There is a hill in Flanders, Heaped with a thousand slain, Where the shells fly night and noontide And the ghosts that died in vain,-- A little hill, a hard hill To the souls that died in pain. There is a hill in Jewry, Three crosses pierce the sky, On the midmost He is dying To save all those who die,-- A little hill, a kind hill To souls in jeopardy. _Everard Owen_ _Harrow, December, 1915_ THE RETURN I heard the rumbling guns. I saw the smoke, The unintelligible shock of hosts that still, Far off, unseeing, strove and strove again; And Beauty flying naked down the hill From morn to eve: and the stern night cried Peace! And shut the strife in darkness: all was still, Then slowly crept a triumph on the dark-- And I heard Beauty singing up the hill. _John Freeman_ THE MOBILIZATION IN BRITTANY I It was silent in the street. I did not know until a woman told me, Sobbing over the muslin she sold me. Then I went out and walked to the square And saw a few dazed people standing there. And then the drums beat, the drums beat! O then the drums beat! And hurrying, stumbling through the street Came the hurrying stumbling feet. O I have heard the drums beat For war! I have heard the townsfolk come, I have heard the roll and thunder of the nearest drum As the drummer stopped and cried, "Hear! Be strong! The summons comes! Prepare!" Closing he prayed us to be calm.... And there was calm in my heart of the desert, of the dead sea, Of vast plains of the West before the coming storm, And there was calm in their eyes like the last calm that shall be. And then the drum beat, The fatal drum, beat, And the drummer marched through the street And down to another square, And the drummer above took up the beat And sent it onward where Huddled, we stood and heard the drums roll, And then a bell began to toll. O I have heard the thunder of drums Crashing into simple poor homes. I have heard the drums roll "Farewell!" I have heard the tolling cathedral bell. Will it ever peal again? Shall I ever smile or feel again? What was joy? What was pain? For I have heard the drums beat, I have seen the drummer striding from street to street, Crying, "Be strong! Hear what I must tell!" While the drums roared and rolled and beat For war! II Last night the men of this region were leaving. Now they are far. Rough and strong they are, proud and gay they are. So this is the way of war.... The train was full and we all shouted as it pulled away. They sang an old war-song, they were true to themselves, they were gay! We might have thought they were going for a holiday-- Except for something in the air, Except for the weeping of the ruddy old women of Finistère. The younger women do not weep. They dream and stare. They seem to be walking in dreams. They seem not to know It is their homes, their happiness, vanishing so. (Every strong man between twenty and forty must go.)