Bright is the path, that is opening before us, Upward and onward it mounts through the night; Sword shall not sever the bonds that unite us Leading the world to the fullness of light. Sorrow hath made thee more beautiful, Sister, Nobler and purer than ever before; We who are chastened by sorrow and anguish Hail thee as sister and queen evermore. _Frederick George Scott_ _QUI VIVE?_ _Qui vive?_ Who passes by up there? Who moves--what stirs in the startled air? What whispers, thrills, exults up there? _Qui vive?_ "The Flags of France." What wind on a windless night is this, That breathes as light as a lover's kiss, That blows through the night with bugle notes, That streams like a pennant from a lance, That rustles, that floats? "The Flags of France." What richly moves, what lightly stirs, Like a noble lady in a dance, When all men's eyes are in love with hers And needs must follow? "The Flags of France." What calls to the heart--and the heart has heard, Speaks, and the soul has obeyed the word, Summons, and all the years advance, And the world goes forward with France--with France? Who called? "The Flags of France." What flies--a glory, through the night, While the legions stream--a line of light, And men fall to the left and fall to the right, But _they_ fall not? "The Flags of France." _Qui vive?_ Who comes? What approaches there? What soundless tumult, what breath in the air Takes the breath in the throat, the blood from the heart? In a flame of dark, to the unheard beat Of an unseen drum and fleshless feet, Without glint of barrel or bayonets' glance, They approach--they come. _Who_ comes? (Hush! Hark!) _"Qui vive?"_ "The Flags of France." Uncover the head and kneel--kneel down, A monarch passes, without a crown, Let the proud tears fall but the heart beat high: The Greatest of All is passing by, On its endless march in the endless Plan: "_Qui vive?_" "The Spirit of Man." "O Spirit of Man, pass on! Advance!" And they who lead, who hold the van? Kneel down! The Flags of France. _Grace Ellery Channing_ _Paris, 1917_ TO THE BELGIANS O Race that Caesar knew, That won stern Roman praise, What land not envies you The laurel of these days? You built your cities rich Around each towered hall,-- Without, the statued niche, Within, the pictured wall. Your ship-thronged wharves; your marts With gorgeous Venice vied. Peace and her famous arts Were yours: though tide on tide Of Europe's battle scourged Black field and reddened soil, From blood and smoke emerged Peace and her fruitful toil. Yet when the challenge rang, "The War-Lord comes; give room!" Fearless to arms you sprang Against the odds of doom. Like your own Damien Who sought that leper's isle To die a simple man For men with tranquil smile, So strong in faith you dared Defy the giant, scorn Ignobly to be spared, Though trampled, spoiled, and torn,