Others may spurn the pledge of land to land, May with the brute sword stain a gallant past; But by the seal to which _you_ set your hand, Thank God, you still stand fast! Forth, then, to front that peril of the deep With smiling lips and in your eyes the light, Steadfast and confident, of those who keep Their storied 'scutcheon bright. And we, whose burden is to watch and wait,-- High-hearted ever, strong in faith and prayer,-- We ask what offering we may consecrate, What humble service share. To steel our souls against the lust of ease; To bear in silence though our hearts may bleed; To spend ourselves, and never count the cost, For others' greater need;-- To go our quiet ways, subdued and sane; To hush all vulgar clamour of the street; With level calm to face alike the strain Of triumph or defeat; This be our part, for so we serve you best, So best confirm their prowess and their pride, Your warrior sons, to whom in this high test Our fortunes we confide. _Owen Seaman_ _August 12, 1914_ LINES WRITTEN IN SURREY, 1917 A sudden swirl of song in the bright sky-- The little lark adoring his lord the sun; Across the corn the lazy ripples run; Under the eaves, conferring drowsily, Doves droop or amble; the agile waterfly Wrinkles the pool; and flowers, gay and dun, Rose, bluebell, rhododendron, one by one, The buccaneering bees prove busily. Ah, who may trace this tranquil loveliness In verse felicitous?--no measure tells; But gazing on her bosom we can guess Why men strike hard for England in red hells, Falling on dreams, 'mid Death's extreme caress, Of English daisies dancing in English dells. _George Herbert Clarke_ FRANCE Because for once the sword broke in her hand, The words she spoke seemed perished for a space; All wrong was brazen, and in every land The tyrants walked abroad with naked face. The waters turned to blood, as rose the Star Of evil Fate denying all release. The rulers smote, the feeble crying "War!" The usurers robbed, the naked crying "Peace!" And her own feet were caught in nets of gold, And her own soul profaned by sects that squirm, And little men climbed her high seats and sold Her honour to the vulture and the worm. And she seemed broken and they thought her dead, The Overmen, so brave against the weak. Has your last word of sophistry been said, O cult of slaves? Then it is hers to speak. Clear the slow mists from her half-darkened eyes, As slow mists parted over Valmy fell, As once again her hands in high surprise Take hold upon the battlements of Hell. _Cecil Chesterton_ THE NAME OF FRANCE