A Ballad of France

France tells the story, make our hearts know well,
Christ His Figure stands against the gates of hell:
Flame and shot may rive the fortress walls apart,
Christ the Crucified will heal the breaking heart.

Wear Him day and night, wherever be the war,
(God save us evermore from Mars and Thor!)
Flag and heart that keep Him fear not shot and flame,
(Strengthen, Jesu, all who stand, calling Thy name).

* * *

Ye who guard a nation's call
And speed to arms therefor,
Ye who pray for brave lads gone
To perils of the war;
Soldiers of the fleet and fort
And mothers of our men,
In the shadow of the Cross
Shall we find peace again.

Michael Earls

Michael Earls, born on November 2, 1875, and died on November 7, 1937, was an American poet, playwright, and Jesuit priest. He was a prolific writer, contributing to numerous American periodicals and magazines. His works often explored themes of faith, nature, and human experience. He was known for his engaging style and profound insights into spirituality and everyday life. Earls had a significant influence on Catholic literature in America during the early 20th century.

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English

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A Ballad Of France

Ye who heed a nation's call
And speed to arms therefor,
Ye who fear your children's march
To perils of the war,--
Soldiers of the deck and camp
And mothers of our men,
Hearken to a tale of France
And tell it oft again.

* * *

In the east of France by the roads of war,
(God save us evermore from Mars and Thor!}
Up and down the fair land iron armies came,
(Pity, Jesu, all who fell, calling Thy name).

Pleasant all the fields were round every town,
Garden airs went sweetly up, heaven smiled down;
Till under leaden hail with flaming breath,
Graves and ashen harvest were the keep of death.

One little town stood, white on a hill,
Chapel and hostel gates, farms and windmill,
Chapel and countryside met the gunner's path,
Till ...

Michael Earls

Off To The War

(For Jack)


In a little ship and down the bay,
Out to the calling sea,
A young brave lad sailed off today,
To the one great war went he:
The one long war all men must know
Greater than land or gold,
Soul is the prince and flesh the foe
Of a kingdom Christ will hold.

With arms of faith and hope well-wrought
The brave lad went away,
And the voice of Christ fills all his thought,
Under two hands that pray:
The tender love of a mother's hands
That guarded all his years,
Fitted the armor, plate and bands,
And blessed them with her tears.


Older than Rhodes and Ascalon
And the farthest forts of sea,
Is the Master voice that calls him on
From the hills in Galilee:
From hills where Christ in gentle guise
Called...

Michael Earls

O Star Of France

O star of France!
The brightness of thy hope and strength and fame,
Like some proud ship that led the fleet so long,
Beseems to-day a wreck, driven by the gale - a mastless hulk;
And 'mid its teeming, madden'd, half-drown'd crowds,
Nor helm nor helmsman.

Dim, smitten star!
Orb not of France alone - pale symbol of my soul, its dearest hopes,
The struggle and the daring - rage divine for liberty,
Of aspirations toward the far ideal - enthusiast's dreams of brotherhood,
Of terror to the tyrant and the priest.

Star crucified! by traitors sold!
Star panting o'er a land of death - heroic land!
Strange, passionate, mocking, frivolous land.

Miserable! yet for thy errors, vanities, sins, I will not now rebuke thee;
Thy unexampled woes and pangs have quell'...

Walt Whitman

France, The 18th Year Of These States

A great year and place;
A harsh, discordant, natal scream out-sounding, to touch the mother's heart closer than any yet.

I walk'd the shores of my Eastern Sea,
Heard over the waves the little voice,
Saw the divine infant, where she woke, mournfully wailing, amid the roar of cannon, curses, shouts, crash of falling buildings;
Was not so sick from the blood in the gutters running--nor from the single corpses, nor those in heaps, nor those borne away in the tumbrils;
Was not so desperate at the battues of death--was not so shock'd at the repeated fusillades of the guns.

Pale, silent, stern, what could I say to that long-accrued retribution?
Could I wish humanity different?
Could I wish the people made of wood and stone?
Or that there be no justice in destiny or time?

O ...

Walt Whitman

Ode in Memory of the American Volunteers Fallen for France

(To have been read before the statue of Lafayette and Washington in Paris, on Decoration Day, May 30, 1916.)


I

Ay, it is fitting on this holiday,
Commemorative of our soldier dead,
When - with sweet flowers of our New England May
Hiding the lichened stones by fifty years made gray -
Their graves in every town are garlanded,
That pious tribute should be given too
To our intrepid few
Obscurely fallen here beyond the seas.
Those to preserve their country's greatness died;
But by the death of these
Something that we can look upon with pride
Has been achieved, nor wholly unreplied
Can sneerers triumph in the charge they make
That from a war where Freedom was at stake
America withheld and, daunted, stood aside.


II

Be the...

Alan Seeger

Flowers Of France' Decoration Poem For Soldiers' Graves, Tours, France, May 30, 1918

Flowers of France in the Spring,
Your growth is a beautiful thing;
But give us your fragrance and bloom -
Yea, give us your lives in truth,
Give us your sweetness and grace
To brighten the resting-place
Of the flower of manhood and youth,
Gone into the dust of the tomb.

This is the vast stupendous hour of Time,
When nothing counts but sacrifice and faith,
Service and self-forgetfulness.    Sublime
And awful are these moments charged with death
And red with slaughter.    Yet God's purpose thrives
In all this holocaust of human lives.

I say God's purpose thrives.    Just in the measure
That men have flung away their lust for gain,
Stopped in their mad pursuit of worldly pleasure,
And boldly faced unprecedented pain
And dangers, without thin...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox