earth’s nether bord
   Under Capricorn, whither they’d warred,
And I neared in my awe, and gave heedfulness to them
      With breathings inheld.

VI

   Then, it seemed, there approached from the northward
      A senior soul-flame
      Of the like filmy hue:
   And he met them and spake: “Is it you,
O my men?”  Said they, “Aye!  We bear homeward and hearthward
      To list to our fame!”

VII

   “I’ve flown there before you,” he said then:
      “Your households are well;
      But—your kin linger less
   On your glory arid war-mightiness
Than on dearer things.”—“Dearer?” cried these from the dead then,
      “Of what do they tell?”

VIII

   “Some mothers muse sadly, and murmur
      Your doings as boys—
      Recall the quaint ways
   Of your babyhood’s innocent days.
Some pray that, ere dying, your faith had grown firmer,
      And higher your joys.

IX

   “A father broods: ‘Would I had set him
      To some humble trade,
      And so slacked his high fire,
   And his passionate martial desire;
Had told him no stories to woo him and whet him
      To this due crusade!”

X

   “And, General, how hold out our sweethearts,
      Sworn loyal as doves?”
      —“Many mourn; many think
   It is not unattractive to prink
Them in sables for heroes.   Some fickle and fleet hearts
      Have found them new loves.”

XI

   “And our wives?” quoth another resignedly,
      “Dwell they on our deeds?”
      —“Deeds of home; that live yet
   Fresh as new—deeds of fondness or fret;
Ancient words that were kindly expressed or unkindly,
      These, these have their heeds.”

XII

   —“Alas! then it seems that our glory
      Weighs less in their thought
      Than our old homely acts,
   And the long-ago commonplace facts
Of our lives—held by us as scarce part of our story,
      And rated as nought!”

XIII

   Then bitterly some: “Was it wise now
      To raise the tomb-door
      For such knowledge?  Away!”
   But the rest: “Fame we prized till to-day;
Yet that hearts keep us green for old kindness we prize now
      A thousand times more!”

XIV

   Thus speaking, the trooped apparitions
      Began to disband
      And resolve them in two:
   Those whose record was lovely and true
Bore to northward for home: those of bitter traditions
      Again left the land,

XV

   And, towering to seaward in legions,
      They paused at a spot
      Overbending the Race—
   That engulphing, ghast, sinister place—
Whither headlong they plunged, to the fathomless regions
      Of myriads forgot.

XVI

   And the spirits of those who were homing
      Passed on, rushingly,
      Like the Pentecost Wind;
   And the whirr of their wayfaring thinned
And surceased on the sky, and but left in the gloaming
      Sea-mutterings and me.

December 1899.

SONG OF THE SOLDIERS’ WIVES

I

At last!  In sight of home again,
      Of home again;
No more to range and roam again
   As at that bygone time?
No more to go away from us
      And stay from us?—
Dawn, hold not long the day from us,
   But quicken it to prime!

II

Now all the town shall ring to them,
      Shall ring to them,
And we who love them cling to them
   And clasp them joyfully;
And cry, “O much we’ll do for you
      Anew for you,
Dear Loves!—aye, draw and hew for you,
   Come back from oversea.”

III

Some told us we should meet no more,
      Should meet no more;
Should wait, and wish, but greet no more
   Your faces round our fires;
That, in a while, uncharily
      And drearily
Men gave their lives—even wearily,
   Like those whom living tires.

IV

And now you are nearing home again,
      Dears, home again;
No more, may be, to roam again
   As at that bygone time,
Which took you far away from us
      To stay from us;
Dawn, hold not long the day from us,
   But quicken it to prime!

THE SICK GOD

I

   In days when men had joy of war,
A God of Battles sped each mortal jar;
   The peoples pledged him heart and hand,
   From Israel’s land to isles afar.

II

   His crimson form, with clang and chime,
Flashed on each murk and murderous meeting-time,
   And kings invoked, for rape and raid,
   His fearsome aid in rune and rhyme.

III

   On bruise and blood-hole, scar and seam,
On blade and bolt, he flung his fulgid beam:
   His haloes rayed the very gore,
   And corpses wore his glory-gleam.

IV

   Often an early King or Queen,
And storied hero onward, knew his sheen;
   ’Twas glimpsed by Wolfe, by Ney anon,
   And Nelson on his blue demesne.

V

   But new light spread.  That god’s gold nimb
And blazon have waned dimmer and more dim;
   Even his flushed form begins to fade,
   Till but a shade is left of him.

VI

   That modern meditation broke
His spell, that penmen’s pleadings dealt a stroke,
   Say some; and some that crimes too dire
   Did much to mire his crimson cloak.

VII

   Yea, seeds of crescive sympathy
Were sown by those more excellent than he,
   Long known, though long contemned till then—
   The gods of men in amity.

VIII

   Souls have grown seers, and thought out-brings
The mournful many-sidedness of things
   With foes as friends, enfeebling ires
   And fury-fires by gaingivings!

IX

   He scarce impassions champions now;
They do and dare, but tensely—pale of brow;