The chapel bells with ardor spake
   Above the poplars tall,
And perfumed Sabbath seemed to wake. 
   Responsive to their call
From dappled vale and green hillside
   And nestling village hives
The peasants came in simple pride
To hear how their Lord Jesus died
   To sweeten all their lives.

. . .

They boom beyond the battered town;
   The hills are belching smoke;
And valleys charred and ranges brown
   Are quaking ’neath the stroke. 
The iron roar to Heaven swells,
    And domes and steeples nod;
Through cities vast and ferny dells
And village streets the clamant bells
   Are calling souls to God!

THE YOUNG LIEUTENANT.

THE young lieutenant’s face was grey.  As came the day.  The watchers saw it lifting white And ghostlike from the pool of night.  His eyes were wide and strangely lit.  Each thought in that unhallowed pit:  “I, too, may seem like one who dies With wide, set eyes.”

He stood so still we thought it death,
For through the breath
Of reeking shell we came, and fire,
To hell, unlit, of blood and mire. 
Tianced in a chill delirium
We wondered, though our lips were dumb
What precious thing his fingers pressed
Against his breast.

His left hand clutched so lovingly
What none might see. 
All bloodless were his lips beneath
The straight, white, rigid clip of teeth. 
His eyes turned to the distance dim;
Our sleepless eyes were all on him. 
He stirred; we aped a phantom cheer. 
The hour was here!

The young lieutenant blew his call. 
“God keep us all!”
He whispered softly.  Out he led;
And over the vale of twisted dead,
Close holding that dear thing, he went. 
On through the storm we followed, bent
To pelt of iron and the rain
Of flame and pain.

His wan face like a lodestar glowed
Down that black road,
And deep among the torn and slain
We drove, and twenty times again
He squared us to the charging hordes. 
His word was like a hundred swords. 
And still a hand the treasure pressed
Against his breast.

Our gain we held.  Up flamed the sun. 
“The ridge is won,”
He calmly said, and, with a sigh,
“Thank God, a man is free to die!”
He smiled at this, and so he passed. 
His secret prize we knew at last,
For through his hand the jewel’s red,
Fierce lustre bled.

THE ONE AT HOME.

Don told me that he loved me dear
   Where down the range Whioola pours;
And when I laughed and would not hear
   He flung away to fight the wars. 
He flung away—­how should he know
My foolish heart was dancin’ so? 
How should he know that at his word
My soul was trillin’ like a bird?

He went out in the cannon smoke. 
   He did not seek to ask me why. 
Again each day my poor heart broke
   To see the careless post go by. 
I cared not for their Emperors—­
For me there was this in the wars;
My brown boy in the shell-clouds dim,
And savage devils killin’ him!