When in that  hour of grief and queenlessness
    You, on your charger white as driven snow,
    Shared in a mourning nation’s grief and woe
There was no voice but did the Kaiser bless;
To-day in Armageddon’s sore distress
    We know you better, for at last you show
    The tyrant undisguised, we count you foe
Both to ourselves and to God’s righteousness.

Your hand it was that careless of all ill
    Unsheathed the sword to drench a world in
            blood,
        Your heart it was that in its terrible lust
        Would trample treaties to dishonoured dust
And hack your way to Empire; but God still
    Reigns, and God’s words are Peace and
            Brotherhood.

(The European War 1914-1915 Poems, p. 22)

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In Chamounix Churchyard

If you should be awakened from your sleep,
        Here in the snow-crowned, mountain-girdled
            vale,
        Such sounds should greet your ear as could not
            fail
To lull you back into a slumber deep:
The chime of waters falling from the steep,
        The bells that clang towards the milking-pail,
        Murmur of bees and song of nightingale,
Where through the copse those sister rivers sweep.

But if one voice should mingle with the sound—
    A voice you knew in college days of old—
        Crying, ‘Come back, fulfil your earthly span!’
I know your words would leap from underground,
    And say, ‘God hath His helpers manifold,
        Their hands shall finish what my heart began.’

(Sonnets in Switzerland and Italy, p. 150)

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Play up the game! not yours a football goal,
    Not with a leathern ball for pay you fight,
    Your goal is Freedom: Champion of the right
You play to keep the British Empire whole;
Wherefore with body under full control,
    Nerves strong as iron, sinews braced and tight,
    You join the game—with all the world in sight,
And losing life at least you win your soul.

Player of football! clear above the shame
    Of thundering plaudits from a circling wall
        Thunder of guns and cries of wounded come;
Your country bids you play a nobler game,
    Forth to the front! tho’ Death the “time” may call,
        Bright angel hosts shall cheer the victor home.

(The European War 1914-1915 Poems, p. 132)

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When you loosed hell you did not know
    You loosed all heaven on earth as well,
Still spirit strives with flesh below
    And angels with us dwell.

We fight, but with no mortal sword,
    We thunder, not with earthly guns,
For freedom and the living Lord
    We rise to meet the Huns.

Flushed with your plenitude of power
    You drave the Christ from off His throne,
Bade Thor and Odin bring their dower
    Of blood and iron and stone.

You dreamed that “frightfulness” of death
    Would lead your hosts to victory,
You see with calm untroubled breath
    Our best go forth to die.

You held that might not right was all,
    You were as God to choose the day,
You find when wall and tower fall,
    That courage still can stay.

In rule and drill you put your trust,
    Where cunning served you cunning chose,
You cast all honour to the dust
    And made the world your foes.

To reign not serve, to get not give,
    These were the watchwords of your goal,
You fail, but truth and freedom live,
    And Europe finds her soul.

(The European War 1914-1915 Poems, pp. 200-1)

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