_Ah, France! And did we stand by you, When life was made splendid with gifts and rewards?

Ah, France! And will we deny you In the hour of your agony, Mother of Swords?

Old Days! The wild geese are flighting, Head to the storm as they faced it before!

For where there are Irish there's loving and fighting, And when we stop either, it's Ireland no more!

Ireland no more!_

A NATIVITY

1916

_The Babe was laid in the Manger Between the gentle kine-- All safe from cold and danger--_ 'But it was not so with mine.

(With mine! With mine!) 'Is it well with the child, is it well?'

The waiting mother prayed.

'For I know not how he fell, And I know not where he is laid.'

_A Star stood forth in Heaven, The watchers ran to see The Sign of the Promise given--_ 'But there comes no sign to me.

(To me! To me!) '_My_ child died in the dark.

Is it well with the child, is it well?

There was none to tend him or mark, And I know not how he fell.'

_The Cross was raised on high; The Mother grieved beside--_ 'But the Mother saw Him die And took Him when He died.

(He died! He died!) 'Seemly and undefiled His burial-place was made-- Is it well, is it well with the child?

For I know not where he is laid.'

_On the dawning of Easter Day Comes Mary Magdalene; But the Stone was rolled away, And the Body was not within--_ (Within! Within!) 'Ah, who will answer my word?'

The broken mother prayed.

'They have taken away my Lord, And I know not where He is laid.'

_The Star stands forth in Heaven.

The watchers watch in vain For a Sign of the Promise given Of peace on Earth again--_ (Again! Again!) 'But I know for Whom he fell'-- The steadfast mother smiled 'Is it well with the child--is it well?

It is well--it is well with the child!'

EN-DOR

'Behold there is a woman that hath a familiar spirit at En-dor'

1 _Samuel_ XXVIII 7

The road to En-dor is easy to tread For Mother or yearning Wife.

There, it is sure, we shall meet our Dead As they were even in life.

Earth has not dreamed of the blessing in store For desolate hearts on the road to En-dor.

Whispers shall comfort us out of the dark-- Hands--ah G.o.d!--that we knew!

Visions and voices--look and heark!-- Shall prove that our tale is true, And that those who have pa.s.sed to the further sh.o.r.e May be hailed--at a price--on the road to En-dor.

But they are so deep in their new eclipse Nothing they say can reach, Unless it be uttered by alien lips And framed in a stranger's speech.

The son must send word to the mother that bore, Through an hireling's mouth. 'Tis the rule of En-dor.

And not for nothing these gifts are shown By such as delight our dead.

They must twitch and stiffen and slaver a groan Ere the eyes are set in the head, And the voice from the belly begins. Therefore We pay them a wage where they ply at En-dor.

Even so, we have need of faith And patience to follow the clue.

Often, at first, what the dear one saith Is babble, or jest, or untrue.

(Lying spirits perplex us sore Till our loves--and our lives--are well known at En-dor)....

_Oh the road to En-dor is the oldest road And the craziest road of all!

Straight it runs to the Witch's abode, As it did in the days of Saul, And nothing has changed of the sorrow in store For such as go down on the road to En-dor!_

A RECANTATION

(TO LYDE OF THE MUSIC HALLS)

What boots it on the G.o.ds to call?

Since, answered or unheard, We perish with the G.o.ds and all Things made--except the Word.

Ere certain Fate had touched a heart By fifty years made cold, I judged thee, Lyde, and thy art O'erblown and over-bold.

But he--but he, of whom bereft I suffer vacant days-- He on his shield not meanly left-- He cherished all thy lays.

Witness the magic coffer stocked With convoluted runes Wherein thy very voice was locked And linked to circling tunes.

Witness thy portrait, smoke-defiled, That decked his shelter-place.

Life seemed more present, wrote the child, Beneath thy well-known face.

And when the grudging days restored Him for a breath to home, He, with fresh crowds of youth, adored Thee making mirth in Rome.

Therefore, I, humble, join the hosts, Loyal and loud, who bow To thee as Queen of Songs--and ghosts-- For I remember how Never more rampant rose the Hall At thy audacious line Than when the news came in from Gaul Thy son had--followed mine.

But thou didst hide it in thy breast And, capering, took the brunt Of blaze and blare, and launched the jest That swept next week the front.

Singer to children! Ours possessed Sleep before noon--but thee, Wakeful each midnight for the rest, No holocaust shall free.

Yet they who use the Word a.s.signed, To hearten and make whole, Not less than G.o.ds have served mankind, Though vultures rend their soul.