And yet we know their sacrifice, and know they'd gladly share The wounds and pain of those who fight their battles over there. 'Tis theirs to bear the secret care more deadly than the blow, The nameless pain and heavy chains that only women know. They may not with their loved ones march with brave and buoyant tread, They may not close their dying eyes, nor weep above their dead. 'Tis theirs to give and wait and live, 'tis theirs to love and bear The cross for those whose life-blood flows afar in France,--Somewhere. And love is such a wondrous thing that when its sacred flame Burns in a woman's heart, she learns what language may not name. It pales all blooms, it light illumes, the angel's wing outgilds, And makes the sod a court of God, and earth to heaven builds. Touch with such flame the hearts, O God! of waiting women here, And may its light leap o'er the land and gleam in every tear That women shed for lovers dead, by war's unholy hands, And bring surcease of pain, and peace to this and all the lands. LINES TO GREECE Hellas to Eastward flames the war apace, Along the hills of Macedon and Thrace. Time marches onward, hand in hand with Fate. Awake, awake, ere yet it be too late. Hellas, arise; Thou wert not wont to lie Prone, while the conflict light'ned in thy sky. Land of the Muse, if memory thee inspires, Wake, and with freedom strike as did thy sires. The monuments that mount thy marble peaks, Surely from these some voice heroic speaks. Thy place is in the vanguard of the free, And comrade of the Turk thou canst not be. Around thee, Greece, the tide of battle swells From Serbia southward to the Dardanelles. While from the Rhine the Siren thee beguiles, Brooding meanwhile enslavement of thine isles. The Bulgar thunders on thy hilly flanks, The Turk, Hun-bought, arrays his crimsoned ranks, And fresh from slaughter where Armenia cowers, Lifts praise to Allah as on thee he lowers. Joyous the memory of thy ancient power, Golden thy lyrics and thy martial dower, Proud was thy form when Greatness thee attired, When Homer sang and Phidias inspired. Hast thou forgotten one of Saxon strain? Canst thou remember Byron and refrain? His was the voice that waked the God in thee, And his the race that wrought to make thee free. Remember still how wise Ulysses chose, When from the deep the dulcet chant arose, Now be thy soul, O Greece, with wisdom strong! Reject not Orpheus for the Siren's song. Where chooseth Greece, while moves the dark intrigue, Where Progress beckons or where despots league? Each hour supine promotes oppression's goal, Betrays mankind, and tarnishes thy soul. IRELAND Harp of my country, I tune thee with gladness, Now thy wild song all my being o'erfills, Lifting my soul from its memories of sadness, Flooding with joy as it vibrates and thrills.