Here it is that we find a consciousness of the Eternal creeping through
the smoke and din and glare. Here, like the hard, dangerous life of the
Alaskan trails, only harder and more dangerous; here amid war in "The
Fool" we catch six last lines that thrill us:
"He died with the glory of faith in his eyes,
And the glory of love in his heart.
And though there's never a grave to tell,
Nor a cross to mark his fall,
Thank God we know that he "batted well"
In the last great Game of all."
Rhymes of a Red Cross Man.
And even amid the terrible thunder of war the "Lark" sings, as Service
reminds us in his poem of that name, sings and points to heaven:
"Pure heart of song! do you not know
That we are making earth a hell?
Or is it that you try to show
Life still is joy and all is well?
Brave little wings! Ah, not in vain
You beat into that bit of blue:
Lo! we who pant in war's red rain
Lift shining eyes, see Heaven too!"
Rhymes of a Red Cross Man.
To close this study of Service, which has run from the hard battle
ground of the Alaskan trails to the harder battle ground of France;
which has run from a study of white peaks and white lives, to high
peaks and high hopes, through sin and death to heaven and the Father
himself, I quote the closing lines of Service's "The Song of the Wage
Slave," which will remind the reader in tone and spirit of Markham's
"The Man with the Hoe":
"Master, I've filled my contract, wrought in thy many lands;
Not by my sins wilt thou judge me, but by the work of my hands.
Master, I've done thy bidding, and the light is low in the west,
And the long, long shift is over--Master, I've earned it--Rest."
[Illustration: RUPERT BROOKE.]