POETRY.
A. B. V.
I now my head, 0 brother, brother, brother, But may not grudge you that were All to me. Should any one lament when this our mother Mourns for so many sons on land and sea?
God of the love that makes two lives as one Give also strength to see that England's will be done.
Let it be done, yea, down to the last tittle, Up to the fulness of all sacrifice.
Our dead feared this alone—to give too little.
Then shall the living murmur at the price?
The hands withdrawn from ours to grasp the plough
Would suffer only if the furrow faltered now.
Know, fellow-mourners—be our cross too grievous—. That One who sealed our symbol with His blood Vouchsafes the vision that shall never leave us Those humble crosses in the Flanders mud.
And think there rests all-hallowed in each grave A life given freely for the world He died to save.
And, far ahead, dim tramping generations. Who never felt and cannot guess our pain, —Though history count nothing less than nations, And fame forget where grass has grown again—
Shall yet remember that the world is free. It is enough. For this is immortality.
I raise my bead, 0 brother, brother, brother.
The organ sobs for triumph to my heart.
What who will think that ransomed Earth can smother Her own great soul of which you are a part The requiem music dies as if it knew The inviolate peace where 'Hs already well with you. R. V.
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