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pN AT.T. ases and In every country
Mars has rivaled "Venus In pro
viding themes inspiring to poets.
. Fascinating- as are the pages of his
tory, it is sale to assert that more
men and women have gathered
vivid Impressions of warriors and
wars from the lyric celebration of
these persons and events than from
the more substantial prose chron
icles. Martial music is not alone that
which Is supplied by fife and drum.
Musicians whose Instruments are
but words and rhythm have been
able to make their message ring in
the hearts of men and to stir emo
tions as deep and passionate
those which sound the response to
the tramping of regiments, the mil
itary hand and the thrilling note of
the bugle.
The pride of war is perhaps no
where - more . sharply limned in -verse
than in Browning's much
loved poem "Incident of the French
Camp," in which the dramatic qual
ity of the ..French soldier stands
out in such sharp relief against
the stern and terrible background
of death on the field:
INCIDENT
OF THE
CAMP. ;
Tou know we French stormed Rat
isbon; A mile or so away.
On a little mound. Napoleon
Stood on our stormy day;
With head outthrust, you fancy
1 how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.
Just as, perchance, he mused:
pans
That soar to earth may fall.
Let once njy army leader Lannes
Waver at yonder wall,"
Out "twixt the battery smoke there
flew
A rider, bound on bound.
Full galloping, nor bridle drew
Until he reached the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling joy.
And held himself erect
By just his horse's neck, a boy;
You hardly -could suspect
(So tight he kept his lips com
pressed Scare any. blood came -through)
You looked twice ere you saw his
breast
Was all but shot in two.
"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by
God's grace
We've got you, Hatisbon!
The Marshal's in the market place.
And you'll be there anon.
To see your flag-bard flap his vans
Where I, to heart's desire.
Perched him!" The chief's eye
flashed, his plans
Soared up again like fire.
The chief's eye flashed; but pres-
ently
Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother eagle's eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes,
"Your wounded!" "Nay," the sol-
dier's pride.
Touched to the quick, he said:
"I'm killed, aire," and his chief
beside.
Smiling the boy fell dead.
THE SWORD SONG.
By Charlea Theodore Koraer.
"The Sword Song," written
by
Charles Theodore Sorner, a German
poet, who fell in battle when he was
only 22 years old, is. shrill with the
wild joy of an older age of fighters,
many of whom appeared to rejoice
in the fight for its own sake. The
sword song was found in his pockets
as he lay dead on the field. It
afterward became a great favorite
with German youths and has been
used as a serenade by students of
the universities and other bands of
young men.
Sword by my left side gleaming.
What means thy bright eyes' beam
ing? It makes my spirit dance
To see thy friendly glance.
Hurrah!
. "A valiant rider bears me;
A free-born German wears me;
That makes my heart so bright;
Urn
I Mara has rivaled Venus In pro- , -, . liiaP . - """Vf " -Vw
That is tha iword'l delifllt." a tJj9 " TV" (Be bleaslngs on the
Hurral,! ,11 .... .
Yes, good sword, I am free.
And love thee heartily,
And. clasp thee to my side,
E'en as a plighted bride. .
Eurrah! .
The trumpet's solemn warning
Shall hail the bridal morning
When cannon thunders wake
Then my true bride I take. -Hurrah!
Why in the scabbard rattle.
Bo wild, so fierce for battle
What means this restless glow
That makes me tremble so?
Hurrah!
"Let me not longer wait;
Love's garden blooms in state.
With roses bloody red
And many a bright deathbed."
Hurrah!
Now, then, come forth, my bride!
Come forth, thou rider's pride!
Come out, my good sword, come!
Hurrah!
"Oh, in the field to prance
The glorious wedding danoe!
How, in the sun's bright beams.
Bridelike the clear steel gleams."
Hurrah!
Then forward, valiant fighters!
And forward, German riders!
And when the heart grows cold.
Let each his love unfold.
Hurrah!
Then let your hot lips feel
That virgin cheek of steel;
One kiss, and woe betide
Him who forsakes the bride!
Hurrah!
Now let the loved one sing;
Now let the clear blade ring,
Till the bright sparks shall fly.
Herald of victory!
Hurrah!
For hark! the trumpet's warning
Proclaims the marriage morning;
It dawns in festal pride.
Hurrah, thou Iron bride!
Hurrah!
NASEBT.
A favorite war poem of English
and American 'schoolboys, as well as
those of older growth, is the "Nase
by" of Maeanlay, which with such
energy and fervor and in such ring
ing accents sets forth the valorous
spirit of the old Roundheads:
Oh, wherefore come ye forth in tri
umph from the nort 4
With your hands, and your feet,
and your raiment all red?
And. wherefore 'doth your rout send
forth a joyous shout?
And. whence be the grapes of the
wine press which ya tread?
Oh, evil was the the root, and bitter
was the fruit.
-And crimson was the juice of the
vintage that we trod;
For we trampled on the throng of
the ha eighty and the strong.
Who sat in the high places and
slew the saints of God.
It was about the noon of a glorious
day in June,
That we saw their banners dance
and their cuirasses shine.
And the man of blood was there
with his long scented hair.
And Astley. and Sir Marmaduke,
and. Rupert of the Rhine.
Like at servant of the Lord, with his
Bible and his sword.
The General rode along as to
form us for the fight.
When a murmuring sound broke out
THE SUNDAY OREGOXIAX, . PORTLAND, OCTOBER 18, 1914.
V 4iiK'rZ , - only saw a cap of hair.
and swell'd into a hout
Among the godless 'lorsemen
upon the tyrant's right.
And hark, like the roar of billows
on the shore.
The cry of battle rises along their
charging line;
For God! for the cause! for the
church! for the laws!
For Charles, King of England,
and Rupert of the Rhine.
The furious German comes, with his
clarions and his drums.
His bravoes of Alsatia and pages
of Whitehall;
They are - bursting on our flanks:
Grasp your pikes! Close your
ranks!
For Rupert never comes but to
conquer, or to fall.
They are here they rush on we
are broken we are gone
Our left is borne before them like
stubble on the blast,
O Lord, put forth thy might; O
Lord defend the right!
Stand back to back in God's name!
and fight it to the last!
Stout Skippen" bathe a wound the
center 'hath given ground.
Hark! Hark! what means the
tramping of horsemen on our
rear?
Whose banners do I see, boys? Tis
he! thank God. 'tis he, boys!
Bear up another minute! Brave
Oliver is here!
Their heads all stooping low, their
points all In a row.
Like a whirlwind on the trees,
like a deluge on the dikes.
Our cuirassiers have burst on the
ranks of the accurst.
And at a shock have scattered the
forest of his pikes.
yB MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
There are few more ringing songs
of war in any language than the
well-known apostrophe of Thomas
Campbell to the men of the British
navy: .
Ye mariners of England
That guard our native seas!
Whose flag has braved, a thousand
1 rears,
The battle and the breeie!
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe.
And sweep through the deep.
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirit of your fathers
Shall start from every wave
For the deck it was their field of
fame.
And ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow.
As ye sweep through the deep.
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and
long
And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks.
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain
waves.
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below
As they roar on the shore.
When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and
long
And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger's troubled night depart.
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name.
When the storm has ceased to
blow;
When the fiery fight Is heard no
more.
And the storm has ceased to blow.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
FROM THE CHRONICLE OF THE
DRUM.
By William Makepeace Tmaekarar.
Only the latter part of the poem,
in which Thackeray seta forth the .
tragic futility and wast of war, la
given here:
Last year, my love. . it was my hap
Behind a grenadier to be..
And but he wore a hairy cap.
No taller man, methlnks, than me.
Prince Albert and
wot!
the Queen, - God
tear"
glorious
Your orthodox historian puts
In foremost rank the soldier thus.
The red-coat bully in his boots.
That hides the march of men
- . from us.
He puts him there in foremost rank;
You wonder at his cap of hair;
You hear his saber's cursed clank;
His spurs are jingling everywhere.
Go to! I hate him and his trade,
Who bade us so to cringe and
bend.
And all God's peaceful people made
To such as him subservient?
Tell me. what find we to admire v
In epaulets and scarlet coats.
In men because they load and fire.
And know the art of cutting
throats?
And what -care
wrack,
How Kings and heroes rise and
fall?
Look yonder. In his coffin black.
There lies the greatest of them
all!
To pluck him down and keep him up
Died many million human souls;
'Tis 12 o'clock and time to sup;
Bid Mary heap the fire with coals.
He captured many thousand guns;
He wrote "the Great" before his
name;
And, dying, only left his sons
The recollections of his shame.
'Though more than half the world
was his.
He died without a rood his own.
And borrowed from his enemies
Six foot of ground to lie upon.
He fought a thousand glorious wars.
And more than half the world was
his.
And somewhere now, in yonder
stars,
Can tell mayhap what great
ness is.
THE SONG OF THE CAMP.
By Bayard Taylor.
"Give us a song," the soldiers cried.
The outer trenches guarding.
When the heated guns of the camps
allied
Grew weary of bombarding.
The dark. Redan, in silent scoff.
Lay, grim and threatening, under;
And the tawny mound of the Mala
keff No longer belched its thunder.
There was a pause. A guardsman
said:
"We storm the forts tomorrow.
Sing while we may; another day
Will bring enough of sorrow."
They lay along the battery's aide,
Below the smoking cannon:
Brave hearts from Severn and from
Clyde.
And from the banks of Shannon.
They aang of love and not of fame;
Forgot waa Britain's glory:
- Each heart recalled a different
name.
But all sang "Annie Laurie."
Voice after voice caught up the song
Until Its tender passion
Rose like an anthem, rich and
strongs
Their battle eve confession.
Dear girl, her name he dared not
speak.
But as the too; grew loader.
Something upon the soldler'a cheek
r'jfllgT,aWilialWiffil
Washed off the stains of powder.
Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers.
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.
And once again a fire of hell
Rained on the Russian quarters.
With scream of shot and burst ot
shell.
And bellowing of the mortars!
And Irish Nora's eyes are dim
For a singer dumb and gory.
And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of "Annie Laurie."
Sleep, soldiers, still in honored rest.
Your truth and honor wearing;
The bravest are the tendereat.
The loving are the daring.
CAVALRY SONG.
By Edmund ClareHce Stedmu.
In the "Cavalry Song" from "Alice'
of Monmouth," the wild clamor of
battlefields finds an expressive echo:
Our good steeds snuff the evening
air;
Our pulses with their purpose
tingle;
The foeman's fires are twinkling
there:
He leaps to - hoar our sabers
' - jingle;
HALT!
Each carbine sends its whizzing
baU;
Now, cling, clang, forward all.
Into the fight!
Dash on beneath the smoking dome;
Though level lightnings gallop
nearer!
One look to heaven! No thought of
home:
The guerdons that we bear 'are
dearer.
CHARGE!
Cling! Clang, forward all!
Heaven help those whose horses
fall!
Cut left and right.
Now, comrades, bear our wounded
back.
And leave the foeman to his
dirges.
. WHEEL!
The bugles sound the swift recall;
Cling! Clang! backward all;
Home, and good night.
Indians Xow in France.
The Indian troops on the battle
line in France furnish one of the
most ' picturesque features In the
war of the nine nations.
The British force In India num
bers about 76.000; the native con
tingent 160,000. besides 36.000 re
serves and 20,000 troops of native
Princes. As all heavy artillery is
British-manned, a field division
consists df mixed units ' totaling
3708 British and 9168 natives, long
accustomed , to fighting aide by
side. Deducting garrisons and. de
tails, the field army la 150,000 men.
About half of this is probably in
France, say 20,000 British and 65.
000 native troops.
And what an army! Jts native
contingent belongs mainly to a
civilization that waa old when
Germany waa a forest and the
early . Brltona stained their naked
bodies blue with. woad. The San-'
scrlt elements of their speech are
the parent tongue of Aryan Eu
rope. There are no better cold
weather troops than the Northern
Indian army, with its many veter
ans of Chltral and high Tibet.
There is no army of the size that
had such field practice!
The hope that India would grasp
the- present opportunity to strike
for home rule waa destined to dis
appointment. Home rule for India
is a long way off until the Indians
settle which race shall do the
ruling. Meanwhile the keen little
Ghurkas and the Sikhs and the
bearded Mahrattaa turbans, casts
marks, brilliant costumes, dark,
fierce faces, as If they had just
stepped out of a Kipling story
tread the soil of -Europe for the
first time In the cause of the Brit
ish "raj" and Its allies. It is a
precedent not likely to be forgot
ten In Europe or India. New York
World,
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