Rung by them into space at meted times Amid the market’s daily stir and stress, And the night’s empty star-lit silentness, Might solace souls of this and kindred climes. Then I awoke; and lo, before me stood The visioned ones, but pale and full of fear; From Bruges they came, and Antwerp, and Ostend, No carillons in their train. Foes of mad mood Had shattered these to shards amid the gear Of ravaged roof, and smouldering gable-end. _October_ 18, 1914. AN APPEAL TO AMERICA ON BEHALF OF THE BELGIAN DESTITUTE SEVEN millions stand Emaciate, in that ancient Delta-land:— We here, full-charged with our own maimed and dead, And coiled in throbbing conflicts slow and sore, Can poorly soothe these ails unmerited Of souls forlorn upon the facing shore!— Where naked, gaunt, in endless band on band Seven millions stand. No man can say To your great country that, with scant delay, You must, perforce, ease them in their loud need: We know that nearer first your duty lies; But—is it much to ask that you let plead Your lovingkindness with you—wooing-wise— Albeit that aught you owe, and must repay, No man can say? _December_ 1914. THE PITY OF IT I WALKED in loamy Wessex lanes, afar From rail-track and from highway, and I heard In field and farmstead many an ancient word Of local lineage like “Thu bist,” “Er war,” “Ich woll,” “Er sholl,” and by-talk similar, Nigh as they speak who in this month’s moon gird At England’s very loins, thereunto spurred By gangs whose glory threats and slaughters are. Then seemed a Heart crying: “Whosoever they be At root and bottom of this, who flung this flame Between kin folk kin tongued even as are we, “Sinister, ugly, lurid, be their fame; May their familiars grow to shun their name, And their brood perish everlastingly.” _April_ 1915. IN TIME OF WARS AND TUMULTS “WOULD that I’d not drawn breath here!” some one said, “To stalk upon this stage of evil deeds, Where purposelessly month by month proceeds A play so sorely shaped and blood-bespread.” Yet had his spark not quickened, but lain dead To the gross spectacles of this our day, And never put on the proffered cloak of clay, He had but known not things now manifested; Life would have swirled the same. Morns would have dawned On the uprooting by the night-gun’s stroke Of what the yester noonshine brought to flower; Brown martial brows in dying throes have wanned Despite his absence; hearts no fewer been broke By Empery’s insatiate lust of power. 1915. IN TIME OF “THE BREAKING OF NATIONS” {235} I Only a man harrowing clods In a slow silent walk With an old horse that stumbles and nods Half asleep as they stalk. II