(This "Chant of Love", by a distinguished American poet, is
a reply to Ernst Lissauer's notorious "Chant of Hate for
England".)
A song of hate is a song of Hell;
Some there be that sing it well.
Let them sing it loud and long,
We lift our hearts in a loftier song:
We lift our hearts to Heaven above,
Singing the glory of her we love,--
_England!_
Glory of thought and glory of deed,
Glory of Hampden and Runnymede;
Glory of ships that sought far goals,
Glory of swords and glory of souls!
Glory of songs mounting as birds,
Glory immortal of magical words;
Glory of Milton, glory of Nelson,
Tragical glory of Gordon and Scott;
Glory transcendent that perishes not,--
Hers is the story, hers be the glory,
_England!_
Shatter her beauteous breast ye may;
The spirit of England none can slay!
Dash the bomb on the dome of Paul's--
Deem ye the fame of the Admiral falls?
Pry the stone from the chancel floor,--
Dream ye that Shakespeare shall live no more?
Where is the giant shot that kills
Wordsworth walking the old green hills?
Trample the red rose on the ground,--
Keats is beauty while earth spins round!
Bind her, grind her, burn her with fire,
Cast her ashes into the sea,--
She shall escape, she shall aspire,
She shall arise to make men free:
She shall arise in a sacred scorn,
Lighting the lives that are yet unborn;
Spirit supernal, Splendour eternal,
ENGLAND!
HELEN GRAY CONE
_From "A Chant of Love for England, and Other Poems"--
By permission of the Author and
J. M. Dent & Sons, Ltd., Toronto_
"CANADIANS--CANADIANS--THAT'S ALL!"
(_April 22, 1915_)
The night of April twenty-second was probably the most momentous time
of the six days and nights of fighting. Then the Germans concentrated
on the Yser Canal, over which there was but one bridge, a murderous
barrage fire which would have effectively hindered the bringing up of
reinforcements or guns, even had we had any in reserve.
During the early stages of the battle, the enemy had succeeded to a
considerable degree in turning the Canadian left wing. There was a
large open gap at this point, where the French Colonial troops had
stood until the gas came over. Toward this sector the Germans rushed
rank after rank of infantry, backed by guns and heavy artillery. To
the far distant left were our British comrades. They were completely
blocked by the German advance. They were like rats in a trap and could
not move.
At the start of the battle, the Canadian lines ran from the village of
Langemarck over to St. Julien, a distance of approximately three to
four miles. From St. Julien to the sector where the Imperial British
had joined the Turcos was a distance of probably two miles.
These two miles had to be covered, and covered quickly. We had to save
the British extreme right wing, and we had to close the gap. There
was no question about it. It was our job. On the night of April the
twenty-second we commenced to put this into effect. We were still
holding our original position with the handful of men who were in
reserves, all of whom had been included in the original grand total
of twelve thousand. We had to spread out across the gap of two miles
and link up the British right wing. Doing this was no easy task. Our
company was out first and we were told to get into field-skirmishing
order. We lined up in the pitchy darkness at five paces apart, but no
sooner had we reached this than a whispered order passed from man to
man: "Another pace, lads, just another pace". This order came again
and yet again. Before we were through and ready for the command to
advance, we were at least twice five paces each man from his nearest
comrade.
Then it was that our Captain told us bluntly that we were obviously
outnumbered by the Germans, ten to one. Then he told us that,
practically speaking, we had scarcely the ghost of a chance, but that a
bluff might succeed. He told us to "swing the lead over them". This we
did by yelling, hooting, shouting, clamouring, until it seemed, and the
enemy believed, that we were ten to their one.
The ruse succeeded. At daybreak, when we rested, we found that we had
driven the enemy back almost to his original position. All night long
we had been fighting with our backs to our comrades who were in the
front trenches. The enemy had got behind us and we had had to face
about in what served for trenches. By dawn we had him back again in his
original position, and we were facing in the old direction. By dawn we
had almost, though not quite, forced a junction with the British right.
The night of April the twenty-second is one that I can never forget. It
was frightful, yes. Yet there was a grandeur in the appalling intensity
of living, in the appalling intensity of death as it surrounded us.
The German shells rose and burst behind us. They made the Yser Canal a
stream of molten glory. Shells fell in the city, and split the darkness
of the heavens in the early night hours. Later, the moon rose in the
splendour of springtime. Straight behind the tower of the great
cathedral it rose and shone down on a bloody earth.
Suddenly the grand old Cloth Hall burst into flames. The spikes of fire
rose and fell and rose again. Showers of sparks went upward. A pall of
smoke would form and cloud the moon, waver, break, and pass. There was
the mutter and rumble and roar of great guns....
It was glorious. It was terrible. It was inspiring. Through an inferno
of destruction and death ... we lived because we must.
Perhaps our greatest reward came when on April twenty-sixth the English
troops reached us. We had been completely cut off by the enemy barrage
from all communication with other sectors of the line. Still, through
the wounded gone back, word of our stand had drifted out. The English
boys fought and force-marched and fought again their terrible way
through the barrage to our aid, and when they arrived, weary and worn
and torn, cutting their bloody way to us, they cheered themselves
hoarse; cheered as they marched along, cheered and gripped our hands as
they got within touch of us. Yell after yell went upward, and stirring
words woke the echoes. The boys of the Old Country paid their greatest
tribute to us of the New as they cried:
"Canadians--Canadians--that's all!"
HAROLD R. PEAT
_From "Private Peat"--Copyright, 1917. Used by
special permission of the Publishers, The
Bobbs-Merrill Company_