Remember how, beside the wain,

We spoke the word of war,

And sowed this harvest of the plain,
And we return no more.

Lay spears about the Ruddy Fox!
The days of old are o'er;

Heave sword about the Running Ox!

For we return no more.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM

ROBERT SOUTHEY

It was a summer evening;
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage-door
Was sitting in the sun;

And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet,

In playing there, had found:

He came to ask what he had found, That was so large and smooth and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

""Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in the garden,

For there's many here about; And often, when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out;
But everybody said," quoth he,
That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by;

They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby, died;

But things like that, you know, must be

At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun:

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,

And our good Prince Eugene."

"Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"

Said little Wilhelmine.

"Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he;

"It was a famous victory.

"And everybody praised the Duke,
Who this great fight did win.”
"But what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin.

Why, that I cannot tell," said he; "But 'twas a famous victory."

THE PYRES

HERMANN HAGEDORN

PYRES in the night, in the night!
And the roaring yellow and red.
Trooper, trooper, why so white?
We are out to gather our dead.

We have brought dry boughs from the bloody wood
And the torn hill-side;

We have felled great trunks, wet with the blood
Of brothers that died;

We have piled them high for a flaming bed,
Hemlock and ash and pine for a bed,

A throne in the night, a throne for a bed —
And we go to gather our dead.

There where the oaks loom, dark and high,
Over the sombre hill,

Body on body, cold and still,

Under the stars they lie.

There where the silver river runs,

Careless and calm as fate,

Mowed, mowed by the terrible guns,

The stricken brothers wait.

There by the smoldering house, and there

Where the red smoke hangs on the heavy air,
Under the ruins, under the hedge,

Cheek by cheek at the forest-edge;
Back to breast, three men deep,
Hearing not bugle or drum,

}

PEACE AND GOOD WILL
AND

In the desperate trench they died to keep,
Under the starry dome they sleep,

Murmuring," Brothers, come!"

This way! I heard a call

Like a stag's when he dies.
Under the willows I saw him fall.
Under the willows he lies.

Give me your hand. Raise him up.
Lift his head. Strike a light.

This morning we shared a crust and a cup.
He wants no supper to-night.

Take his feet. Here the shells

Broke all day long,

Moaning and shrieking hell's

Bacchanalian song!

Last night he helped me bear
Men to hell's fêting.
To-morrow, maybe, somewhere,
We, too, shall lie waiting.

Pyres in the night, in the night!
Weary and sick and dumb,
Under the flickering, faint starlight
The drooping gleaners come.
Out of the darkness, dim

Shadowy, shadow-bearers,

Dragging into the bale-fire's rim
Pallid death-farers.

127