Annie Rothwell Christie
The Woman’s Part
GONE! brother, lover, son!
Gone forth to certain peril, toil and pain,
And chance of death—for country counted gain.
Our part to let them go; to say, “Not one
Would we hold back,” to give
Our hearts’ best treasures to our mother-land
Though the gift break them; firm of lip and hand
To bid farewell; to say, “Be strong, and live
Victors, or die deserving.” Who shall deem
Our part the easier? or the place we hold—
Patience for courage—for the deed the dream—
Waiting for action,—service slight or cold?
What shall we give them? Words?
To them, obedient to the bounds of faith,
To them, enduring danger, fencing death,
Words were as stones for bread. Were our speech swords,
And were our frail hopes shields,
Then might we give them; but how frame our thought
Nor mar the harvest-gift their truth has brought
With the poor fruit a woman’s nature yields
When love sows seed? Hush! let us keep our souls
In silence—Words of comfort, words of cheer,
But mock the senses when the war-cloud rolls
Black ’twixt the eyes and all the heart holds dear.
What can we give them? Prayers?
Shall not the God of battles work His will?
He guards, He smites. Our strength is to be still
And wait His word; to cast aside our cares
And trust His justice. Strife
And peace are in His hand. They who shall see
Victorious days, and in the time to be
Shall share again the toils and joys of life
Are His—but not less His are they who fall,
(Sealing their soul’s devotion with their breath)
And not less loved that, true to duty’s call,
Their crown of honor comes to them in death.
What shall we give them? Tears?
Tears least of all! Shame not their valor so—
Honor and manhood call them; let them go,
Nor make farewell twice parting by your tears.
O, woman-heart, be strong!
Too full for words—too humble for a prayer—
Too faithful to be fearful—offer here
Your sacrifice of patience. Not for long
The darkness. When the dawn of peace breaks bright
Blessed she who welcomes whom her God shall save,
But honored in her God’s and country’s sight
She who lifts empty arms to cry, “I gave!”
After the Battle
AY, lay them to rest on the prairie, on the spot where for honor they fell,
The shout of the savage their requiem, the hiss of the rifle their knell.
For what quiet and sheltered God’s air would they barter that stained desert sod
Where at His trumpet summons of duty they gave back their souls to their God?
“Private, Number One Company, shot through the heart. First to fall.” Words immortal, sublime
In their teaching, their power to move, and their pathos to plead, for all time.
Shall we blench where they led? Shall we falter where they at such cost won their crown?
“Greater love hath no man—” we all know it; they obeyed it and laid their lives down.
“Friends” then, martyrs now, heroes both ways, they bequeath us their strength for our parts;
Their example their fittest memorial, their epitaphs deep in our hearts.
From those graves on the far blood-stained prairie, on the field where their battle was done,
They shall speak to our souls, and new fire through the veins of our patriots shall run.
Wail orphans—weep sisters—look upward, sad mothers and desolate wives;
But mourn not as those without comfort the loss of the sanctified lives.
Can you mourn unconsoled for their taking, though your heads may in anguish be bowed,
With a nation’s tears falling above them, their country’s flag draped for their shroud?
As the blood of the martyr enfruitens his creed, so the hero sows peace,
And the reaping of war’s deadly harvest is the earnest his havoc shall cease.
If the seed sown in blood you must water with tears, shrink not back from the cost;
What they gave ungrudging for honor you have lent to your country, not lost.
And forgive us, who bear not your burden of pain and who share not your pride,
If we grudge you your glory of giving in the cause where your heroes have died.
Welcome Home
July, 1885
WAR-WORN, sun-scorched, stained with the dust of toil,
And battle-scarred they come—victorious.
Exultantly we greet them; cleave the sky
With cheers, and fling our banners to the winds;
We raise triumphant songs, and strew their path
To do them homage—bid them “Welcome Home.”
We laid our country’s honor in their hands
And sent them forth undoubting; said farewell
With hearts too proud, too jealous of their fame
To own our pain. To-day glad tears may flow.
To-day they come again, and bring their gift—
Of all earth’s gifts most precious—trust redeemed.
We stretch our hands, we lift a joyful cry,
Words of all words the sweetest—“Welcome Home!”
Oh, brave true hearts! oh, steadfast loyal hearts!
They come, and lay their trophies at our feet:
They show us work accomplished, hardships borne,
Courageous deeds, and patience under pain,
Their country’s name upheld and glorified,
And Peace, dear purchased by their blood and toil.
What guerdon have we for such service done?
Our thanks, our pride, our praises, and our prayers;
Our country’s smile, and her most just rewards;
The victor’s laurel laid upon their brows,
And all the love that speaks in “Welcome Home!”
Bays for the heroes: for the martyrs, palms!
To those who come not, who “though dead yet speak”
A lesson to be guarded in our souls
While the land lives for whose dear sake they died—
Whose lives, thrice sacred, are the price of peace,
Whose memory, thrice belovëd, thrice revered,
Shall be their country’s heritage, to hold
Eternal pattern to her living sons—
What dare we bring? They, dying, have won all.
A drooping flag, a flower upon their graves,
Are all the tribute left,—already theirs
A nation’s safety, gratitude, and tears,
Imperishable honor, endless rest!
And ye, O stricken-hearted! to whom earth
Is dark though Peace is smiling, whom no pride
Can soothe, no triumph-pæan can console,
Ye surely will not fail them—will not shrink
To perfect now your sacrifice of love?