Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/159

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Of all things foul and black. My heart is hot

Within me as I view it, and I cry,

"Better the misery of these men's lot

Than all the peace that comes to such as I!"

And strange that in the pauses of the sound

I hear the children's laughter as they roam,

And then their mother calls, and all around

Rise up the gentle murmurs of a home.

But still I gaze afar, and at the sight

My whole soul softens to its heartfelt prayer,

"Spirit of Justice, Thou for whom they fight,

Ah, turn, in mercy, to our lads out there!

"The froward peoples have deserved Thy wrath,

And on them is the Judgment as of old.

But if they wandered from the hallowed path,

Yet is their retribution manifold.

Behold all Europe writhing on the rack,

The sins of fathers grinding down the sons,

How long, O Lord!" He sends no answer back,

But still I hear the mutter of the guns. Arthur Conan Doyle

CHILDHOOD land of mountain ways,

Where earthly gnomes and forest fays,

Kind foolish giants, gentle bears

Sport with the peasant as he fares

Affrighted through the forest glades,

And lead sweet wistful little maids

Lost in the woods, forlorn, alone,

To princely lovers and a throne.

Dear haunted land of gorge and glen,

Ah me! the dreams, the dreams of men!