at her gates.

  Southward a hundred windy leagues, through
      storms that blind and bar,
  Our cheated cruisers search the waves, our captains
      seek the war;
  But here the port of peril is; the foeman's
      dreadnoughts ride
  Sullen and black against the moon, upon a sullen
      tide.
  And only we to launch ourselves against their
      stark advance—
  To guide uncertain lightnings through these
      treacherous seas of chance!

. . . . . .

  And now a wheeling searchlight paints a signal on
      the night;
  And now the bellowing guns are loud with the
      wild lust of fight.

. . . . . .

  And now, her flanks of steel apulse with all the
      power of hell,
  Forth from the darkness leaps in pride a hateful
      miracle,
  The flagship of their Admiral—and now God help
      and save!—
  We challenge Death at Death's own game; we
      sink beneath the wave!

. . . . . .

  Ah, steady now—and one good blow—one straight
      stab through the gloom—
  Ah, good!—the thrust went home!—she founders—
      flounders to her doom!—
  Full speed ahead!—those damned quick-firing guns
      —but let them bark—
  What's that—the dynamos?—they've got us, men!
      —Christ! in the dark!

NICHOLAS OF MONTENEGRO

(1912)

  HE speaks as straight as his rifles shot,
    As straight as a thrusting blade,
  Waiting the deed that shall trouble the truce
    His savage guns have made.

  "You have dared the wrath of a dozen states,"
    Was the challenge that he heard;
  "We can die but once!" said the grim old King
    As he gripped his mountain sword.

  "For I paid in blood for the town I took,
    The blood of my brave men slain,—
  And if you covet the town I took
    You must buy it with blood again!"

  Stern old King of the stark, black hills,
    Where the lean, fierce eagles breed,
  Your speech rings true as your good sword rings—
    And you are a king indeed!

DICKENS

"The only book that the party had was a volume of Dickens. During the six months that they lay in the cave which they had hacked in the ice, waiting for spring to come, they read this volume through again and again."—From a newspaper report of an antarctic expedition.

  HUDDLED within their savage lair
    They hearkened to the prowling wind;
  They heard the loud wings of despair …
    And madness beat against the mind….
  A sunless world stretched stark outside
  As if it had cursed God and died;
  Dumb plains lay prone beneath the weight
  Of cold unutterably great;
    Iron ice bound all the bitter seas,
  The brutal hills were bleak as hate….
    Here none but Death might walk at ease!

  Then Dickens spoke, and, lo! the vast
    Unpeopled void stirred into life;

  The dead world quickened, the mad blast
    Hushed for an hour its idiot strife
  With nothingness….

                         And from the gloom,
    Parting the flaps of frozen skin,
    Old friends and dear came trooping in,
  And light and laughter filled the room….
  Voices and faces, shapes beloved,
    Babbling lips and kindly eyes,
  Not ghosts, but friends that lived and moved …
    They brought the sun from other skies,
  They wrought the magic that dispels
    The bitterer part of loneliness …
  And when they vanished each man dreamed
    His dream there in the wilderness….
  One heard the chime of Christmas bells,
  And, staring down a country lane,
  Saw bright against the window-pane
  The firelight beckon warm and red….
  And one turned from the waterside
  Where Thames rolls down his slothful tide
  To breast the human sea that beats
  Through roaring London's battered streets

  And revel in the moods of men….
    And one saw all the April hills
    Made glad with golden daffodils,
  And found and kissed his love again….

. . . . . .

  By all the troubled hearts he cheers
    In homely ways or by lost trails,
  By all light shed through all dark years
    When hope grows sick and courage quails,
  We hail him first among his peers;
    Whether we sorrow, sing, or feast,
  He, too, hath known and understood—
    Master of many moods, high priest
  Of mirth and lord of cleansing tears!

A POLITICIAN

  LEADER no more, be judged of us!
    Hailed Chief, and loved, of yore—
  Youth, and the faith of youth, cry out:
    Leader and Chief no more!

  We dreamed a Prophet, flushed with faith,
    Content to toil in pain
  If that his sacrifice might be,
    Somehow, his people's gain.

  We saw a vision, and our blood
    Beat red and hot and strong:
  "Lead us (we cried) to war against
    Some foul, embattled wrong!"

  We dreamed a Warrior whose sword
    Was edged for sham and shame;
  We dreamed a Statesman far above
    The vulgar lust for fame.

  We were not cynics, and we dreamed
    A Man who made no truce
  With lies nor ancient privilege
    Nor old, entrenched abuse.

  We dreamed … we dreamed … Youth dreamed
        a dream!
    And even you forgot
  Yourself, one moment, and dreamed, too—
    Struck, while your mood was hot!

  Struck three or four good blows … and then
    Turned back to easier things:
  The cheap applause, the blatant mob,
    The praise of underlings!

  Praise … praise … was ever man so filled,
    So avid still, of praise?
  So hungry for the crowd's acclaim,
    The sycophantic phrase?

  O you whom Greatness beckoned to …
    O swollen Littleness
  Who turned from Immortality
    To fawn upon Success!

  O blind with love of self, who led
    Youth's vision to defeat,
  Bawling and brawling for rewards,
    Loud, in the common street!

  O you who were so quick to judge—
    Leader, and loved, of yore—
  Hear now the judgment of our youth:
    Leader and Chief no more!

THE BAYONET

(1914)

  THE great guns slay from a league