The ripe grain dies on Fécamp hills.
Sails wither at the quay.
Old people totter to the digue,
And shiver ceaselessly,
And in the pallid Gothic church
The dead and wounded see
To it that no Norman voice
Carols “Sans Souci.”
Deep care, deep care, for us who try
To save and clothe and feed!
Men taunt us for our dream of Peace
Our hope of better breed!
Courage! Let faith fight down the years
Oh! let our battle be,
That the world’s children some day sing
Another, “Sans Souci!”
TO AMERICANS
SOOTH, Citizens! there are few hours to dawn
Of a red day and black gun-horrored night.
The cities sleep not soundly mid, their spawn
Of golden-balled and silver-webbed light.
Tomorrow breaks the rancor and the spite—
To try our souls and test our bodies’ brawn.
Americans! How stand we? Does the Dream
Still hold? Once more the robust States declare
Against the Wrong, their Right. Where millions teem,
Curious, thoughtful, fateful, do we share
The same proud purpose to defend the Scheme,
Under the flag our lofty standards bear?
Americans! Look we with fearless eyes
Loyalty? Truth? Self-sacrifice? For Her,
Our Country, now enringed by foreign spies,
Will our set faces prove our calibre—
Our Destiny all penalties incur,
So that we show us pledged and patriot-wise.
Countrymen! Rise, and let your ranks be formed
For War, or Peace in solid moveless Race!
We are not aliens, who for plunder swarmed
To cover neath the glorious Freedom-Face.
We are Souls, standing in our rightful place,
Impregnable, unswerving, unalarmed.
Brothers! defend the gates! Upon us lowers
Portentously the brooding Europe pall.
Until it comes, the fateful hour of hours,
When our World-Dream must either stand or fall—
Arm ye with Loyalty!—Hark, hear the call!
Democracy still trumpets on the towers!
PENMARCH—BRITTANY
At the time of the “Pardon,” 1914.
THE Penmarch roads are sandy white;
By the old church the blue nets dry,
Stretched to the sea. The poppies bright,
Tremulous scarlet splashes high
On tawny dunes. Small wooden shoes,
Stiff snowy caps and ribbon hues
Go clattering to the market place.
’Tis Pardon-day by Maries’ Grace,
(And little Bretons form a ring,
And pause to hear a Lady sing.)
What does she sing, this Lady, who
Is like embodied song, her eyes,
Clear with the light of faith where through
Looks sweetness of her soul’s surmise?
What are the words she sings, her smile
So Mother-merry? What the wile
That draws the small coifs nearer, near,
And charms away the peasant fear
(Shy little Bretons keep their ring,
And stay to hear the Lady sing.)