Part 34 (1/2)

Moon, slow rising, over the trembling sea-rim, Moon of the lifted tides and their folded burden.

Look, look down. And gather the blinded oceans, Moon of compa.s.sion.

Come, white Silence, over the one sea pathway: Pour with hallowing hands on the surge and outcry, Silver flame; and over the famished blackness, Petals of moonlight.

Once again, the formless void of a world-wreck Gropes its way through the echoing dark of chaos; Tide on tide, to the calling, lost horizons,-- One in the darkness.

You that veil the light of the all-beholding, Shed white tidings down to the dooms of longing, Down to the timeless dark; and the sunken treasures, One in the darkness.

Touch, and harken,--under that shrouding silver, Rise and fall, the heart of the sea and its legions, All and one; one with the breath of the deathless, Rising and falling.

Touch and waken so, to a far hereafter, Ebb and flow, the deep, and the dead in their longing: Till at last, on the hungering face of the waters, There shall be Light.

_Light of Light, give us to see, for their sake.

Light of Light, grant them eternal peace; And let light perpetual s.h.i.+ne upon them; Light, everlasting._

_Josephine Preston Peabody_

MY SON

Here is his little cambric frock That I laid by in lavender so sweet, And here his tiny shoe and sock I made with loving care for his dear feet.

I fold the frock across my breast, And in imagination, ah, my sweet, Once more I hush my babe to rest, And once again I warm those little feet.

Where do those strong young feet now stand?

In flooded trench, half numb to cold or pain, Or marching through the desert sand To some dread place that they may never gain.

G.o.d guide him and his men to-day!

Though death may lurk in any tree or hill, His brave young spirit is their stay, Trusting in that they'll follow where he will.

They love him for his tender heart When poverty or sorrow asks his aid, But he must see each do his part-- Of cowardice alone he is afraid.

I ask no honours on the field, That other men have won as brave as he-- I only pray that G.o.d may s.h.i.+eld My son, and bring him safely back to me!

_Ada Tyrrell_

TO THE OTHERS

This was the gleam then that lured from far Your son and my son to the Holy War: Your son and my son for the accolade With the banner of Christ over them, in steel arrayed.

All quiet roads of life ran on to this; When they were little for their mother's kiss.

Little feet hastening, so soft, unworn, To the vows and the vigil and the road of thorn.

Your son and my son, the downy things, Sheltered in mother's breast, by mother's wings, Should they be broken in the Lord's wars--Peace!

He Who has given them--are they not His?

Dream of knight's armour and the battle-shout, Fighting and falling at the last redoubt, Dream of long dying on the field of slain; This was the dream that lured, nor lured in vain.