The Battle of the Rivers
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FOR fifteen hundred valiant men and tried, These waters were as Lethe's, dark and deep And bitter as the bitterest tears we weep; Their high hearts rose above the swollen tide, Fain of the foe upon the further side, Though in death's draught their lips they needs must steep. Since their own lives their valour might not keep, Our tall young men drank of that cup and died. Now are their faces hidden from the sky, Under the trampled turf where last they trod; Yet unforsaken sleeps that sad array; The living hearts of all their mothers lie Buried with them, and beat below the sod, As their poor pulse could stir the senseless clay. |
A Legend of Ypres
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BEFORE the throne the spirits of the slain With a loud voice importunately cried, "Oh, Lord of Hosts, whose name be glorified, Scarce may the line one onslaught more sustain Wanting our help. Let it not be in vain, Not all in vain, Oh God, that we have died." And smiling on them our good Lord replied, "Begone then, foolish ones, and fight again." Our eyes were holden, that we saw them not; Disheartened foes beheld—our prisoners said— Behind us massed, a mighty host indeed, Where no host was. On comrades unforgot We thought, and knew that all those valiant dead Forwent their rest to save us at our need. |