English

1916

Cheer oh, comrades! we can bide the blast
 And face the gloom until it shall grow lighter.
What though one Christmas should be overcast,
 If duty done makes all the others brighter.

1917

THE LAST LAP

We seldom were quick off the mark,
 And sprinting was never our game;
But when it's insistence and hold-for-the-distance,
 We've never been beat at that same.

Oh! what can afford the poor slave reparation,
His spirits restore, or his vigor renew?
Golconda's vast treasures were no compensation,
Too trivial a boon were the mines of Peru.

Ye've wrong'd him — yet think on those wrongs with contrition,
Like Zaccheus a four-fold requital bestow;
Your heralds send forth on a merciful mission,
And teach him the way of salvation to know.

Speed — speed ye with this only true compensation,
The slave from his bondage and errors to save;

How long shall Afric's sons
Be sons of grief and pain?
How long shall slavery curse the earth,
And mercy plead in vain?

Lift up your voice to day,
In Freedom's holy cause,
Till all the world in love obey
Their Maker's righteous laws.

Ye Christians! bought with blood
For sinners freely pour'd;
Awake — awake, and make the slave
A freeman of the Lord.

Then in your blissful songs,
Shall bond and free unite,
His praise to spread, to whom belongs
All majesty and might.

What notes assail mine ear,
Borne on by ev'ry gale!
Soul-piercing shrieks I hear —
The bondman's dying wail!
My blood in ev'ry vein it thrills,
And all my heart with pity fills.

For them no cheering light
Illumes the op'ning tomb;
Beyond is dismal night,
And darkest, densest gloom:
No offer'd grace dispels their fears;
No world of bliss to them appears.

Must these poor souls descend
To regions of despair,
And never know the Friend,
Whose mercy pain would spare?

The Farmer in the morning
Stood with slanted head,
In the wintry dawning
By the milking-shed;
From the camp behind the hill
He could hear the bugles shrill,
“We are here! We are here!
Soldiers all!
Good cheer! We are near!
Ontario! Ontario!
Toronto! Montreal!”

Petherick, the Huntsman grey,
Rheumatic, bent and blind,
Wheezed his joy as far away
He heard it in the wind.
“Hark the Hounds! Hark the Hounds!”
Nay, it is the bugle sounds,
“We are here! We are here!
Soldiers all!

Ah me! what envious magic thins my fold?
What mutter'd spell retards their late increase?
Such less'ning fleeces must the swain behold,
That e'er with Doric pipe essays to please.

I saw my friends in evening circles meet;
I took my vocal reed, and tuned my lay;
I heard them say my vocal reed was sweet:
Ah, fool! to credit what I heard them say.

Ill-fated Bard! that seeks his skill to show,
Then courts the judgment of a friendly ear;
Not the poor vet'ran, that permits his foe

Push on, my Lord of Würtemberg, across the Flemish Fen!
See where the lure of Ypres calls you!
There's just one ragged British line of Plumer's weary men;
It's true they held you off before, but venture it again,
Come, try your luck, whatever fate befalls you!

You've been some little time, my Lord. Perhaps you scarce remember
The far-off early days of that resistance.
Was it in October last? Or was it in November?

On distant heaths, beneath autumnal skies,
Pensive I saw the circling shade descend;
Weary and faint I heard the storm arise,
While the sun vanish'd, like a faithless friend.

No kind companion led my steps aright;
No friendly planet lent its glimm'ring ray;
Even the lone cot refused its wonted light,
Where Toil in peaceful slumber closed the day.

Then the dull bell had given a pleasing sound;
The village cur 'twere transport then to hear;
In dreadful silence all was hush'd around,

Light green of grass and richer green of bush
Slope upwards to the darkest green of fir.
How still! How deathly still! And yet the hush
Shivers and trembles with some subtle stir,
Some far-off throbbing like a muffled drum,
Beaten in broken rhythm oversea,
To play the last funereal march of some
Who die to-day that Europe may be free.

The deep-blue heaven, curving from the green,
Spans with its shimmering arch the flowery zone;
In all God's earth there is no gentler scene,
And yet I hear that awesome monotone.

If proud Pygmalion quit his cumbrous frame,
Funereal pomp the scanty tear supplies;
Whilst heralds loud, with venal voice, proclaim,
Lo! here the brave and the puissant lies.

When humbler Alcon leaves his drooping friends,
Pageant nor plume distinguish Alcon's bier;
The faithful Muse with votive song attends,
And blots the mournful numbers with a tear.

He little knew the sly penurious art;
That odious art which Fortune's favourites know;
Form'd to bestow, he felt the warmest heart,