Classic Poem

Fiercely, wildly, rages now the battle,
Around is desolation, pain and death,
And through the din is heard the dread death-rattle
Of victims gasping out their failing breath.

Cannons loudly roaring, bullets flying,
Everywhere the sound of shot and shell,
Making for the miserably dying
A terrible and deaf'ning funeral knell.

More desperately still the battle rages,
Many heroes fall and some must die,
No hope of armistice or peace assuages
Wounded victims' piercing agony.

Darkness now approaches; through the hours
Of night created for man's rest and peace,
Those unsatisfied, malignant powers,
Refuse e'en now to bid the conflict cease.

Hark! a distant sound which keeps repeating
From childhood's hour, known and loved so well:
Can it be the angels' Christmas greeting
Convey'd so sweetly in a Convent bell?

It makes the nerves with strange sensations tingle,
Brings thoughts of home, fond thoughts of happier times;
Is it fancy, or do voices mingle
With the ringing of those Christmas chimes?

Surely there are angel-voices stealing
Through the atmosphere of death and pain,
Heavenly messengers to earth appealing
For love and peace; must they appeal in vain?

“Christians, awake!” still faintly in the distance,
Far away, the sound comes faint and dim,
And yet those voices with a strange insistance
Repeat the words of that loved Christmas hymn.

It is no dream, for hark! ten thousand voices
Moved with one impulse the sad silence break,
And heart of friend and foe alike rejoices
At those familiar words “Christians, awake!”

A friendly face peeps out above the trenches,
The sun bursts forth in crimson splendour, while
A friendly hand the hand of foeman clenches
And demons flee aghast and angels smile.

And others quickly follow their example,
Too glad to spend a day of rest and peace;
This Holy Day is one most precious sample
Of days that are to be when battles cease.

Soft words from foreign lips console the dying,
For now, when all are friends, who is the foe?
And tender hands soothe those in anguish lying,
The very hands, perchance, which laid them low.

And all are now in harmony united,
Exchange of gentle, courteous words takes place;
Kind actions with kind actions are requited,
And God's own peace is shining on each face.

Too soon those precious hours of peace are ended,
Too soon must fade the soft'ning evening light,
No longer must the trench be undefended,
The Christmas truce must end on Christmas night.

And long before black night takes down her awning
That shields the sleeping world from light of day,
The murmuring voices of the troops give warning,
All thoughts of gentle peace have passed away.

For Britain's pledges must remain unbroken,
Her friends she cannot in their need deny,
Words are sacred still that once were spoken,
The knot of friendship nothing can untie.

Britain's hero sons can bear the anguish,
Of parting with the ones they love so well,
To fight—and die if needful—or to languish
Unloved, uncared for in a prison-cell.

Knowing that the fate of every nation
Hangs in the balance, and that Britain's hand
Must stay the power that carries devastation
Into every sweet, peace-loving land.

Some heroes still are fighting, some are sleeping,
In the deep silence which no voice can break,
Until the guardian-angels, vigil keeping,
Shall whisper tenderly—“Christians, awake!”