POETRY OLD NEW.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LII, Issue 15951, 23 June 1915, Page 10

POETRY OLD NEW.

" SECOND LIEUTENANTS." Do you hear the tramp of England's boys, As they march on youthful feel. Down the muddy roads of the country-side. Down the long, grey city street? Tho fame of their schools behind them, The fame of their land before— For his school and his land are the make of a man In tho grim old game of war. On playing-fields and in classrooms bare They nurturo tho same old.breed. Of boys who can govern and work and plan. Of boys who can fight and lead. The fame of their brothers behind them, Their own fair famo before. They follow with youthful ardour and zest In the grim old game of war. Do you hear the talk of an Empire's sons As they meet in the battle line? " My younger brother is training, now, "And so is mine." "And mine" " The fame of our fathers behind us, Old England's famo before. Come, hurry un, lads, we need you here To win in this game of war." Do roil hear the tramp of England's boys As they march to the grey dock side? Do you see their eyes as the transport moves Awav on the midnight tide? The shores of England behind them. The shores of France before; Tho glory of youth and hope and pride Is their strength in tho game of war. M. G. Mktoens, in the Empire Review.

CHAPLAIN TO THE FORCES. [" I have once more to remark upon the devotion to duty, courage, and contempt of danger which has characterised the work of the chaplains of the army throughout this campaign."—Sir John French in the Neuve Chapclle despatch.] Ambassador of Christ you go Up to the vory gates of noil. Through fog of powder, storm of shell, To speak your Master's message: " Lo. The Prraco of Peace is with you still, His peace be with you. His goodwill" It is not small, your priesthood's price, To be a man and yet stand by. To hold your life whilst others die, To bless, not share the sacrifice, To watch the strife and take no part— You with the fire at your heartBut yours, for our great Captain Christ To know the sweat of agony, The darkness of Gothsomane. In anguish for these bouls unpriced. Vicecerent of God's pity you. A sword must pierce your own soul through. In the pale gleam of new-born day, Apart in some tree-shadowed place, Your altar but a packing-case, Rude as the shed where Mary lay. Your sanctuary the rain-drenched sod, You bring the kneeling soldier God. As sentinel you guard the gate Twixt life and death, and unto death Speed the bravo soul whose failing breath shudders not at the grip of Fate, But answers, gallant to the end, " Christ is the Word— I His friend.-" Then God go with you, priest of God,' For all is well and shall bo well. What though you tread the roads of Hell Your Captain these same ways has trod. Above the anguish and the loss Still floats the ensign of His Cross. -W. M. Letts, i n th. Spectator.