[By Arrangement with The London Chronicle.]
If courage thrives on reeking slaughter,
And he who kills is lord
Of beauty and of loving laughter--
Gird on me a sword!
If death be dearest comrade proven,
If life be coward's mate,
If Nazareth of dreams be woven--
Give me fighter's fate!
* * * * *
If God is thrilled by a battle cry,
If He can bless the moaning fight,
If when the trampling charge goes by
God Himself is the leading Knight;
If God laughs when the gun thunders,
If He yells when the bullet sings--
Then my stoic soul but wonders
How great God can do such things!
* * * * *
The white gulls wheeling over the plow,
The sun, the reddening trees--
We being enemies, I and thou,
There is no meaning to these.
There is no flight on the wings of Spring,
No scent in the Summer rose;
The roundelays that the blackbirds sing--
There is no meaning in those!
If you must kill me--why the lark,
The hawthorn bud, and the corn?
Why do the stars bedew the dark?
Why is the blossom born?
If I must kill you--why the kiss
Which made you? There _is_ no why!
If it be true we were born for this--
Pitiful Love, Good-bye!
* * * * *
Not for the God of Battles!--
For Honor, Freedom, and Right,
And saving of gentle Beauty,
We have gone down to fight!