"What we have to do," my Irish friend told me, "Catholics and non-Catholics alike, is to appeal for schools representing Catholic and non-Catholic teaching. Instead of the various churches fighting against each other they must fight together, helping one another to get the schools they demand. Only in this way can we save civilization."
This is how the Irishman, breathing the free air of America, and in America rising to positions of extraordinary power and responsibility, views the foundational question of religion; while England allows herself to be dragged at the heels of the frothing fanatic who has actually dared to raise the unholy battle cry of "Rather the Kaiser than the Pope."
Let the Unionist Party hesitate before it seeks to revive this hideous, utterly irrational and most unchristianlike spirit at the very heart of the British Empire. The sower of hate is the reaper of death.
TO MELOS, POMEGRANATE ISLE.
By GRACE HARRIET MACURDY.
(Destroyed by Athens, 416 B.C., because of her refusal to break neutrality.—Thucydides V., 84-116; Euripides, "Trojan Women.")
O thou Pomegranate of the Sea,
Sweet Melian isle, across the years
Thy Belgian sister calls to thee
In anguished sweat of blood and tears.
Her fate like thine—a ruthless band
Hath ravaged all her loveliness.
How Athens spoiled thy prosperous land
Athenian lips with shame confess.
Thou, too, a land of lovely arts,
Of potter's and of sculptor's skill—
Thy folk of high undaunted hearts
As those that throb in Belgium still.
Within thy harbor's circling rim
The warships long, with banners bright,
Sailed bearing Athens' message grim—
"God hates the weak. Respect our Might."
The flame within thy fanes grew cold,
Stilled by the foeman's swarming hordes.
Thy sons were slain, thy daughters sold
To serve the lusts of stranger lords.
For Attic might thou didst defy
Thy folk the foeman slew as sheep,
Across the years hear Belgium's cry—
"O Sister, of the Wine-Dark Deep,
"Whose cliffs gleam seaward roseate.
Not one of all my martyr roll
But keeps his faith inviolate,
Man kills our body, not our soul."
O thou Pomegranate of the Sea,
Sweet Melian isle, across the years
Thy Belgian sister calls to thee
In anguished sweat of blood and tears.
Her fate like thine—a ruthless band
Hath ravaged all her loveliness.
How Athens spoiled thy prosperous land
Athenian lips with shame confess.
Thou, too, a land of lovely arts,
Of potter's and of sculptor's skill—
Thy folk of high undaunted hearts
As those that throb in Belgium still.
Within thy harbor's circling rim
The warships long, with banners bright,
Sailed bearing Athens' message grim—
"God hates the weak. Respect our Might."
The flame within thy fanes grew cold,
Stilled by the foeman's swarming hordes.
Thy sons were slain, thy daughters sold
To serve the lusts of stranger lords.
For Attic might thou didst defy
Thy folk the foeman slew as sheep,
Across the years hear Belgium's cry—
"O Sister, of the Wine-Dark Deep,
"Whose cliffs gleam seaward roseate.
Not one of all my martyr roll
But keeps his faith inviolate,
Man kills our body, not our soul."
O thou Pomegranate of the Sea,
Sweet Melian isle, across the years
Thy Belgian sister calls to thee
In anguished sweat of blood and tears.
Her fate like thine—a ruthless band
Hath ravaged all her loveliness.
How Athens spoiled thy prosperous land
Athenian lips with shame confess.
Thou, too, a land of lovely arts,
Of potter's and of sculptor's skill—
Thy folk of high undaunted hearts
As those that throb in Belgium still.
Within thy harbor's circling rim
The warships long, with banners bright,
Sailed bearing Athens' message grim—
"God hates the weak. Respect our Might."
The flame within thy fanes grew cold,
Stilled by the foeman's swarming hordes.
Thy sons were slain, thy daughters sold
To serve the lusts of stranger lords.
For Attic might thou didst defy
Thy folk the foeman slew as sheep,
Across the years hear Belgium's cry—
"O Sister, of the Wine-Dark Deep,
"Whose cliffs gleam seaward roseate.
Not one of all my martyr roll
But keeps his faith inviolate,
Man kills our body, not our soul."