Your fist that turned the pinkest rivals pale Alike with sceptre, chisel, pen or palette, And could at any moment, gloved in mail, Smite like a mallet;

Master of all the Arts, and, what was more, Lord of the limelight-blaze that let us know it-- You seemed a gift designed on purpose for The flippant poet.

Time pa.s.sed and put to these old jests an end; Into our open hearts you found admission, Ate of our bread and pledged us like a friend Above suspicion.

You shared our griefs with seeming-gentle eyes; You moved among us, cousinly entreated, Still hiding, under that fair outward guise, A heart that cheated.

And now the mask is down, and forth you stand Known for a King whose word is no great matter, A traitor proved, for every honest hand To strike and shatter.

This was the "Day" foretold by yours and you In whispers here, and there with beery clamours-- You and your rat-hole spies and bl.u.s.tering crew Of loud Potsdamers.

And lo, there dawns another, swift and stern, When on the wheels of wrath, by Justice' token Breaker of G.o.d's own Peace, you shall in turn Yourself be broken.

FOR THE RED CROSS [Sidenote: _Owen Seaman in "Punch"_]

Ye that have gentle hearts and fain To succour men in need, There is no voice could ask in vain With such a cause to plead-- The cause of those that in your care, Who know the debt to honour due, Confide the wounds they proudly wear, The wounds they took for you.

Out of the shock of shattering spears, Of screaming sh.e.l.l and shard, s.n.a.t.c.hed from the smoke that blinds and sears They come with bodies scarred, And count the hours that idly toll, Restless until their hurts be healed, And they may fare, made strong and whole, To face another field.

And yonder where the battle's waves Broke yesterday o'erhead, Where now the swift and shallow graves Cover our English dead, Think how your sisters play their part, Who serve as in a holy shrine, Tender of hand and brave of heart, Under the Red Cross sign.

Ah, by that symbol, worshipped still, Of life-blood sacrificed, That lonely Cross on Calvary's hill Red with the wounds of Christ; By that free gift to none denied, Let Pity pierce you like a sword, And Love go out to open wide The gate of life restored.

The Red Cross Society is in need of help. Gifts should be addressed to Lord Rothschild at Devonshire House, Piccadilly.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: "Dooiney-molla--man-praiser--the friend who backs the suitor."]

[Footnote 2: Certain publishers.]

[Footnote 3: Port of Peace.]

[Footnote 4: Solace.]

[Footnote 5: She was born at Chatham on March 28th, 1774.]

[Footnote 6: Probably he was nearly twenty-four.]

[Footnote 7: Written in 1829.]

[Footnote 8: "The Epicure!" said R.L.S.]

[Footnote 9: A musical festival which took place in Westminster Abbey.]

[Footnote 10: "To pill" was a cant expression used a good deal by "the set," meaning, apparently, to talk, either pompously or trivially.]

[Footnote 11: The cloud-shapes often observed by travellers in the East.]