LITERATURE.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 15986, 31 January 1914, Page 14

LITERATURE.

Special Reviews, and Gleanings from Various Sources

A mUAD OF THE BALKANS*

''THE WINE-PBESS OF WAR." (By Constant Readee.) The world gravitates between Peace <uid In piping times of Peace men long Wii* the stimulus o£ Wax. In the troublous days, oi War they yearn longingly {or Peacie. It is the old, old story of the Ebb and Jflow—on exemplification of the truth of tlje doctrine of the Eternal Recurrence. As it? was in the beginning, so in this presemt time, the Poets sing and the people respond to the note of the singing. It iS;not so long since Mr Rudyard Kipling proclaimed the supremacy of England, a mother worth dying and living for, her seeking danger as a bride, searching all the confines of the world; encountering and joyfully mastering enenlies and natural forces, the winds and the Vscas, and the terrors of elemental things. There were vicious of ships steering .through deep waters, and harvests gathfeTed from all seas; of the pioneers whose bones have marked the track for the advancing army that this might follow whetfe these had trod; of the flag «(. England :.;'descried amidst cold or uncti. <Ue Southern sun, as everywhere triumph by the testimony of all the winds of heaven. It was a literature of intoxication;.'adequate to a nation which, having conquered the world in a fit of absence of minct, had suddenly become conscious of the splendour of its achievement. Smad won4er that, to the eyes of the men of the timei .there came with it something of the forca'.of a gospel; as the boundaries of their-, thought lifted to disclose larger horizons than they had ever known." When, however, Teal war broke out in Sout£ : Africa the spell of Mr Kipling's song snapped, and slowly but surely there crept into literature, and especially into poetry, a new note and a new spirit, 'lhe dawning of that new spirit was hastened by the terrible conflict between Russia and Japan; but it has been left for the war in the Balkans to give the new Bong a louder note. The man to swell the new note in relation to that war is Mr Alfred Noyes, one of the most serious amongst the vounger poets of to-day. How young he is may readily be reckoned since he was born: in 1880. How recent he is may be gathered from the fact that his name is not included in that valuable collect-on, "The Poets and Poetry of the Nineteenth Century." That he is not absolutely "modern" is attested by the absence of any sample of his singing in the Tecentlyissued '• volume of "Georgian Poetry. Yet but 12 short years have passed since Mr iAlfred Noyes, then a youth of 21, took ; the literary world by storm with "The.-Loom of Years," and only four years baefchis "Collected Poems" were issued in two volumes. Last year he more than upheld his previous poetic reputation with "Tales of the Mermaid Tavern," and now " The Wine-press : A Tale of War," cotnes visioriing the millennium of universal peace.

To Mr Alfred Noyes belongs the reputation [of, being the only living poet who is able ; to make a living out of poetry; but this ; can scarcely be deemed strictly correct; for Mr Noyes's work as a critic is as important as his poetry, though probably not so permanent. Last year he was lionised in America, and the substnce of the Lowell* Lectures which he delivered in Boston is 'announced for publication by Messrs Blackwood, under title "The Sea in English Poetry." There is much in common between Mr Alfred Noyes and Mr G. K. Chesterton, since both have uttered" strenuous protests against that ultraImperialism, which, while asserting the devotion of the Briton to hi 3 own la>nd, crudely demies the same right to other nationalities. Both writers are possessed of an intensely religious spirit, and in that spirit "they brand the murder of a nation as a sin alike against man and Gird." Neither is unconscious of the part that War hae played in the past evolution of nations; but they argue in effect that the stage jn the evolution of the nations has now been readied when War is no longer essential, and when Peace is possible. This contrast is made very clear by a comparison between Mr Chesterton's magnificent "Ballad of the White Horse" and Mr Noyfes's " The Wine-press," both exceedingly stirring and moving pieces of work. Mr Noyes's ballad commences with some lines dedicated "To those who believe that Peace is the corrupter of nations," wherein the, militarism of the present day is pictured with subtle irony, especially in its sublime disregard of the rights of the smaller peoples, and its hardly concealed contempt for Peace: —

Peace? When have we prayed for peace? Over us burns a star Bright, beautiful, rod for 6trife! Youre are only the drum and the fife Antl tho golden braid end the surface of life, Ours is the white-hot war. Peace? When have wo prayed for peace? Our? are the weapons of men. Tiino changes the face of the world Yoiir swords are rust! Your flags are furled, And ours a.re the unseen legions hurled l>f> to tho heights again. Peace?; When have we prayed for poaoe? IS theTc no wrong to right? Wrong crying to God on high Hero where the weak and tho helpless die, And tho homeless hordes of the City go by. The ranks are rallied to-night. Peace? When have we prayed for peace? Are you so dazed with words? Earth, heaven shall pass away "Krq for your passionless peace wo pray. Are ye deaf to the trumpets that cali us ! to-day, Blind to the blazing swords?

Mr. Chesterton's ballad has a different sort 'of dedication, but one of intense significance. "The Ballad of the White Horse" is dedicated "To My Wife." Fourteen years ago Mr Chesterton married Miss Frances Blogg. "She was a lady of a type of which a generation of ' advanced ' culture 'is producing a plentiful crop—the conservative rebel against the conventions of the unconventional. Living amidst the {esthetic anarchism of Bedford Pa.rk, she was in a state of seething revolt against it. Her husband was not at-aJI the man to discourage such a. revolt, and her influence cm him (which has been considerable) was, one may guess, all on the side of his growing orthodoxy." The dedication of Mr Chesterton's ballad reveals not only the tremendous heritage of Ethandune to the British people and the British nation, but also the personal benefit bestowed upon 1 Mr Chesterton himself. For his courtship was carried 011 in the neighbourhood of Ethandune, wherever that may be. "Perhaps," he writes, in one of his recent essays, "you do not know where Ethandune is. Nor do t ; nor d OO3 anybody. That: is whero the somewhat sombre fun begins. I cannot even tell yon for certain whether it is the name of a forest, or a town, or a hill I can only say that in any case it is of the kind that 'floats, and is unfixed. If it is a forest, it is one of those forests that march with a million legs, like the walking trees that were the doom-.of Macbeth. If it is a town, it is one of those towns that vanish, like a city of temta. If it is a hill, it is a flying hill, like the mountain to which faith lends wings; Over a vast, dim region of England this dark name of Ethandune floats liko an eagle, doubtful where to swoop and strike, and, indeed, there were birds of prey enough over Ethandune, wherever it was. But now Ethandune itself has growq As dark and drifting as the black drifts of the birds. And yet without this word :that you oannot fit with a meaning, and hardly with a memory, you would be sitting in a very different chair at this moment, and looking at a very different tablecloth. As a practical"modern phrase I do not, commend it; if my private critics and correspondents, in whom I delight, should happen to address me, 'G. K. Chesterton, Poste Eeatante, Ethandune,' I fear their letters would not come to hand. If two hurried commercial travellers should agree to discuss a business matter at

*"Tlio Wine-press: A Talo of War." By Alfred, Noyrp. London: William BUokwood and 3od». (4S 6U neU>

Force rules the world still Has ruled it, shall rule it; Meekness is weakness Strength is triumphant, Over tho whole earth Still is it Thor's Dav!

Thou art a God too. O Galilean! And thus single-handed Unto the combat. Gauntlet or Gospel Here I defv thee!

It is accepted The angry defiance. The challenge of battle! Tt is accepted, But not with the 'weapons Of war that thou wieldest!

Crofts against corslet, Love against hatred, I'eacc-cry for war-cry! Patience is powerful; Ho that o'oreometh Hath power o'er the nations! Stronger than steel [s the sword of t-ha Spirit ; Swifrer than arrows The light of the truth in; Greater Khan anger Is love and subducth!

The dawn is not distant. Nor i 6 the night starlets?; Love is eternal! God is still God, and His faith shall not fail us; Christ is eternal!

Ethandune from 5 to 5.15, I am afraid they would grow cold in the district as white-haired wanderers, 'to put it plainly, Ethandune is anywhere, ana nowhere, in the western hills; it is an English mirage. And yet, but for this doubtful thing you would probably have no Daily News on Saturday, and certainly no church ooi Sunday. I do not say that either of theso two things is a benefit; but I do say that they are customs, and that yon would, not possess them except thiough this mystery. You would not have Christmas puddings, nor (probably) any puddings; you would not have Easter eggs, probably not poached eggs, I strongly suspect, not scrambled eggs, and the best historians are decidedly doubtful about curried eggs. To cut a long story short (the longest of all stories) yon would not have any civilisation, far less any Christian civilisation. And if in some moments of gentle curiosity you wish to know why you are the polished, sparkling, rounded, and wholly satisfactory citizen which you obviously are, then I can give you no more definite answer, geographical or historical; but only toll in your cars the tone of the uncaptured name—Ethandune." It is interesting to place sido by side with this description of the national heritage of Ethandune Mr Chesterton's acoount of personal benefits received, extracted from the "Dedication" of his Ballad:— Yet Alfred is no fairy tale; His days as our days rail, He also looked forth for an hour On peopled plains and ekics that lower, From those few windows in the tower That is the head of a man. But. who shall look for Alfred's hood Or breathe hie breath alive? His century like a small dark cloud Drifts far;"it is an eyeleas crowd, Where the tortured trumpets scream aloud And the dense arrows drive. Lady, by one light only We look from Alfred's eyes, We know he saw athwart the wreck The sign that hangß about your neck, Where One more than Mclchizedek Is dead and never die 6. Therefore I bring these rhymes to you, Who brought tho cross to me, Since on you, flaming without flaw I saw the sign thai &uthrum saw When he let break his ships of awe, And laid peace on the 6ea. Do yon remember when we went Under a dragon moon, And 'mid volcanic tints of night Walked where they fought tho unknown fight And 6aw black trees on the battle-height, Black thorn on Ethandune. And I thought, "I will go with you. As man witih God has gone, And wander with a wandering star, The wandering heart of thingß that are, The fiery croes of love and war That like yourself goes on." At Ethandune was laid the foundations of Mr Chesterton's orthodoxy, and in the "Ballad of the White Horse" he stresses the importance of Ethandune as the foundation of Great Britain's national and Imperial greatness. In a prefatory note to the ballad Mr Chesterton writes : "The cnlt of Alfred was a popular cult from the darkness of the ninth century to the deepening twilight of the twentieth. It is wholly as a popular legend that I deal with him here. I write as one ignorant of everything except that I have found the legend of a king of Wessex still alive in the land. I will give three curt cases of what I mean. A tradition connects the ultimate victory of Alfred with the valley in Berkshire called the Vale of the White Horse. I have seen doubts of the tradition which may be valid doubts. I do not know when or where the story started; it is enough that it started somewhere and ended with me; for I only 6eek to write upon a hearsay as the old balladists did. For the second case there is a popular tale that Alfred played the harp and sang in the Danish camp; I select it because it is a popular tale at whatever time it arose. For the third case there is a popular tale that Alfred came in contact with a woman and cakes; I select it because it is a popular tale, because it i 6 a vulgar one. It has been disputed by grave historians who were, I think, a little too grave to be good judges of it. . . . But I am not concerned to prove the truth of these popular traditions. It is enough for me to maintain two things : that they are popular traditions, and that, without these popular traditions, we should have bothered about Alfred about as much as we bother about Eadwig. One other consideration needs a note. Alfred has come down to us in the best way—that is, by natural legends,—solely for the same reason as Arthur and Roland and the other giants of that darkness, because he fought for the Christian civilisation against the heathen nihilism. But since this, work was really done by generation after generation, by the Romans before they withdrew, and by the Britons while they remained. I have summarised this first crusade in a triple symbol, and given to a fictitious Roman, Celt, and Saxon a part in the glory of Ethandune. I fancy that, in fact, Alfred's Wessex was of very mixed bloods; but in any case it is the chief value of legend to mix up the centuries while preserving the sentiment; to see all ages in a sort of splendid forshortening. That is the use of tradition—it telescopes history." One reason why I have placed Mr Noyes's "Wine-press" side by side with Mr Chesterton's "White Horse" is because of the parallel between the England of the first century and the Balkans of the twentieth century. King Alfred came to the throne when England was overrun by the Danes, and the Christianity which had only just been given to the Saxons was rapidly going down before the onslaught of Scandanavian paganism. The literal condition of things in England towards the close of that fateful first century, has been dramatically described by Lo'igfellow in "The Saga of King Olaf." A stanza or two taken from the beginning and the end of that poem vividly reveals the similarity of the conflict between Peace and War, between Christianitv and Paganism, that has been going on right down the ages :—

The tradition of England, as exemplified in the legend of King Alfred and Ethandune, has always been for the bringing of Peace by standing for the right. This is the burden of Mr Chesterton's ballad, which opens with a. gloomy picture of England under Danish domination :— The Northmen came about our land A Christ less chivalry ; Who know npt of the arch or pen, Great beautiful half-witted men From the sunrise and the sea.

Our towns were shaken of tall kings With 6carlet boards like blood; 'Hie world turned empty where they trod, They took the kindly cross of God And out it ud for wood.

They bred like birds in ISnglieh woods, They rooted liko the rose, When Alfred oame to Athelney To hide hitn from tlieir hows. I"hore was not Enfjliali armour left., Nor any English thing. When Alfred enme to Athelney To be un English King. And naught was left King Alfred But shameful tears of rage, In the in the river, In the end of all his ago. In till' darkest hour of King Alfred's life he had a vision. The Protestant legend take* the form of the appearance of Saint Cuthbert, the great Saxon saint: but Mr Chesterton, true to his Catholic predilect ions, prefers the version that gave Alfred a vision of '"Our Lady, Mother of God." Inspired by the vision King Alfred set steadily ,lo work to lay his plans for the expulsion of the invaders : — For the King went gathering Wessex men As grain out of the ohafT, The few that were alive to die. Laughing os littered skulls that lie After lost battles turn to the sky An everlasting laugh. The King went gathering Christian men Ab wheat out of the husk; Elrlred the Franklin by the sea, And Mark the man from Italy And Golan of (he sacred Tree, From the old tribe on Usk. "Out of the month of the Mother of God, More than the doors of doom. I call the muster of Wossex men From grassy hamlet or ditch or den, To break and be broken God knows when, But I have seen for -whom. "Out of tho mouth of the Mother of God, Liko a little word come I; For I go gathering Christian men From sunken paving and l ford and fen, To die in a. battle God knows when, By God, but I know why." Tn contrast with this first century picture of a vanquished king wandering through the country in disguise, rallying his forces, and calling them to the conflict with the invaders, so vividly painted by Mr Chesterton, it is almost appalling to place Mr Noyes's vignette of the beginnings of the Balkan War. In this enlightened twentieth century the making of War or the preservation of Peace is pure.y a matter for the diplomats to discuss and decide upon. Here is the scathing presentment of the poet : — Around a shining table sat Fivo men in black tail-coats; And what their sin was, none could say; For each was honcet, after his way, (Tho'; there are sheep and armament firms With all that this "Connotes.") One wns the friend of a merchant prince, One was the foe of a priest, One had a brother whose heart was set On a gold star and an epaulette, And—where tho rotten carcase lies The vultures flock to feast. They were cleanly groomed, they were not to be bought, And their cigars were good, But they had pulled so many strings In the tinselled puppet show of kings That, when they talked of war, they thought Of sawdust, not of blood. Not of the crimson tempest Where tho shattered city falls; They thought behind their varnished doors, Of diplomats, ambassadors, Budgets and loans and botm-lary lines, Coercions and re-calls: Forces and Balances of Power; Shadows and dreams and dust; And how to set thoir bond aside And prove they lied not wlien they lied, And which was weak and which was strong, But —never which was just. For they were strong. So might is right And reason wins the day. And if at a touch on a silver bell They plunged three nations into hell Tho blood of peasants is not red A hundred miles away.

The story of the Battle of Ethandune and all the events leading thereto are told by Mr Chesterton with King Alfred as the principal figure in the narrative. Mr Noyes takes a Bulgarian peasant named Johann, and relates to him the harrowing incidents of the terrible conflict in the Balkans. He draws an idyllic sccne of the peasant's cottage home on the mountains; Sonia, .Tohann's young wife, has just hushed the infant Dodi to sleep with an exquisite lullaby : —

" O, little blue pigeon, sleep. Sleep Dodi m.nc," She murmured, "Sleep little ro6e in your rosy boil, The moon is rosking, rocking to rc6t in the pine. Sleep, little blue pigeon, Sleep on my breast, Sleep while the stars shine, Sleep, while the bifj pine Rocks with the white moon, Over your nest." A great grey cloud sailed slowly overhead. She stood behind Johann. Around his eyes Her soft hands closed, " Dodi's asleep," she said. He drew her hands away, then as the skies Darkened, lie muttered, "Sonla. you must know. I've kept the ne\vs from you all day." Surprise Parted her lips. " To-morrow I must go." "Go? Where?" Clear as a silver bell one star Thrilled thro' the clouds. Her face looked . white as snow. "To-morrow morning, Sonia. No, not far! To join trie regiment. We are called you see" "But why? What does it mean?" "Mean, Sonia? War!" The men join the regiment and they are carried over the iron rails to the seat of War. Mr Noyts shows them inquiring among themselves the reason of it all It seemed that, sonic gigantic hand Behind tho veils of sky Was driving, herding all those men Like cattle into a cattle-pen, So few of tlicm could understand, iSo many of them must die. They say that war'.'! a noble thing! They say it's good to die. For causes none can understand! They say it's for tho Fatherland! They say it's for the flag, the King, And none must question why! When you are lifted up like this Between a linger and thumb And dropt, you don't know where or why, And told to shoot and butcher and die, And not to question, not to reply, But go like a sheep to the shearers, A lamb to the slaughter, dumb. What? Are the engines then our God? Does one amongst you know The reason of this bitter work? "Reason." Tho devilry of the Turk! Lock, stock, and barrel the sick man And all his tribe must go. In the midst of the discussion, while tli» question whether England is on their side is * being freely canvassed by the peasant .<oldiers. intermingled with recollections of the part, played by England in the Crimean War, Michael,, a- poet, a half Greek. lifts up his voice and sings a song in which the name of Greece is synonymous with liberty : — "Comrades." he cried, "you know not The splendour of voiir blades! Tills war is not as other wars; The night shrinks with all her stars, And Freedom rides before you On the last of the Crusades. " She rides a .snow white charger, Tho' her flanks drip with reel, Before her blade's white levin The crescent pales in heaven. Nor shall she shrink from battle Till the stin reign overhead. "Till the dead Cross break in blossom; Till the God we sacrificed. With that same love He gave us Stretch out. His arms'"to save us, Yea, till God save the People And heal the wounds of Christ."

The glory of- Mr Chesterton's stirring account of the Battle of Ethandune lies in the personal prowess of the combatant?. The leaders on either side were real lenders; they believed in the emifie for which they were fighting, and the battle roped and surged around theni a? they displayed wondrous feat of ;irins. Here, for instance, is a typical passage And midmoet of that rolling field Ran Ogier ragingly, Lashing at Mark who turn'd his blow. And brake the helm above his brow, And broke him to bis kne»

Then Ogier heaved over his head His lingo round shield of proof; Hut Murk set one foot on the shield. One on Bonio sundered rock unheeled. And towered above (lie tossing field A statue on a roof. Dealing far blows about tho light, Kike thunderbolts a roam, Like birds about I Im l battlefield. Like Ogier writhed under iii» shield Like a tortoise in his dome. Hut hate in the buried Ogier Was strong <is pain in hell. With bare brute hand from the inside He burst, the shield of brass and hide. And a death stroke to tho Roman's side Sent suddenly and vrell. Then the great statue on the shield Ivooked his last look around With level mid imperial eye; And Mark the man from Italy, Fell in the sea of agony, And died without a sound. from the glow and the glory of such a duel, it is impressive to turn to the cold, cruel precision of the machine of modern war. This is how Mr Noyes describes Johann's first battle :• — They crept across tho valley Where tho wheat wa« turning brown, There was no cloud in the blue sky, No sight, no sound of an enemy, When the sharp command rang over them, " Cover and lie down !" Johann with four beside him In a cottage garden lay. Peering over a little wall. They heard a bird in the eaves call; And through the door a clock ticked A thousand miles away. A thousand miles, a thousand years, And all so still and fair, Them like some huge invisible train Splitting the blue heavens in twain Out of the quiet distance rushed A thunder of shrieking air. Tho earth shook below them. And lightnings lashed the sky, Tho trees danced in the fires of hell. The walls burst like a bursting shell And a bloody mouth gnawed at the stones Like a rat with a thin cry. Then all acrces tho valley, Deep silence reigned anew; There was no cloud in the blue sky, No sight, no sound of an enemy, But the red wet shape beside .Tohann, And that lay silent too. A bugle like a 6Courge of brass Whipped thro' nerve and brain; Up from their iron-furrowed bede The long lines with bowed heads Plunged to meet the hidden Death Across tho naked plain. They leapt across the lewd flesh That twisted at their feet; They leapt across wild shapes that lay Stark besmeared with blood and clay Like the great dead birds with the glazed cyee That tho farmer hangs in the wheat. Johann plunged onward counting them Scarecrows that once were men; He c-ountcd them by twos, by fours, Then all at once my tens, by scores, '"Oover!" Thro' flesh and nerve and bone The bugles rang again. This unequal contest, "Flesh against things fleshless," between the death-deal-ing man, and the death-dealing machine, is kinematographed by Mr Noyes vihh dreadful fidelity : — Then along the reeking hills And up the dark ravines, The long rows of young men Leapt Ln the glory of life again To earry their warm and breathing breasts Against the cold machines. Against the Death that mowed them down With a cold indifferent hand; And at every gap at once was fed With more life from the fountain head; Filled up from endless ranks behind In the name of the Fatherland.

Mown down ! Mown down ! Mown down ! Mown down! They staggered in sheets of fire, They reeled like ships in a sudden blast, And shreds of flesh wont spattering _ past, And the hoarse bugles laughed on high Liko fiends from hell, "Retire I" The tall j-oung men, the tall young men, That were so fain to die. It was not theirs to question, It was not theirs to reply They had broken their hearts on the cold machines, And—they had not seen their foe; And the roa.«on of thie butcher's work It was not theirs to know, For these tall young men were children Five short years ago.

Johann, wounded and invalided in hospital, sends Michael, the poet, who has lost his eyesight in the battle, to carry home news to his wife Sonia. And the poet as he tells the story of the crushing defeat of the Moslem by the Allied forces of Christendom, bursts into an esta-tic song : —

The Prophet is fallen. His kingdom is rent asunder; The bloodstained steeds move on with a sound of thunder! The sword of the Prophet is broken. His cannon are dumb. The last Crusade rides into Byzantium. Reverse the sword! The Crescent is rent asunder ! Lift up the Hilt! Ride on with a sound of thunder. Life up the Cross! The cannon, the cannon are dumb, The last crusade rides into Byzantium. Under the apple tree a shadow stirred. An old grey peasant stood there "in the night: "Michael." he said, "this is bad news we've heard!"

"Bad news?" ''0, ay, we're in a pretty plight! They've quarrelled!" "Who?" "Your great crusading band— Greece and the Balkan States. They're going to fight!" "Fight! Fight for what?" Why, don't, you understand What war is? For a iiort to export prunes; For Christ, my boy, and the Fatherland!" Johann, fit once more for the frav, is dazed and puzzled by the altered situation :—

It was not his to understand, It was only his to know ll's hand was against the comrade's hard Ho clasped a month ago. It was not his to question, It was not his to reply; But over him the night grew black, And his own troop was falling back, Falling back before th? flag He had helped to raise on high. And the guns, .the gun 6 that drove them Had thundered with his own! The men ho must kill for a little pay Had marched beside him yesterday, Brothers in blood ! By what foul lips Was this war-trumpet blown ? Back from the heights they had stormed together, The gulfs that had gorged their dead; Back by the rotting shot-ripned plain, Where the black wings fluttered and perched again. And the yellow beaks in the darkness Ripped and dripped and fed.

Mr Noyes ends on a .tragic note. Johann and liia regiment fall back and bn<'k before the guns of their erstwhile allies, until he sees stretched out before him the familiar pine wood, and tlie path (hat leads to the door of his own cottage. His heart yearned for wife and child Then all the back, unguarded woods Behind them spat red flame. A thousand rifles shattered the ~ ; i'T ! it. And after the lightning, up the height. A thousand steady of lijjht. The moonlit bayonets came. Hurled to the trench bv th° storm of steel Under a hear" of the slain, Like one quick nerve in that welter of death .Tohanji quivered, blood choked his breath And the oharge broke over him like a sea. And passed like a hurricane. He crept' out in the ghastly moon By a black-tarpaulined gun; He stood alone on the mo'ivnc hoitrht. While the bi-yonris flashed behind tile flight - ' "Scjiia, l)odi He turned. He broke For the path with a Mumbling; run. The embers of hi; liu; still burned: And in the deep blue gloom. Hit? bursting eyeballs yet could fee A white shape under the npple tree— A naked body dabbled with red, Like a drift of apple bloom. She lav like a broken sacrament That the dogs have defiled: "Soma, Son : a, sprok to nieJ' 1 Ho babbled like a child.

Tho child, t.he riiiici rii.i!, lay uii her knees Dovil 1.1).' man m.i;, miiiij The things thai Kurojii- iiium not punt, Hut, only '.vii.o|KT asm ciiiiek!.' and ninl, LoM i.he will •»!' Kui.ip" ii' l ' in 1111ji 111 ■ 1 r And r.wnnlfr, null in Hi" Marii". | There was yet one <>t!i; r horror to £roet j tile eyes of Johann, ami it. is aliuncU, Luo j terrible f<> be told | The quiet moon Bailed slowly out | From a grey ''loud overhead. : When out of the-gnarled old apple tree There came a moan and heavily A palter of blood fell g'ml bv {{out On t.he white breaM ".f the dead. There came a moan from the tipple tree. And the morn showed him there 'Hie bliml man with h:e amis strflehed wide . , • 1 And ;i nail thro' hit? hand on either side A nail thro' the naked palms of his feet And a crown of thorns in his hair. Johann knell down before him, "0 brother, 0 Son of Man. It was not. ours .to doubt, or reply AVhen the peonfe were k'd out to <Le. This, this is the end of our Liberty, And the goal for which we reu." "O Christ of the little children." Over his naked blade Johann bowed, bowed and fell, Gasping. " Sonia, Dodi. tell Your God in heaven I grow so weary Of all that Ho has made." This if; a poem to peruse and to ponder, for herein docs the poet declaim arid de- I nounce the problems and puzzles that vex the world to-day. Read together, those two ballads of war suggest many thoughts, but most of all the magnificent though! that the dawn of Peace is at hand. This if; splendidly stressed by Mr Noyes in hie epilogue, of which I quote the closing stanzas :— Say that wo dream! Our dreamp have woven Truths that outface the burning sun ; The lightnings that v;o dreamed have cloven Time, space, and linked all lands in one! Dreams! But their swift celestial fingers Have knit the world with threads of steel. Till no remotest island lingers Outside the world's great Commonweal. Tell us that custom, sloth, and fear, Are strong, then name them " Commonsense" ! Tel! us that greed rules everywhere, Then dub the lie " experience" ; Year after vt.ar, age after fl.?re. Has handed down thro' fool and child. .For earth's divinest heritage The dreams whereon old wisdom smiled. Dreams are they? But ye cannot, stay them. Or thrust the dawn back for one hour! Truth. Love, and Justice if ye slay them. Ket.urn with more than earthly power; Strive if ye will to seal the fountains That send the spring thro' -leaf and spray, Drive back the sun from the Eastern mountains. Then—bid this mightier movement stay. It is the Dawn ! the Dawn! the nations From East to West have heard a cry— Through all earth's blood-red generations By hate and slaughter climbed this high Hero—on this height—still to aspire, One only path remains untrod. One path of love and peace climbs higher, Make straight that highway for our God.