Oh, our Rheims, our Rheims is down, Naught is left of her renown.

Hist! what sound is in the breeze Like the sighing of forest trees?

Or the great wind, or an army, Or the waves of the wild sea?

The tall knight rides fierce and fast To the sound of a trumpet-blast.

The little knight in fire and flame, Slender and soft as a dame,

Rides and is not far behind: His long hair floats on the wind,

And ever the tramp of chivalry Comes like the sound of the sea.

This is Michael rides abroad, Prince of the army of G.o.d,

And this like a lily arrayed Is Joan, the blessed Maid.

Rheims is down in fire and smoke And the hour of G.o.d's at the stroke.

THE WHITE COMRADE: ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER

Under our curtain of fire, Over the clotted clods, We charged, to be withered, to reel And despairingly wheel When the signal bade us retire From the terrible odds.

As we ebbed with the battle-tide, Fingers of red-hot steel Suddenly closed on my side.

I fell, and began to pray.

I crawled on my hands and lay Where a shallow crater yawned wide; Then,--I swooned....

When I woke, it was yet day.

Fierce was the pain of my wound, But I saw it was death to stir, For fifty paces away Their trenches were.

In torture I prayed for the dark And the stealthy step of my friend Who, stanch to the very end, Would creep to the danger zone And offer his life as a mark To save my own.

Night fell. I heard his tread, Not stealthy, but firm and serene, As if my comrade's head Were lifted far from that scene Of pa.s.sion and pain and dread; As if my comrade's heart In carnage took no part; As if my comrade's feet Were set on some radiant street Such as no darkness might haunt; As if my comrade's eyes No deluge of flame could surprise, No death and destruction daunt, No red-beaked bird dismay, Nor sight of decay.

Then in the bursting sh.e.l.ls' dim light I saw he was clad in white.

For a moment I thought that I saw the smock Of a shepherd in search of his flock.

Alert were the enemy, too, And their bullets flew Straight at a mark no bullet could fail; For the seeker was tall and his robe was bright; But he did not flee nor quail.

Instead, with unhurrying stride He came, And gathering my tall frame, Like a child, in his arms....

Again I slept, And awoke From a blissful dream In a cave by a stream.

My silent comrade had bound my side.

No pain now was mine, but a wish that I spoke,-- A mastering wish to serve this man Who had ventured through h.e.l.l my doom to revoke, As only the truest of comrades can.

I begged him to tell me how best I might aid him, And urgently prayed him Never to leave me, whatever betide;-- When I saw he was hurt-- Shot through the hands that were clasped in prayer!

Then as the dark drops gathered there And fell in the dirt, The wounds of my friend Seemed to me such as no man might bear.

Those bullet-holes in the patient hands Seemed to transcend All horrors that ever these war-drenched lands Had known or would know till the mad world's end.

Then suddenly I was aware That his feet had been wounded too; And, dimming the white of his side, A dull stain grew.

"You are hurt, White Comrade!" I cried.

His words I already foreknew: "_These are old wounds_," said he, "_But of late they have troubled me._"

GHOSTS OF THE ARGONNE: GRANTLAND RICE

You can hear them at night when the moon is hidden; They sound like the rustle of winter leaves, Or lone lost winds that arise, unbidden, Or rain that drips from the forest eaves, As they glide again from their silent crosses To meet and talk of their final fight, Where over the group some stark tree tosses Its eerie shadow across the night.

If you'll take some night with its moonless weather, I know you will reason beyond a doubt That the rain and the wind and the leaves together Are making the sounds you will hear about: The wintry rustle of dead leaves falling, The whispering wind through the matted glen; But I can swear it's a sergeant calling The ghostly roll of his squad again.

They talk of war and its crimson glory, And laugh at the trick which Fate has played; And over and over they tell the story Of their final charge through the Argonne glade; But gathering in by hill and hollow With their ghostly tramp on the rain-soaked loam, There is one set rule which the clan must follow: They never speak of returning home.

They whisper still of the rifles' clatter, The riveting racket machine guns gave, Until dawn comes and the clan must scatter As each one glides to his waiting grave; But here at the end of their last endeavor However their stark dreams leap the foam There is one set rule they will keep forever: "Death to the Phantom who speaks of home!"

NOVEMBER ELEVENTH: RUTH COMFORT MITCh.e.l.l

It was three slim young wraiths that met in the heart of a great play-ground, And two of them watched the shining sports in the fields that ringed them round, But one of them bent an earthward ear to follow a far-off sound.

"Listen," he cried, "they _know_, down there! Oh! don't you hear the bells?"

"Not I," said one, with a wise young smile, "I used to hear the sh.e.l.ls.

Not now; oh, not for ages now! I came from the Dardanelles."

"I from the Marne," the third one sighed, "but these are only names.

Eh bien, mon vieux, one must forget those little strifes and fames!

Here is a host of Golden Lads, that play at golden games."

But the new boy ran to the turf's green rim and bent with an anxious frown,-- "It's the curfew bell! I hear them cheer! It's my little own home town!

I hear my dad! I can almost _see_--" and his eager gaze plunged down.

"Soon, mon ami," soothed the dark-eyed wraith, "these teasing dreams will cease!

One plays all day, one leaps the stars, one seeks the Golden Fleece!"

Still the new boy turned his white young face from the Land of the Great Release.-- "_But I was killed two hours ago, while they signed the terms of peace._"

SEA GHOSTS

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN: CHARLES G.o.dFREY LELAND

We met the _Flying Dutchman_, By midnight he came, His hull was all of h.e.l.l fire, His sails were all aflame; Fire on the main-top, Fire on the bow, Fire on the gun-deck, Fire down below.

Four-and-twenty dead men, Those were the crew, The devil on the bowsprit, Fiddled as she flew, We gave her the broadside, Right in the dip, Just like a candle, Went out the ship.

THE PHANTOM SHIP: HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

In Mather's Magnalia Christi, Of the old colonial time, May be found in prose the legend That is here set down in rhyme.

A ship sailed from New Haven, And the keen and the frosty airs, That filled her sails at parting, Were heavy with good men's prayers.