C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Herbert Gardner, Lord Burghclere (1846–1921)
Poems of the Great War: Aftermath
Y
Slain by a Prussian bullet as he led
The men that loved him—dying, cheered them on—
My son, my eldest son. So be it, God!
No time for sombre draperies of woe.
Let the aggressors weep! for they have sinned
The sin of Satan. Lust of power and pride,
Mean envy of their neighbors’ weal, a plot
Hatched amidst glozing smiles and prate of peace
Through the false years; until the Day, the Day
When all this worship at the Devil’s feet
Should win the world. Ay, let them weep!
But we
With eyes undimmed march on; our mourning robes
Be-jewelled by the deeds of those that die,
Lustre on lustre, till no sable patch
Peeps through their brilliance.
In the years to come
When we have done our work, and God’s own peace,
The Peace of Justice, Mercy, Righteousness,
Like the still radiance of a summer’s dawn,
With tranquil glory floods a troubled world;
Why then, perhaps, in the old hall at home,
Where once I dreamed my eldest-born should stand
The master, as I stand the master now,
Our eyes, my wife, shall meet and gleam, and mark
Niched on the walls in sanctity of pride,
Hal’s sword, Dick’s medal, and the cross he won
Yet never wore. That is the time for tears,
Drawn from a well of love deep down; deep down,
Deep as the mystery of immortal souls,
That is the time for tears; not now, not now!