They sail out on the night,
The young unhardened boys,
Whispering goodbye
To headlands and to Home,
To sweetheart and to wife,
With lips of passionate youth—
Set to a priestly task
Of waging war on War.
On stranger foreign soil
They laugh in sordid tents,
Go down into the trench,
Or Sail the gallant air,
Making their war on War.
Yea, the world might once have said
That we were long in peace.
No longer can it say
America knows not war.
The American, after brooding upon the idea, takes up his argument more earnestly, continuing:
America does not know?
I think we know too well,
I think we know at last.
Not with the passion that bursts
From the brave tormented heart
At sight of French fields torn
And orchards murdered down;
Not with the doomed despair
Of Servia, race-extinct,
Watching the women and girls,
Packed like frightened beasts
Herded, in slavish fear
Of many shames and deaths,
Looking back to the hills
Where the bodies of murdered men
Spell the End of the Race.
Not with the frightful sense
Of tangled pride and lies,
And great undisciplines
Of Russia’s wolving hordes.
Not with that English heart
That bears its burden dumb,
And puts its sorrow by,
And keeps its firm face fixed
Toward its solemn duty, dumb
Against outside attacks,
Dumb under awful grief,
Dumb under bitter trial,
But with a knowledge strong
Of the Faith that comes with death
And with the Duty born
Of a perfect fearlessness....
Not with passions like these
America goes to the Test,
But with new Law in her eyes
And a new Dream in her heart—
Dying into her birth.
The Woodcarver drops his work. He folds his arms among the shavings on the table, and leans his head on them staring at the war correspondent, who sits shoulder dropped, knees wide apart, smoking thoughtfully, continuing:
America knows not War,
As a lasting principle.
But knows that War must be,
Till the Germ of War be killed.
Now that the way is seen,
America comes forth,
Makes that her battle-cry.
We care for that, as we care
For honesty in the eyes
Of the children of our race,
For fairness, squareness, right;
The way we care for a road,
That loops up through the hills
Of our Rocky Mountain peaks,
For a finely poised machine,
For a finely written tale,
For a deed done with despatch
And sureness and brevity.
We care for it, as we care
For a plunge in a mountain lake,
The smell of the woodland trail,
The secret of purple tides,
The science of charted stars.
My country has a dream,
The dream of equal rights,
The dream of a greater self,
Merging of Bignesses,
Of Progress, Land and Men.
The conquest of all fear
For ourselves and for other men.
My country cares for Peace;
My country dies for Peace.
But we care like the surgeon, who
Hand steady and eyes set stern,
Cuts without thought of shame
Or pity or silly fears,
Till the gangrene is excised;
Cuts the dead flesh away
And sees new healing powers
New vigors and new healths.
My country comes to yours,
To all the ailing lands,
And stands with face strong set,
Jaws firm, eyes straight ahead,
To do this surgery,
And keep itself more clean
To operate success,
And know no poisoning.
And, as the surgeon holds
His body and muscles hard,
His hands firm and true,
As a mother’s with a child,
And his eyes clear and kind—
So must we keep ourselves
Strong for our mighty work;
No poison of Greed and Self,
No poisons of class and caste,
But our hands tender and strong,
Our eyes tender and cool,
Our words humble and true,
Our hearts—God help us!—pure.
As the American finishes, the child rushes, in wild excitement, crying:
“Master—O Master, there is a soldier come down from the front—one of the Bersagliere—from the floods of the Piave. He found a boat, and, with his one poor hand, he has rowed it down the lagoons. The boat is full of blood. His side—his eyes are bleeding—O Master—Master!” There is a startled whir of the pigeons flying past, as a man’s steps are heard dragging themselves over the stone pavement of the Calla. The child stands petrified at sight of the wounded soldier, covered with mud and blood, yet still wearing the draggled beaver hat with coque feathers, the long yellow gaiters and torn blue coat. He staggers in, makes the sign of the cross to the winged figures all about him, and sinks coughing on a bench. His head drops forward. The old Woodcarver falls on his knees before him, takes off his hat, and peers into his face. The American bends over him, takes a flask from his hip pocket, and pouring some of the contents on his handkerchief, puts it between the man’s shaking lips.
Woodcarver with horror:
“Holy Virgin, protect us!
’Tis Pietro! the Gondolier,
Whose song was merriest
On all the moving canals;
Whose cry soared over the housetops
And dreaming palaces
Like a chain of golden moons.
He was a supple figure,
Leaning upon his oar,
With his scarlet sash and his cap,
And the saucy black on his lip,
A merry scalawag.
Virgin! but he has grown
Older than any world;
Older than anything
Dug out of a month’s old grave,
And set to live again.”