THE LOOKER-ON.
The world was full of the battle,
The whole world far and wide;
Men and women and children
Were fighting on either side.
I was sent from the hottest combat
With a message of life and death,
Black with smoke and red with blood,
Weary and out of breath,
Forced to linger a moment,
And bind a stubborn wound,
Cursing the hurt that kept me back
From the fiery battle-ground.
When I found a cheerful stranger,
Calm, critical, serene,
Well sheltered from all danger,
Painting a battle-scene.
He was cordially glad to see me—
The coolly smiling wretch—
And inquired with admiration,
“Do you mind if I make a sketch?”
So he had me down in a minute,
With murmurs of real delight;
My “color” was “delicious,”
My “action” was “just right!”
And he prattled on with ardor
Of the moving scene below;
Of the “values” of the smoke-wreaths,
And “the splendid rush and go”
Of the headlong desperate charges
Where a thousand lives were spent;
Of the “massing” in the foreground
With the “middle distance” blent.
Said I, “You speak serenely
Of the living death in view.
These are human creatures dying—
Are you not human too?
“This is a present battle,
Where all men strive to-day.
How does it chance you sit apart?
Which is your banner—say!”
His fresh cheek blanched a little,
But he answered with a smile
That he fought not on either side;
He was watching a little while.
“Watching!” said I, “and neutral!
Neutral in times like these!”
And I plucked him off his sketching stool
And brought him to his knees.
I stripped him of his travelling cloak
And showed him to the sky:
By his uniform—a traitor!
By his handiwork—a spy!
I dragged him back to the field he left;
To the fate he was fitted for.
We have no place for lookers on
When all the world’s at war!