Oh King, soon all thy foes may’st thou repel! And thou, High-Priest, from whose ring, raised to men, Shone the one gleam of Heaven in that Hell, May thy empurpled vestments so avail That from the Cross--not made of Iron then-- A richer Christ glow in thy holy grail. EDMOND ROSTAND _Translated by Walter V. R. Berry_ THE UNDERGRADUATE KILLED IN BATTLE Sweet as the lawn beneath his sandalled tread Or the scarce rippled stream beneath his oar, For its still, channelled current constant more, His life was, and the few blithe words he said. One or two poets read he, and reread; One or two friends in boyish ardour wore Next to his heart, incurious of the lore Dodonian woods might murmur o’er his head. Ah, demons of the whirlwind, have a care What, trumpeting your triumphs, ye undo! The earth once won, begins your long despair That never, never is his bliss for you. He breathed betimes this clement island air And in unwitting lordship saw the blue. GEORGE SANTAYANA _Oxford, August, 1915_ [Illustration: _WALTER GAY_ INTERIOR FROM AN ORIGINAL WATER-COLOUR SKETCH] _EDITH M. THOMAS_ THE CHILDREN AND THE FLAG _The little children in my country kiss the American flag._ MADAME VANDERVELDE What of those children over the sea That are beating about the world’s rough ways, Like the tender blossoms from off a tree That a sudden gale in Spring betrays? The children? Oh, let them look for the sign Of a wave-borne flag, thou land of mine! On the old gray sea its course it holds, Life for the famished is in its gift.... And the children are crowding to kiss its folds, While the tears of their mothers fall free and swift.-- And what of the flag their lips have pressed? Oh, guard it for ever--That flag is blest. EDITH M. THOMAS THE TROUBLER OF TELARO 1 Warm vines bloom now along thy rampart steeps Thy shelves of olives, undercliffs of azure, And like a lizard of the red rock sleeps The wrinkled Tuscan sea, panting for pleasure. Nets, too, festooned about thine elfin port, Telaro, in the Etrurian mountain’s side, Heavings of golden luggers scarce distort The image of thy belfry where they ride. But thee, Telaro, on a night long gone That grey and holy tower upon the mole Suddenly summoned, while yet lightnings shone And hard gale lingered, with a ceaseless toll That choked, with its disastrous monotone, All the narrow channels of the hamlet’s soul. 2