“MUTTER OF THE GUNS”

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXV, Issue 18518, 15 March 1930, Page 11 (Supplement)

“MUTTER OF THE GUNS”

VERSE BY HON. PEMBEU REEVES. The Hon. W. Pember Reeves ha been interesting himself lately in tb revision of some of his poems, and i a new edition of “The Passing of the Forest” should ever be published fthes alterations would be incorporated. In the meantime he has had som detached leaves printed for distribution among his frineds. The verses whic; did not appear in “The Passing of th Forest” are “A Dream.” “The Shep herd’s Child,” and “A Prologue.” “The Mutter of the Guns,” which h wrote during the war, he has alteret and improved considerably. Those interested in Mr Reeves’s literary work will be glad to have the new version.

The laggard wakeful night hath brought a morning cool and brief: The sunlight bathes the dreamim woods where flutters not a leaf; But the air shudders and a chill of menace creeps to me, The muttering of sleepless guns across the narrow' sea. White islets, cloudlands motionless deepen the blue serene; Those sheep, their wool dew-sprinklec yet, lie quiet on the green; Only these dull throbs, on and on, break in God’s truce to mar, Thud upon thud, again, again, the hammer-strokes of war. Hark! Over torn and tortured France, with hoarse unsparing breath. From the dread judgment seat of war goes forth the voice of Death. Hear the low rumbling roar, like wrath from far volcanoes hurled, While men, in straining cities, wait shocks that may wreck their world. Under this vault of silver sleep and floating cloudlets still I walk, the sole heart-troubled thing on this untroubled hill. Seeing in this green land at rest, this gentlest heaven’s span. The deep tranquility of Life’s indifference to man. Young trampled grass, straight saplings hewn, dear lamps of bra'-'i lost light, Our laughing hero sons are gone—youth into ancient night; And the gods mourn, who gave them life, and hope of life for dower, As little as the mowers tall striding o’er grass and flower. They sleep, nor hear the guns, our brave; but for the old. bereft. The leaden feet, the darkened home, the aching heart are left. We who in pride had sent them forth and jesting hid our fears, Clench in the night frail helpless hands and call our lost with tears. So. in this hour, they do but seem, the shining hills I scan, A vision beautiful, but vain to heal the heart of man. To reconcile Man’s soul to pain the gods have made earth fair, But, as I gaze, the shadow falls, the pain is lord e’en there. These happy hills that drink the light, these birds with happy call, Like the high gods they know not grief nor mourn when heroes fall; But man—nor God. nor earth—can grieve; so I walk here apart, The thudding of the fatal guns still knocking on my heart.