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��Albert E. S. Smythe
The Poet of Theosophy. Born at Gracehill, a Moravian vil lage, County Antrim, Ireland, December 27th, 1861. Associate Editor of Daily World Toronto.
THE CHAMPIONS
NNOBLED by the mightiness of Life That poured its valour in their eager souls, They turned from boyhood and the pleasant goals
Of sport and home and love, to join the strife
Of God and Chaos, following the fife
And drum of sun-helmed Michael, who controls The cosmic war, and as the battle rolls,
Leads the young Champions where death most is rife.
Some lost their bodies, garments of the flesh, Yet they will come anew. But now they rest,
A glorious company, in realms of light. With joy they ll come, their spirits to enmesh Once more in dust, still plighted to the quest, To clear the world of all the brood of night.
��o
��NOTRE DAME DEMETER
UR gracious lady, bending from the stars, Mother of men, on thy dear heart we lean, Our hands all blood, but all our wishes clean, Still dauntless, but so weary of the wars, And sick of Kaisers militant and Tsars
Who slay for pride and lust of power, and mean Their own good only, hastening to glean The field of hate ere death let down the bars.
Our enemy and we sleep in thy breast
When the tired day is done, and if we yearn To cradle deepest in thy love, release
One arm to him to lull his sullen rest;
Bathe him with pity should his night-watch turn His broken heart to pardon and to peace.
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