The spirit and the soul of France, That shatter fetters free, They came to us in darkest days To weld our destiny; And so with sword in hand we come To pay our debt to Thee.

To pay our debt a hundredfold- Friend of our new-born years.

To march with you and fight with you, Till rise the final cheers- And hand in hand, o'er a grave-strewn land, We blend our mingled tears.

Where blends our blood as once it did In days of a long gone When the Bourbon lilies leapt and gleamed Among the Stars on high- And the white and crimson bands of dawn Rose in the eastern sky.

And the the white and crimson bands of dawn, And the Stars that glow and glance, Shall girdle them their armor on, With buckler, sword, and lance, And leap to the charge and sweep the field With the Trois Couleurs of France,

If right is might and Honor lives- Oh Sister? 'cross the seas- And Liberty and Justice still Hold high commune with these; A four-fold vengeans waits the Hun, And his iniquities.

THE PACIFIST.

Cowards and curs and traitors, Fatuous dreaming fools- Binding us, stripped, for the madman Nurtured of dastard schools, Where right of might and who springs first Are the only known rules.

Well fed, well housed and sleek and smug, Full pursed and full of pride- Your fields are green, your lanes are fair Where peaceful homes abide, And your children play by sunny streams That laughing seaward glide.

What Primal Power tells you eat To the ends of your belly-greed- What holds your fields with harvests full, And answers every need- And bids your bairns play laughingly With never care or heed?

The answer, Fool, is written large In words of blazing light- They are rewards of dwelling in A Land of kingly might, That grants you surety and wealth And guards you, day and night.

And whence, Fool, came its splendid strength- And why, and how and when?

In a World of strife and reddened knife Did it rise by tongue and pen?

No, Dolt, but by the strong right arms, The arms of its fighting men.

And Ye, Ye would sit with folded hands, Agaze into Heaven's blue, With sanctimonious murmurings Of what the Lord will do; While your neighbor and your neighbor's son Go forth and fight for you.

For you, you cur, and your belly-need- For your hearth and kith and kin: For your harvest and your banking-house Where you shovel the shekels in, Till the labor has hardened your hands and heart, And your soul is parchment skin.

Religion cannot cover A dog whose liver is white.

Your Christ, with righteous anger, Smote hard to left and right The usurers. And never said He was too proud to fight.

When we are another Belgium And the land with blood is dyed, And your homes are burned and your women raped, And ye know that ye have lied- Mayhap ye will say with your final gasp That ye are satisfied.

BATTLE HYMN OF 17.

On the entry, in 1917, of the United States into the World War.

Not with vain boasts and mouthings- Not with jesting light- But for Duty and Love of Country Come we in armor dight.

Not for our own advantage- Not for Adventure's l.u.s.t- Not for the hope of honor- But a Cause that is high and just.

Not for the praise of our fellow-man, Or greed or gain or creed, But for the sight of the suffering eyes That call us in their need.

(The withering, mad machine-guns Shall drop us one by one, Where the red, red streams of No Man's Land Gleam 'neath a blood-red sun.)

(The shriek of the spraying shrapnel- The roar and the blinding glare, And the gaping crater's dripping fangs Shall ope and find us there.)

Not in the strong man's tyranny Or the pride of worldly things, But guarding clean traditions, Unstained by the hands of kings.

Not with sudden yearning, But knowing the risks we dare, We board the waiting galleons For a Nation brave and fair.

(For a Nation bearing the battle's brunt- The strength of the Vandals' blast- With an even keel and a steady wheel, And her Colors nailed to the mast.)

Not with hectic fire, But weighing the thing we do, We cross to the coasts of the fighting hosts- To the France our Fathers knew.

Brothers in blood of old-and now- Together to hunt and slay, Till we drive the Beast to his bone-strewn lair- An eye for an eye-a hair for a hair- And we leave him broken and bleeding there Forever and a day.

Not with vain boasts and mouthings- But in silent, grim parade- We come, Lord G.o.d of Battles, To the last and great Crusade.

PART III. OTHER VERSES.

MY SAPPHIRE.

I have a sapphire rich and fair And soft as a velvet sky, When only the stars are shining low And the heavens hold a mystic glow And a hushed world stands agaze to know The wonderful Whence and Why.

I have a sapphire that I turn In the dark of somber days: And the darting tongues of nickering blue Flash deep and rare in wondrous hue, Sharp as the lightning, pure as the dew, And true as m'lady's gaze.

I have a sapphire that I hold Beneath the chandelier: And the phosphor of its azure gleam Sweeps clear as the depths of the mountain stream Where the Sun-G.o.d hurls his molten beam In the morn of the golden year.

I have a sapphire I adore- Of varying whims and moods- Blue-black it lies with never a mark Across the dim unfathomed dark, Till there lifts the glow of a tiny spark- And again it sullen broods.

I have a sapphire that I bend 'Neath the light of burning rays: And the flames spread forth a fairy fire, Seething and writhing and leaping higher Till they come to the land of my heart's desire, In a glittering, blinding blaze.