(From _King Albert’s Book_, 1914.)
In my dream I saw a fertile plain, rich with the hues of autumn.
Tranquil it was and warm. Men, women, children, and the beasts, worked
and played and wandered there in peace. Under the blue sky and the white
clouds low-hanging, great trees shaded the fields; and from all the land
rose a murmur as from bees clustering on the rose-coloured blossoms of
tall clover. In my dream I roamed, looking into faces—prosperous and
well-favoured—of people living in a land of plenty, drinking the joy of
life, caring nothing for the morrow. But I could not see their eyes,
which seemed ever cast down, watching the progress of their feet over
the rich grass and the golden leaves already fallen from the trees. The
longer I walked among them the more I wondered that I could see the eyes
of none, not even of the little children, not even of the beasts.
And, while I mused on this, the sky began to darken. A mutter as of
distant waters came travelling. The children stopped their play, the
beasts raised their heads; men and women halted and cried to each other:
“The River is rising! If it floods, we are lost! Our beasts will drown;
we, even we, shall drown! The River!” And women stood like images of
stone, listening; men shook their fists at the black sky; the beasts
sniffed the darkening air.
Then I heard a clear voice call: “Brothers! The dyke is breaking! Link
arms; with the dyke of our bodies we will save our homes! Link arms
behind us, Sisters! Children close in! The River!” And all that
multitude, whom I had seen treading quietly the grass, came hurrying,
their eyes no longer fixed on the rich plain, but lifted in trouble and
defiance. And the Voice called: “Hasten! The dyke is broken.”
By thousands and thousands they pressed, shoulder to shoulder—men,
women, children, and the beasts lying down behind, till the living dyke
was formed. And the black flood came travelling till its wave crests
glinted like the whites of glaring eyes, and the harsh clamour of the
waters was as a roar from a million mouths. But the Voice called: “Hold,
brothers!” And from the living dyke came answer: “We hold!”
Then the dark water broke; and from all the wall of bodies rose the cry
of struggle.
But above it ever the Voice called: “Hold!”
And the answer still came from the mouths of drowning men and women, of
the very children: “We hold!”
But the water rolled over and on. Down in its black tumult, beneath its
cruel rush, I saw men still with arms linked; women on their knees,
clinging to earth; little children drifting—all dead. But the shades of
the dead with arms yet linked were fronting the edge of the savage
waters. None had turned away . . .
Once more I dreamed. The plain was free of darkness, free of waters. The
River, shrunk and muddied, flowed again within its banks. And Dawn was
breaking.
At first it seemed to me that only trees stood on that plain; then, in
the ground mist fast clearing, I saw the forms of men and women,
children, beasts; and I moved among them, looking at their faces—not
broad and prosperous, but grave from suffering, carved and strong. And
their eyes were shining.
While I stood thus watching, the sun rose, and, above the plain clad in
the hues of spring, the heaven brightened to full morning. Amazed, I saw
that the stars had not gone in, but shone there in the blue.
And clear I heard the same Voice call: “Brothers! Behold! The Stars are
lit for ever!”