No More Learning

Ten we count--ten who ventured unquailing--ten there were--and ten are
no more!
Yet another salutes and superbly essays where the ten failed before.
God of Battles, look down and protect him! Lord, his heart is as Thine--
let him live!
But the _mitrailleuse_ splutters and stutters, and riddles him into a
sieve.

Then I thought of my sins, and sat waiting the charge that we could not
withstand.
And I thought of my beautiful Paris, and gave a last look at the land,
At France, my _belle France_, in her glory of blue sky and green field
and wood.
Death with honor, but never surrender. And to die with such men--it was
good.

They are forming--the bugles are blaring--they will cross in a moment
and then. . . .
When out of the line of the Royals (your island, _mon ami_, breeds men)
Burst a private, a tawny-haired giant--it was hopeless, but, _ciel! _ how
he ran!
_Bon Dieu_ please remember the pattern, and make many more on his plan!

No cheers from our ranks, and the Germans, they halted in wonderment
too;
See, he reaches the bridge; ah! he lights it! I am dreaming, it _cannot_
be true.
Screams of rage! _Fusillade! _ They have killed him! Too late though, the
good work is done.
By the valor of twelve English martyrs, the Hell-Gate of Soissons is
won!

_Herbert Kaufman_




THE VIRGIN OF ALBERT

(NOTRE DAME DE BREBIERES)


Shyly expectant, gazing up at Her,
They linger, Gaul and Briton, side by side:
Death they know well, for daily have they died,
Spending their boyhood ever bravelier;
They wait: here is no priest or chorister,
Birds skirt the stricken tower, terrified;
Desolate, empty, is the Eastertide,
Yet still they wait, watching the Babe and Her.

Broken, the Mother stoops: the brutish foe
Hurled with dull hate his bolts, and down She swayed,
Down, till She saw the toiling swarms below,--
Platoons, guns, transports, endlessly arrayed:
"Women are woe for them! let Me be theirs,
And comfort them, and hearken all their prayers! "

_George Herbert Clarke_




RETREAT


Broken, bewildered by the long retreat
Across the stifling leagues of southern plain,
Across the scorching leagues of trampled grain,
Half-stunned, half-blinded, by the trudge of feet
And dusty smother of the August heat,
He dreamt of flowers in an English lane,
Of hedgerow flowers glistening after rain--
All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet.

All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet--
The innocent names kept up a cool refrain--
All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet,
Chiming and tinkling in his aching brain,
Until he babbled like a child again--
"All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet. "

_Wilfrid Wilson Gibson_




A LETTER FROM THE FRONT


I was out early to-day, spying about
From the top of a haystack--such a lovely morning--
And when I mounted again to canter back
I saw across a field in the broad sunlight
A young Gunner Subaltern, stalking along
With a rook-rifle held at the ready, and--would you believe it? --
A domestic cat, soberly marching beside him.