Read Ebook: A Brief Account of the Educational Publishing Business in the United States by Pulsifer William Edmond

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Letter From the King of Belgium Translation I Take Off My Hat to Albert The Kaiser's Favorite Poems Louvain The Kaiser's Bhoys Mothers In the Trenches The Christ-Child God's New Year's Gift Trouble in the Louvre "Bobs" of Kandahar Song of the Zeppelin "Sock it to 'Em" Langemarck The Bugle Call His Mission Achilles' Tomb The Chrism of Kings Tipperary Gather the Harvest The Kaiser's "Place in the Sun"

LETTER FROM THE KING OF BELGIUM

TRANSLATION

LA PANNE, August 11th, 1915.

OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY TO THE KING AND QUEEN .

SIR:

The very delicate words you have found to express to the King your friendly feelings have greatly touched His Majesty.

The Sovereign, Who has much admired the beautiful illumination adorning the verses composed in His honor, commands me to thank you sincerely and to say that He will be glad to keep this valuable souvenir.

To DR. THOMAS O'HAGAN, Ottawa.

I TAKE OFF MY HAT TO ALBERT

THE KAISER'S FAVORITE POEMS

What are the Kaiser's favorite poems? Well, now, you tax me hard: I know the Kaiser's favorite drink But do not know his bard; I'm sure it is not Schiller Who reigns in German homes. Nor yet Olympian Goethe, Who writes the Kaiser's poems.

Perhaps that Heinrich Heine Has touched the Kaiser's soul; Or Arndt with his trumpet call Like a new conscription roll; Or, Walther von der Vogelweide With his nest in mythic domes, Is the author and creator Of the Kaiser's favorite poems.

If I saw the Kaiser's library I'd know well what he reads-- The color of his fancy And the prompter of his deeds: I'd learn the depth and wisdom Of his theories and his gnomes, If I got but just a glance or two At the Kaiser's favorite poems.

Then let us go to Essen, Where the Kaiser's books are bound; They are full of "steel" engravings-- All "best sellers" there are found; For the Prussian soul and spirit Speaks in rhythm thro' those tomes, And these without a question, Are the Kaiser's favorite poems.

LOUVAIN

A shrine, where saints and scholars met And held aloft the torch of truth, Lies smouldering 'neath fair Brabant's skies, A ruined heap--war's prize in sooth! The Pilates of Teutonic blood That fired the brand and flung the bomb Now wash their hands of evil deed, While all the world stands ghast and dumb.

Is this your culture, sons of Kant, And ye who kneel 'round Goethe's throne? To carry in your knapsacks death? To feel for man nor ruth nor moan? What 'vails it now your mighty guns If God be mightier in the sky? What 'vail your cities, walls and towers If half your progress be a lie?

The smoking altars, ruined arch Of ancient church and Gothic fane Have felt the death stings of your shells, And speak in pity thro' Louvain. Wheel back your guns, your howitzers melt, Forget your "World-Power's" cursed plan And sign in peace and not in blood Dread Sinai's pact 'twixt God and Man.

THE KAISER'S BHOYS

MOTHERS

Through the vigils deep of the sable night A mother sits in grief alone, For her sons have gone to the battle front And left on the hearth a crushing stone. Beyond the stars that burn at night She sees God's arm in pity reach; It counsels patience, love and faith, Heroic hearts and souls to teach.

The blue is spann'd and the tide goes out. And the stars rain down a kindlier cheer; And the mother turns from this throne of grief To pierce the years with a joyous tear; For duty born of a mother's heart Fills all the rounds of our common day-- Yea, sheds its joy in the darkest night, And fills with light each hidden way.

IN THE TRENCHES

All day the guns belched fire and death And filled the hours with gloom; The fateful music smote the sky In tremulous bars of doom; But as the evening stars came forth A truce to death and strife, There rose from hearts of patriot love A tender song of life.

A song of home and fireside Swelled on the evening air, And men forgot their battle line, Its carnage and dark care; The soldier dropp'd his rifle And joined the choral song, As high above the tide of war It swept and pulsed along.

That night while sleeping where the stars Look down upon the Meuse, Where Teuton valor coped with Frank, Where rained most deadly dews, A soldier youth, in khaki clad, Rock'd where the maples grow, Smiled in his dream and saw again The blue St. Lawrence flow.

THE CHRIST-CHILD

Across the waste, across the snow, O the pity! O the pity! Past sentinel of friend and foe O the pity! O the pity! Comes the Christ-Child clad in white Through the storm-clouds of the night. Bearing in His lily hands Gift of peace to warring lands, O the pity! O the pity!

Lay your sceptres at His feet, O the pity! O the pity! Christ, the Babe of Bethlehem, greet, O the pity! O the pity! Legions stretched in battle line, Saw the star and knew the sign, Yet forgot that Christ was born Prince of Peace, on Christmas morn, O the pity! O the pity!

Christmas, 1914.

For Mrs. George McIntyre.

GOD'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT

What shall the coming year bring forth, O Lord, who rulest the land? For the navies of the sea and air Are but stubble in Thy hand. The battalions in the field go forth; They arm in mighty line; Do they kneel to know Thy holy will? Have they asked from Thee a sign?

The kings invoke Thy holy name, In their carnage and their strife; But the purple gift it was Thine to give Recks not of pity nor life: For they're drunk with the wine of lustful power, And seared with the sins of earth; And their prayers and preachments now mock Thy name, And make of Thy laws but mirth.

January 1, 1916.

TROUBLE IN THE LOUVRE

When the German troops were marching with the Uhlans far ahead, The objective point being Paris, as the Berlin wireless said, There was trouble in the Louvre, 'mong the paintings on the walls, There were shoutings 'cross the centuries, there were loud artistic calls; "Mona Lisa" ceased her smiling and "The Banker and His Wife" Turned to Millet's "Women Gleaning"--begged protection for their life; While "The Gypsy Girl" of Franz Hals, fearful of impending fate, Roused "The Shepherds in Arcadia" with "The Hun is at the Gate!"

Then the panic spread on all sides till the battle of the Marne Solved all danger of the looting, removed all need to warn; Straight "The Lace Maker" from Flemish Bruges in the joyous choral led Smiled at "Charles First of England" who had lost his crown and head; For fear had left the Louvre when the Teutons turned in flight, So they scanned the sky no longer for dread Zeppelins in the night. And the paintings born of centuries touched by genius into life Still are hanging in the Louvre 'mid war's clash and clang and strife.

"BOBS" OF KANDAHAR

Who is he that cometh to join our mighty dead? Is it "Bobs" of Kandahar the Empire's armies led? Give him place, O Nation great! within your storied walls; Within our heart his name shall rest, his ashes in St. Paul's. Soldier of the Empire, Bobs of Kandahar! Lay him near the hero of glorious Trafalgar! Death has ta'en the shining sword he aye in duty drew; Lay him near the Iron Duke of fateful Waterloo!

Soldier of the Empire, well thy work was done, Fit thy sun had setting within sound and roar of gun; Thy soul had vision of the years fraught with danger's woe, And counsell'd arm?d wisdom against a subtle foe; Now thy task has ended, the splendor of thy sun, Sheds its setting glory on the greater life begun, From where the Maple stands in pride to India's torrid star, Now, mourn an Empire's people for "Bobs" of Kandahar!

SONG OF THE ZEPPELIN

I cleave the air through the murky night, High o'er the forests and sleeping towns; Below me drifts the shimmering light-- A glorious fresco on vale and downs; My sea hath no billows nor rocky shores, And only the winds disturb my soul; I care not for those who slumber in death, For my bomb is bloody and death my goal-- And all for the Vaterland!

Where the currents cross and the cruisers speed I sail towards the North in a piteous sky; I hear the night wind's surging note As it mingles its requiem with the widow's cry. Above me there streams a light from heaven, But I bow my head and veil my eyes As I plough the fields with my fateful keel And sow the highways with tears and sighs-- And all for the Vaterland!

And hate is the banner I unfurl so wide That its blood-dripp'd folds may catch the breeze; That e'en from the balcony of heaven on high May be seen this banner on all the seas. No triumph of arms is my flight by night, It is only a part of a murderous raid: Dropping a bomb on an innocent child Or a crowing babe in its cradle laid-- And all for the Vaterland!

"SOCK IT TO 'EM"

Yes, Wilhelm, sure you'll get it, The storm is o'er your head; It is bursting in the trenches And you're just as good as dead. You put your foot on Belgium And defied your fate and doom, And now the whole world hates you And the cry is "Sock it to 'em!"

True, your Taubchens still are sailing, But your battleships are not; They are coop'd up in a corner Save the submerg'd ones that fought. You are saving time and fuel, But you're sad and filled with gloom, For the very winds are whispering "Blow hard and sock it to 'em."

You have sought more spacious realm In the free and genial sun: Has your sceptre widened any With the salvo of each gun? Your "World-Power" seems to narrow, And your hope lies in a tomb, While dark Fate weaves your chaplet And whispers "Sock it to 'em!"

LANGEMARCK

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