THE HARVARD REGIMENT
We saw the Regiment, alert and strong,
In marching line, on Soldiers' Field today,
Ah! ready they to battle with the wrong;—
This flower of youth—eager and brave and gay.
And we, on-looking, cheered them as they passed,
And we, down-heartened, prayed a silent prayer,
Gazing upon them with a grim forecast,
And many a sad-eyed mother watched them there.
Proudly they turned, and at attention stood,
Or shouldered arms while war-like music thrilled.
"Alas!" we listened in unhappy mood!
"Why should these boys in martial ways be skilled?"
No comfort for our grieving was revealed,
Until we looked across the valiant line
To the old College, far beyond this Field
That honors men who fell at Freedom's shrine.
"Oh, ancient College, that so long hast bred
Son after son to heed his Country's call.
The answer to our questionings is read—
In yonder Tower of your Memorial Hall."
SUMMER IN LONDON
Oh, the noise of Piccadilly—its rumble and its roar!
A tide of life's broad ocean surging toward the shore.
Who once has listened, ever can hear its long refrain
With haunting echo drowning or dirge or flaunting strain.
Who heeds it, in his vision may see a world-throng pass—
And over there the Green Park with laughing lad and lass;
While weary men and women and careless youth go by,
Where windows glow and glitter, and in the evening sky
A crescent moon is watching the laughing lass and lad.
The long, warm London twilight! Happy they are, though sad.
With kiss and tear they are parting. 'Tis late—the rush and roar—
The life of Picadilly is waning—is no more.
Ah, the dark, the cold, the stillness of the trenches in the night,
Where freezing men are crouching in the lull before the fight.
Then for one the calm is broken by the rumble and the roar
Of far-off Picadilly, and in dreams, as oft before,
He sees her who wept at parting. What was that? A whining shell?
Once a man—that huddled horror! He was smiling as he fell.
Summer has returned to London. Now the Green Park gleams anew.
Cheers and tears together mingle—but the breaking heart beats true.
Blare of trumpet!—blood and fire!—so her hero marched away.
Happy lad and lass they parted—now the pitying sky is gray.
Blood and fire! Through its heroes shall a nation live again.
Blare of trumpet! But in silence aching hearts must bear their pain.
Ah, the stillness of the trenches! ah, the rumble and the roar!
Cheers and tears by England offered for the lads who come no more.
1915
SERBIA
Serbia, valiant daughter of the Ages,
Happiness and light should be thy portion!
Yet thy day is dimmed, thine heart is heavy;
Long hast thou endured—a little longer
Bear thy burden, for a fair to-morrow
Soon will gleam upon thy flower-spread valleys,
Soon will brighten all thy shadowy mountains;
Soon will sparkle on thy foaming torrents
Rushing toward the world beyond thy rivers.
Bulgar, Turk and Magyar long assailed thee.
Now the Teuton's cruel hand is on thee
Though he break thy heart and rack thy body,
'Tis not his to crush thy lofty spirit.
Serbia cannot die. She lives immortal,
Serbia—all thy loyal men bring comfort
Fighting, fighting, and thy far-flung banner
Blazons to the world thy high endeavor,
—This thy strife for brotherhood and freedom—
Like an air-free bird unknowing bondage,
Soaring far from carnage, smoke and tumult,
Serbia—thy soul shall live forever!
Serbia, undaunted is, immortal!