They have encompassed him with steel, They spit upon his gentle face, He smiles and bleeds, nor will reveal The Church’s hidden treasure-place. Ah, faithful steward, worthy knight, Well hast thou done. Behold thy fee! Since thou hast fought the goodly fight A martyr’s death is fixed for thee. St. Laurence, pray for us to bear The faith which glorifies thy name. St. Laurence, pray for us to share The wounds of Love’s consuming flame. TO A YOUNG POET WHO KILLED HIMSELF When you had played with life a space And made it drink and lust and sing, You flung it back into God’s face And thought you did a noble thing. “Lo, I have lived and loved,” you said, “And sung to fools too dull to hear me. Now for a cool and grassy bed With violets in blossom near me.” Well, rest is good for weary feet, Although they ran for no great prize; And violets are very sweet, Although their roots are in your eyes. But hark to what the earthworms say Who share with you your muddy haven: “The fight was on--you ran away. You are a coward and a craven. “The rug is ruined where you bled; It was a dirty way to die! To put a bullet through your head And make a silly woman cry! You could not vex the merry stars Nor make them heed you, dead or living. Not all your puny anger mars God’s irresistible forgiving. “Yes, God forgives and men forget, And you’re forgiven and forgotten. You might be gaily sinning yet And quick and fresh instead of rotten. And when you think of love and fame And all that might have come to pass, Then don’t you feel a little shame? And don’t you think you were an ass?” MEMORIAL DAY “Dulce et decorum est” The bugle echoes shrill and sweet, But not of war it sings to-day. The road is rhythmic with the feet Of men-at-arms who come to pray. The roses blossom white and red On tombs where weary soldiers lie; Flags wave above the honoured dead And martial music cleaves the sky. Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel, They kept the faith and fought the fight. Through flying lead and crimson steel They plunged for Freedom and the Right. May we, their grateful children, learn Their strength, who lie beneath this sod, Who went through fire and death to earn At last the accolade of God. In shining rank on rank arrayed They march, the legions of the Lord; He is their Captain unafraid, The Prince of Peace ... Who brought a sword. THE ROSARY Not on the lute, or harp of many strings Shall all men praise the Master of all song. Our life is brief, one saith, and art is long; And skilled must be the laureates of kings. Silent, O lips that utter foolish things! Rest, awkward fingers striking all notes wrong! How from your toil shall issue, white and strong, Music like that God’s chosen poet sings?