For ever there comes the moment When destiny bids “choose.” By the edge of the sword men perish, By selfishness all they lose. So Belgium stands transfigured As the one who did not refuse. ROBERT GRANT CRY OF THE HOMELESS Instigator of the ruin-- Whichsoever thou mayst be Of the mastering minds of Europe That contrived our misery-- Hear the wormwood-worded greeting From each city, shore, and lea Of thy victims: “Enemy, all hail to thee!” Yea: “All hail!” we grimly shout thee That wast author, fount, and head Of these wounds, whoever proven When our times are throughly read. “May thy dearest ones be blighted And forsaken,” be it said By thy victims, “And thy children beg their bread!” Nay: too much the malediction.-- Rather let this thing befall In the unfurling of the future, On the night when comes thy call: That compassion dew thy pillow And absorb thy senses all For thy victims, Till death dark thee with his pall. THOMAS HARDY _August, 1915_ [Illustration: _JACQUES-ÉMILE BLANCHE_ PORTRAIT OF THOMAS HARDY FROM A PHOTOGRAPH OF THE ORIGINAL PAINTING] THE LITTLE CHILDREN “Suffer little children to come unto me,” Christ said, and answering with infernal glee, “Take them!” the arch-fiend scoffed, and from the tottering walls Of their wrecked homes, and from the cattle’s stalls, And the dogs’ kennels, and the cold Of the waste fields, and from the hapless hold Of their dead mothers’ arms, famished and bare, And maimed by shot and shell, The master-spirit of hell Caught them up, and through the shuddering air Of the hope-forsaken world The little ones he hurled, Mocking that Pity in his pitiless might-- The Anti-Christ of Schrecklickeit. W. D. HOWELLS ÉPITAPHE Ci-gît un tel, mort pour la France et qui, vivant, Poussait sa voiturette à travers les villages Pour vendre un peu de fil, de sel ou de fromage, Sous les portails d’azur aux feuillages mouvants. Il a gagné son pain comme au Commandement Que donne aux hommes Dieu dans le beau Livre sage. Puis, un jour, sur sa tête a crevé le nuage Que lance l’orageux canon de l’Allemand. Ce héros, dans l’éclair qui délivra son âme, Aura vu tout en noir ses enfants et sa femme Contemplants anxieux son pauvre gagne-pain: Ce chariot plus beau que n’est celui de l’Ourse Et qu’il a fait rouler pendant la dure course Qui sur terre commence un céleste destin. FRANCIS JAMMES _Orthez, 29 Juillet 1915_ AN EPITAPH [TRANSLATION]