They are forming--the bugles are blaring--they will cross in a moment and then.... When out of the line of the Royals (your island, _mon ami_, breeds men) Burst a private, a tawny-haired giant--it was hopeless, but, _ciel!_ how he ran! _Bon Dieu_ please remember the pattern, and make many more on his plan! No cheers from our ranks, and the Germans, they halted in wonderment too; See, he reaches the bridge; ah! he lights it! I am dreaming, it _cannot_ be true. Screams of rage! _Fusillade!_ They have killed him! Too late though, the good work is done. By the valor of twelve English martyrs, the Hell-Gate of Soissons is won! _Herbert Kaufman_ THE VIRGIN OF ALBERT (NOTRE DAME DE BREBIÈRES) Shyly expectant, gazing up at Her, They linger, Gaul and Briton, side by side: Death they know well, for daily have they died, Spending their boyhood ever bravelier; They wait: here is no priest or chorister, Birds skirt the stricken tower, terrified; Desolate, empty, is the Eastertide, Yet still they wait, watching the Babe and Her. Broken, the Mother stoops: the brutish foe Hurled with dull hate his bolts, and down She swayed, Down, till She saw the toiling swarms below,-- Platoons, guns, transports, endlessly arrayed: "Women are woe for them! let Me be theirs, And comfort them, and hearken all their prayers!" _George Herbert Clarke_ RETREAT Broken, bewildered by the long retreat Across the stifling leagues of southern plain, Across the scorching leagues of trampled grain, Half-stunned, half-blinded, by the trudge of feet And dusty smother of the August heat, He dreamt of flowers in an English lane, Of hedgerow flowers glistening after rain-- All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet. All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet-- The innocent names kept up a cool refrain-- All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet, Chiming and tinkling in his aching brain, Until he babbled like a child again-- "All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet." _Wilfrid Wilson Gibson_ A LETTER FROM THE FRONT I was out early to-day, spying about From the top of a haystack--such a lovely morning-- And when I mounted again to canter back I saw across a field in the broad sunlight A young Gunner Subaltern, stalking along With a rook-rifle held at the ready, and--would you believe it?-- A domestic cat, soberly marching beside him.