they're drunk with the wine of lustful power,
    And seared with the sins of earth;
And their prayers and preachments now mock Thy name,
    And make of Thy laws but mirth.

January 1, 1916.

For Duncan Campbell Scott.

TROUBLE IN THE LOUVRE

When the German troops were marching with the Uhlans far ahead,
The objective point being Paris, as the Berlin wireless said,
There was trouble in the Louvre, 'mong the paintings on the walls,
There were shoutings 'cross the centuries, there were
            loud artistic calls;
"Mona Lisa" ceased her smiling and "The Banker and His Wife"
Turned to Millet's "Women Gleaning"—begged protection
            for their life;
While "The Gypsy Girl" of Franz Hals, fearful of impending fate,
Roused "The Shepherds in Arcadia" with "The Hun is at the Gate!"

Then the panic spread on all sides till the battle of the Marne
Solved all danger of the looting, removed all need to warn;
Straight "The Lace Maker" from Flemish Bruges in the joyous choral led
Smiled at "Charles First of England" who had lost his crown and head;
For fear had left the Louvre when the Teutons turned in flight,
So they scanned the sky no longer for dread Zeppelins in the night.
And the paintings born of centuries touched by genius into life
Still are hanging in the Louvre 'mid war's clash and clang and strife.

For Edgar Guest.

"BOBS" OF KANDAHAR

"The body of 'Bobs' then lay in state until five o'clock, when it was interred in a crypt near-by those containing the bodies of Nelson and Wellington."—Press Despatch.

Who is he that cometh to join our mighty dead?
Is it "Bobs" of Kandahar the Empire's armies led?
Give him place, O Nation great! within your storied walls;
Within our heart his name shall rest, his ashes in St. Paul's.
Soldier of the Empire, Bobs of Kandahar!
Lay him near the hero of glorious Trafalgar!
Death has ta'en the shining sword he aye in duty drew;
Lay him near the Iron Duke of fateful Waterloo!

Soldier of the Empire, well thy work was done,
Fit thy sun had setting within sound and roar of gun;
Thy soul had vision of the years fraught with danger's woe,
And counsell'd arméd wisdom against a subtle foe;
Now thy task has ended, the splendor of thy sun,
Sheds its setting glory on the greater life begun,
From where the Maple stands in pride to India's torrid star,
Now, mourn an Empire's people for "Bobs" of Kandahar!

For Lady Aileen Mary Roberts.

SONG OF THE ZEPPELIN

I cleave the air through the murky night,
    High o'er the forests and sleeping towns;
Below me drifts the shimmering light—
    A glorious fresco on vale and downs;
My sea hath no billows nor rocky shores,
    And only the winds disturb my soul;
I care not for those who slumber in death,
    For my bomb is bloody and death my goal—
            And all for the Vaterland!

Where the currents cross and the cruisers speed
    I sail towards the North in a piteous sky;
I hear the night wind's surging note
    As it mingles its requiem with the widow's cry.
Above me there streams a light from heaven,
    But I bow my head and veil my eyes
As I plough the fields with my fateful keel
    And sow the highways with tears and sighs—
            And all for the