THE VIRILE SPIRIT
[Written after reading a letter in which the writer said: "I covet for our country a great war—one that will stir our virile spirits and send forth our youth to fight and die for our country."]
What is courage? To face the bursting shell
When rhythmic sheets of fire discover gulfs
Of death, yet rather steel than daunt the heart;
When comrades fall beneath the knapsack's weight,
Foot froze and bleeding on the icy road,
To hear the blasts from towering snow-crowned Alps
Sing only martial airs that stir the blood!
It is a noble thing to die in war—
To sacrifice the breath of life; to feel
The pain of hunger and of cold, yet flinch
Not that one's country may be great or free.
Many a generation yet unborn
Will bless the name of Valley Forge, and hold
In reverence the field of Gettysburg.
But war is not the only thing that tries
The bravest soul. To live does sometimes take
More courage than to close with death; and oft
The coward shrinks from living when the brave
Man scorns to die. We need no bugle note
To rouse our manhood's strength. The call to men
Is clear and strong. It is not to repel
The Hun, the Teuton, or the Slav, nor yet
To drive the Yellow Peril from the seas.
We must send forth our men to live, not die—
We need to save, not kill our fellow man,
To smite the Minotaur of Sin, and stop
The tribute greater now than all the tolls
Of war. The beast in man is ravenous
And must be slain. He feeds upon the fruits
Of toil, and blights the home with poverty;
He drags the innocent to dens of shame
To satisfy his brute carnality.
No fiery dragon in the days of myth
Laid waste a land or blasted life with breath
More foul or appetite insatiate.
This is the enemy that we must fight.
No dreadnaughts now afloat, no submarines,
No legions that may ever bivouac on
Our shores, no Zeppelins disgorging fire
Portend the dire disasters wrought upon
Our nation's strength by Avarice and Lust.
The sword of Theseus is too dull a blade,
The arm of Beowulf not strong enough
To battle with Cupidity and Sin.
We need the breastplate of a righteous life,
Our loins must be girt about with truth,
The heart protected by the shield of faith,
And in the right hand there must ever be
The spirit's sword, which is the Word of God!
And even clothed and weaponed thus it takes
A heart as fearless as the dauntless Dane's
To strike the Mammon of Unrighteousness—
To grapple with this Grendel that invades
The mead-halls still and ravishes our youth.
BLUEBIRD.
Bluebird in the cedar bush—
Fresh and clean as the evergreen,
Through a rift of leaves,
Or my eye deceives.
But silent! Hush!
He calls, he calls!
The first spring note
From a feathered throat
My heart enthralls;
And my pulses leap
As a child from sleep
On Christmas morn, at the blast of horn,
To meet, to greet,
The choral sweet
From bluebird in the cedar bush:
At last, at last
The snow and sleet
Of winter's blast
Have passed, have passed,
And spring is here, good cheer, good cheer!
The call comes ringing in to me
From Bluebird in the cedar tree.
AN AUTUMN MINOR
Russet and amber and gold,
Crimson and yellow and green,
And far away the blue and gray,
A twinkling silver sheen.