I go wherever men may dare, I go wherever woman's care And love can live, Wherever strength and skill can bring Surcease to human suffering, Or solace give. JOHN FINLEY And yonder where the battle's waves Broke yesterday o'erhead, Where now the swift and shallow graves Cover our English dead, Think how your sisters play their part, Who serve as in a holy shrine, Tender of hand and brave of heart, Under the Red Cross sign. SIR OWEN SEAMAN EDITH CAVELL (_October 12, 1915_) Dead? Who? Not you--for whom the assassin's hand But opened wide the door to larger life And Immortality! You are not dead!-- You live forever in our hearts and minds, A perfect woman, brave, and sweet, and true, Passed, in the gracious fulness of your time, To nobler work for Him you served so well. And you still work among us as before,-- And more.-- No sister-nurse in all the world to-day But bears upon her heart and face The impress of your soul's high martyrdom; And we pay each the homage due to you. All nursing-hands are gentler still--for you! All nursing-feet are swifter still--for you! All nursing-hearts are braver still--for you! And all our souls more loftily attuned By our sweet memory of you. But dead--ay, dead, in grimmest truth, The soul of that poor land That gave you victim to its savage spleen. Dead to all sense of right,-- Dead to all sense of shame,-- Dead to mere decency,-- And dead--dead--dead to God And His Fair Christ. The pity!--oh, the pity!--that a land Which once bore men Should fall so low! _Punishment?_ What punishment could fit so foul a crime? No punishment devisable of man were adequate. As thou forgavest, we can do no less. God saw it all. In His just balances it lies, The crowning weight of their vast infamies. In His own time, in His own way, For this--and all--we wait His Reckoning-Day. JOHN OXENHAM _By permission of the Author_ THE SOLDIER If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam; A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.