Hail, banner of our holy faith, Redemption’s sacred sign, Sweet emblem thou of heavenly hope And of all help divine, We bare our heads in reverence As o’er us is unfurled The standard of the Cross of Christ Whose blood redeemed the world. Hail, banner of our native land, Great ensign of the free, We love thy glorious Stars and Stripes, Emblem of liberty; Lift high the cross, unfurl the flag; May they forever stand United in our hearts and hopes, God and our native land. THE ROAD TO FRANCE DANIEL M. HENDERSON Permission to reproduce in this book The 1917 prize of the National Arts Club of New York was awarded to Mr. Henderson’s poem. It was chosen out of more than four thousand that were submitted. Thank God, our liberating lance Goes flaming on the way to France! To France--the trail the Gurkhas found; To France--old England’s rallying-ground! To France--the path the Russians strode! To France--the Anzacs’ glory road! To France--where our Lost Legion ran To fight and die for God and man! To France--with every race and breed That hates Oppression’s brutal creed! Ah, France, how could our hearts forget The path by which came Lafayette? How could the haze of doubt hang low Upon the road of Rochambeau? How was it that we missed the way Brave Joffre leads us along today? At last, thank God! At last, we see There is no tribal Liberty! No beacon lighting just our shores, No Freedom guarding but our doors. The flame she kindled for our sires Burns now in Europe’s battle-fires. The soul that led our fathers west Turns back to free the world’s opprest. Allies, you have not called in vain; We share your conflict and your pain. “Old Glory,” through new stains and rents, Partakes of Freedom’s sacraments. Into that hell his will creates We drive the foe--his lusts, his hates. Last come, we will be last to stay, Till Right has had her crowning day. Replenish, comrades, from our veins The blood the sword of despot drains, And make our eager sacrifice Part of the freely rendered price You pay to lift humanity-- You pay to make our brothers free. See, with what proud hearts we advance To France! NAZARETH “L” IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE On the capture of the city by the British under General Allenby, September 21, 1918. Across the sands by Mary’s well Along the shores of Galilee, The paths are pitted deep with shell And drab with marching infantry. Perhaps upon the self-same spot Where He first lifted up His head, In cellar straw and manger cot, Now Freedom’s hosts are billeted. Then ’twas a life--now myriad death. The Allied troops win Nazareth. THE CRIMSON CROSS ELIZABETH BROWN DU BRIDGE