_What trouble?_ Every trouble,--everywhere, Every wildest kind of nightmare That has ridden you is there, In the air.

And it's coming like a whirlwind, Like a wild beast mad with hunger, To rend and wrench and tear,-- To tear the world in pieces maybe, Unless it gets its share.

Can't you see the signs and portents?

Can't you feel them in the air?

Can't you see,--you unbeliever?

Can't you see?--or don't you care,-- That the Past is gone for ever, Past your uttermost endeavour,-- That To-day is on the sc.r.a.p-heap, And the Future--anywhere?

_Where?_ Ah--that's beyond me!-- But it lies with those who dare To think of big To-morrows, And intend to have their share.

All the things you've held and trusted Are played-out, decayed, and rusted; Now, in fiery circ.u.mstance, They will all be readjusted.

If you cling to those old things, Hoping still to hold the strings, And, for your unG.o.dly gains, Life to bind with golden chains;-- Man! you're mightily mistaken!

From such dreams you'd best awaken To the sense of what is coming, When you hear the low, dull booming Of the far-off tocsin drums.

--Such a day of vast upsettings, Dire outcastings and downsettings!-- You have held the reins too long,-- Have you time to heal the wrong?

_What's wrong? What's amiss?_ Man alive! If you don't know that-- There's nothing more to be said!

--You ask what's amiss when your destinies Hang by a thread in the great abyss?

_What's amiss? What's amiss?_-- Well, my friend, just this,-- There's a bill to pay and it's due to-day, And before it's paid you may all be dead.

Wake up! Wake up!--or, all too late, You will find yourselves exterminate.

_What's wrong?_ Listen here!-- Do you catch a sound like drumming?-- Far-away and distant drumming?

You hear it? What?

_The wires humming?_ No, my friend, it is _not_!

It's the tune the prentice-hands are thrumming,-- The tune of the dire red time that's coming,-- The far-away, pregnant, ghostly booming Of the great red drums' dread drumming.

For they're coming, coming, coming,-- With their dread and doomful drumming, Unless you...

Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r--click--clack!

THE STARS' ACCUSAL

_How can the makers of unrighteous wars Stand the accusal of the watchful stars?_

To stand-- A dust-speck, facing the infinitudes Of Thine unfathomable dome, a night like this,-- To stand full-face to Thy High Majesties, Thy myriad worlds in solemn watchfulness,-- _Watching, watching, watching all below, And man in all his wilfulness for woe!_ --Dear Lord, one wonders that Thou bearest still With man on whom Thou didst such grace bestow, And with his wilful faculty for woe!

Those sleepless sentinels! They may be worlds All peopled like our own. But, as I stand, They are to me the myriad eyes of G.o.d,-- _Watching, watching, watching all below, And man in all his wilfulness for woe._ And then--to think What those same piercing eyes look down upon Elsewhere on this fair earth that Thou hast made!-- _Watching, watching, watching all below, And man in all his wilfulness for woe._

--On all the desolations he hath wrought, --On all the pa.s.sioned hatreds he hath taught, --On all Thy great hopes he hath brought to nought;-- --Man rending man with ruthless bitterness, --Blasting Thine image into nothingness, --Hounding Thy innocents to awful deaths, And worse than deaths! Happy the dead, who sped Before the torturers their l.u.s.t had fed!

--On Thy Christ crucified afresh each day, --On all the horrors of War's grim red way.

And ever, in Thy solemn midnight skies, Those myriad, sleepless, vast accusing eyes,-- _Watching, watching, watching all below, And man in all his wilfulness for woe._

Dear Lord!-- When in our troubled hearts we ponder this, We can but wonder at Thy wrath delayed,-- We can but wonder that Thy hand is stayed,-- We can but wonder at Thy sufferance Of man, whom Thou in Thine own image made, When he that image doth so sore degrade!

If Thou shouldst blot us out without a word, Our stricken souls must say we had incurred Just punishment.

Warnings we lacked not, warnings oft and clear, But in our arrogance we gave no ear To Thine admonishment.

And yet,--and yet! O Lord, we humbly pray,-- Put back again Thy righteous Judgment Day!

Have patience with us yet a while, until Through these our sufferings we learn Thy Will.

NO PEACE BUT A RIGHT PEACE

An inconclusive peace!-- A peace that would be no peace-- Naught but a treacherous truce for breeding Of a later, greater, baser-still betrayal!-- "No!" ...

The spirits of our myriad valiant dead, Who died to make peace sure and life secure, Thunder one mighty cry of righteous indignation,-- One vast imperative, unanswerable "No!" ...

"Not for that, not for that, did we die!"-- They cry;-- "--To give fresh life to G.o.dless knavery!

--To forge again the chains of slavery Such as humanity has never known!

We gave our lives to set Life free, Loyally, willingly gave we, Lest on our children, and on theirs, Should come like misery.

And now, from our souls' heights and depths, We cry to you,--"Beware, Lest you defraud us of one smallest atom of the price Of this our sacrifice!

One fraction less than that full liberty, Which comes of righteous and enduring peace, Will be betrayal of your trust,-- Betrayal of your race, the world, and G.o.d."

IN CHURCH. 1916

Where are all the _young_ men?

There are only grey-heads here.

What has become of the _young_ men?

This is the young men's year!

They are gone, one and all, at duty's call, To the camp, to the trench, to the sea.

They have left their homes, they have left their all, And now, in ways heroical,-- _They are making history._ From bank and shop, from bench and mill, From the schools, from the tail of the plough, They hurried away at the call of the fray, They could not linger a day, and now,-- _They are making history,_ And we miss them sorely, as we look At the seats where they used to be, And try to picture them as they are,-- Then hastily drop the vail:--for, you see,-- _They are making history._

And history, in these dread days, Is sore sore sad in the making; We are building the future with our dead, We are binding it sure with the brave blood shed, Though our hearts are well-nigh breaking.

We can but pray that the coming day Will reap, of our red sowing, The harvest meet of a world complete With the peace of G.o.d's bestowing.

So, with quiet heart, we do our part In the travail of this mystery, We give of our best, and we leave the rest To Him Who maketh history.

Some Hymns of Thanksgiving, Praise, and Pet.i.tion for use at The Coming Peace which, please G.o.d, cannot now be long delayed.

TE DEUM

We thank Thee, O our G.o.d, for this Long fought-for, hoped-for, prayed-for peace; Thou dost cast down, and Thou upraise, Thy hand doth order all our ways.

Lift all our hearts to n.o.bler life, For ever freed from fear of strife; Let all men everywhere in Thee Possess their souls in liberty.

Safe in Thy Love we leave our dead; Heal all the wounds that war has made.

And help us to uproot each wrong, Which still among us waxeth strong.