, safe and free, To lie down with Thee a while And to waken to Thy smile. They shall sit down at the FeastWhere Thou are Sacrament and Priest. ALL SOULSTHERE'S traffic in the worlds immortal, For many souls are flying home, Striving and pushing at the portalFor sight of glorious things to come. What rout of wings against the sunset? What rosy plumes the dawning bar? Heaven's stormed with gay and happy onsetOf youngling things home from the War. Against the inverted cup of azure, Against the evening, peach and green, The frolicsome young souls take their pleasure, Darting the silver stars between. Though the old nests be sad, forsaken, The cotes of Heaven are yet unfilled: In trees of Heaven as yet untakenThe immortal Loves lift hearts and build. THE PREDESTINED (W. E. H. 6th November 1914)DEAR, we might have known you wereTo die young--and were we blind To the light on face and hair? Dear, so simple and so kind. You were clean as your own swordAnd as straight too and steel true. In the Army of the LordWhat promotion waits for you! I can see you where you stand, Knightly soul, so clean, so brave. With a new sword in your handWhere the lilied banners wave. Flower of simple chivalry, Marked for honour and for grace; It was very plain to seeThe clear shining of your face. You are gone now: it's turned cold: Very good you were and dear. Wear the looks you wore of oldWhen we meet,--some other year. THE OLD SOLDIER (14th November 1914)LEST the young soldiers be strange in Heaven, God bids the old soldier they all adoredCome to Him and wait for them, clean, new-shriven, A happy door-keeper in the House of the Lord. Lest it abash them, the great new splendour, Lest they affright them, the new robes clean, God sets an old face there, long-tried and tender, A word and a hand-clasp as they troop in. My boys! he welcomes them and Heaven is homely; He, their great Captain in days gone o'er. Dear is the face of a friend, honest and comely, As they come home from the war and he at the door. THE FIELDS OF FRANCE"Nous avons chassé ce Jesus Christ"JESUS CHRIST they chased awayComes again another day. Could they do without Him thenHis poor lost unhappy men? He returns and is revealed In the trenches and the field. Where the dead lie thick He goes, Where the brown earth's red as a rose, He who walked the waters wide Treads the wine-press, purple-dyed,Stoops, and bids the piteous slain That they rise with Him again. To His breast and in his cloak Bears the younglings of the flock: Calls His poor sheep to come home And His sheep rise up and come. They shall rest by a clear pool 'Mid the pastures beautiful! Jesus Christ they chased away Has come back another day. THE OPEN ROADTHE roads of the SeaAre thronged with merchantmen; East and West, North and SouthThey go and come again. All precious merchandiseThey bear in their hold: Lest the people be starvingIn the night and cold. Now tell me, good merchants, How this thing can beThat the white ships are throngingThe roads of the sea? For there's death in the skiesAnd there's death on the earth; And men talked of famineAnd a frozen hearth. Yet the ships they go crowdingThe roads of the sea; They bring home their treasuresTo you and to me. O listen, good people, And hearing, praise God, That the watch-dogs are keepingThe ships on their road! They sit watchful and steadyWhere the North winds blow; Sleepless they are keepingThe roads the ships go. In the day, in the hour, They will spring--until then, Their eyes keep the coursesOf the merchantmen. Forget not, good people, When ye heap the white board, When ye draw to the hearth-fire, To praise the Lord, That the watch-dogs unsleepingKeep the roads of the Sea, Up by the Northern Lights Where the great ships be. FOR THE AIRMEN (To MAURICE HEWLETT)THOU who guidest the swallow and wren, Keep the paths of the flying men! Over the mountains, over the seas Thou hast given the bird-folk compasses. Thou guidest them, yea, Thou leadest them homeBy the trackless ways and the venturesome. Look Thou then on these bird-men, far More than the sparrows and swallows are. When they fly in the wintry weather Be their compass and chart together. Keep them riding the wind. Uphold Their passion of flight lest it grow cold. Thy right hand be under the wing, Thy left hand for their steadying. The Wings of the birds of Heaven be nighLest their wings fail them and they die. Make Thou their flying as deft and fleet As the flight of the linnet or the blue-tit. Thy hand over them, shall they fear The spears of lightning or any spear? Thy hand under them, what shall appal? Not the fierce foe nor the sudden fall. Show them Thy moon at night: Thy stars Bid stand as sentinels in their wars. Yea, make their lone tracks pleasant as A soft meandering path in grass. Thou that launchest the wren, the swallowGuard our flying loves when they follow. CHRISTMAS IN THE YEAR OF THE WARNEVERTHELESS this Year of GriefThe Tree of God's in leaf. The stem, the branch quickenethWith sap, this year of Death. For in the time of the flowering thornThe Babe, the Babe, is born! Christ's folk, look up, be not dismayed, The Lord's in the cattle shed. He comes, a little trembling One, To a world else lost, undone. With His poor folk He wills to stayIn this their difficult day. Poor war-worn world, you shall have ease! He signs your lasting peace. He hath given His people rest from wars, By the cold light of stars. The charter of their peace shall stand Writ by His hour-old hand. The Tree of Paradise quickeneth. Be still,--there is no death! A SONG FOR THE NEW YEAR 1915THE Year of the Sorrows went out with great wind: Lift up, lift up, O broken hearts, your Lord is kind, And He shall call His flock home where no storms beInto a sheltered haven out of sound of the sea. There shall be bright sands there and a milken hill, They shall lie in the sun there and drink their fill, They shall have dew and shade there and grass to the knee, Safe in a sheltered haven out of sound of the sea. He shall bind their wounds up and their tears shall cease: They shall have sweetest pillows and a bed of ease. Come up, come up and hither, O little flock, saith He, Ye shall have sheltered havens out of sound of the sea.The first day of New Year strewed the sea with dead. Lift up, lift up, O broken heart and hanging head! The Lord walks on the waters and a Shepherd is He They shall have sheltered havens out of sound of the sea. DEAD--A PRISONERHE died the loneliest death of all, Amid his foes he died. But Someone's leaped the outer wallAnd Someone's come inside, And he has gotten a golden keyTo set the lonesome prisoner free. It was not Peter with the keys, The heavenly janitor, Who has passed them like a rushing breeze, The gaolers at the door, And to His bosom as a bedHas taken the unmothered head. A great light in the prison shoneThat made the people blind: Rise up, rise up, new-ransomed one,And taste the sun and wind: For I have gotten a golden key