They are forming—the bugles are blaring—they will cross in a moment and then . . .
When out of the line of the Royals (your island, mon ami, breeds men)
Burst a private, a tawny-haired giant—it was hopeless, but ciel! how he ran!
Bon Dieu please remember the pattern, and make many more on his plan!
No cheers from our ranks, and the Germans, they halted in wonderment too;
See, he reaches the bridge; ah! he lights it! I am dreaming, it cannot be true.
Screams of rage! Fusillade! They have killed him! Too late though, the good work is done.
By the valour of twelve English martyrs, the Hell-Gate of Soissons is won!
HENRI
TO-NIGHT I drifted to the restaurant
We scribblers fancy, finding it unchanged
Save that I saw no more my dapper friend,
The waiter Henri. When I asked for him,
"Gone to the War," another waiter said. . . .
"Gone to the War!" That man, so mild a part
Of peace and its traditions! Debonair,
Childlike, alert, and none too strong, we'd thought.
He who had served so deftly, and, secure,
Had walked the beaten path and sheltered ways—
He now was with the cannon and the kings!
Gentle he was, and ever with a smile.
Ah! wears he still a smile? For now his soul
Has taken iron, and stood forth austere,
Made suddenly acquainted with despair,
And pain, and horror, and the timeless things.
