Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/182

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When the red wrath perisheth, when the dulled swords fail,

These three who have walked with Death—these shall prevail.

Hell bade all its millions rise; Paradise sends three;

Pity, and Self-Sacrifice, and Charity. Theodosia Garrison

HROUGH what dark pass to what place in the sun

Dost thou, misguided Moses, lead this folk?

What rest remains when wayfaring is done?

What clearer skies beyond the cannon-smoke?

Say not he triumphs, though his trampling host,

That knows above his nation's lust no law,

From inland village to the fearful coast

Still treads the peaceful peoples red and raw.

Nay, pity him the banded friends abhor,

Who sees—the tragic fool and slave of state—

Behind him stretch the sterile wastes of war,

Before, a widening wilderness of hate,

While all the world lifts up one wrathful cry

To give this Prussian Machiavel the lie.

White mouths that clamour for the unreaped wheat,

Frail hands that clasp the unresponsive dead,

Brave Belgian hearts, unconquered in defeat,

Dispeopled, exiled King: be comforted.

Though we close not the assaulted gates of sense

To shrieking towns, the gurgle of great ships

In drowning agonies, the fields immense

Horrid with shuddering limbs and writhen lips,