Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/152

 152

The gentle Beings of the hearth and home;

The lovely Dryads of her aislèd woods;

The Angels that do dwell in solitudes

Where she dwelleth; and joyous Spirits that roam

To bless her bleating flocks and fruitful lands;

Are gather'd there to weep, and kiss her dying hands.

"Look, look," they cry, "she is not dead, she breathes!

And we have staunched the damnèd wound and deep,

The cavern-carven wound. She doth but sleep

And will awake. Bring wine, and new-wound wreaths

Wherewith to crown awaking her dear head,

And make her Queen again."—But no, for Peace was dead.

And then there came black Lords; and Dwarfs obscene

With lavish tongues; and Trolls; and treacherous Things

Like loose-lipp'd Councillors and cruel Kings

Who sharpen lies and daggers subterrene:

And flashed their evil eyes and weeping cried,

"We ruled the world for Peace. By her own hand she died."

In secret he made sharp the bitter blade,

And poison'd it with bane of lies and drew,

And stabb'd—O God! the Cruel Cripple slew;

And cowards fled or lent him trembling aid.

She fell and died—in all the tale of time

The direst deed e'er done, the most accursèd crime. Ronald Ross

HE visions of the soul, more strange than dreams,

Out-mystery sleep. For them, no day redeems,

And the thing is, but is not as it seems.

I thought I saw (although I did not sleep)

A Raft that clomb the surges black and steep

With One who cursed the dumb God-blinded Deep.