Remembering John McCrae: 100 Years

One hundred years ago today, John McCrae lost his life to pneumonia in the No. 14 General Hospital in Wimereux, France. The struggle was not long, lasting less than four days from diagnosis to death.

A great deal of verse has been written in memory of McCrae. As far as I know, the first to have achieved publication is by Florence E. Westacott. Her "John M'Crae" appeared in the 13 February 1918 edition of the Toronto Globe, seventeen days after his death.

JOHN M'CRAE

                        He made for us the poppies glow
                                    In Flander's Fields
                        Forever we shall see them grow;
                        A crimson harvest row on row,
                                    They stand revealed. 

                        The torch back hurled with failing hand
                                    Is high upborne;
                        Its summons flaming land to land
                        Caught swift response from farthest strand
                                    Which greets the morn. 

                        All peacefully now the dead
                                    In Flanders Field,
                        Their course well run, their message sped;
                        The poppies bending overhead
                                    From guard and shield. 

                        Still flares the Spartan torch youths fling
                                    By Flanders Field,
                        But who the poet's song shall sing,
                        Or clearly strike that pulsing string
                                    His cold hands yield?

Related posts:

Canada's Great War Poets: John McCrae

A Poet Remembers Fallen Great War Poets: McCrae, Langstaff, Trotter, Seeger and Kilmer

Great War Christmas Verse from a Century Past

Lens, France
25 December 1917

A poem by Arthur Stringer from the December 1917 issue of Maclean's.

Christmas Bells in War Time 

                  From spire and tower, in silvery tune,
                       The chimes like birds take flight.
                  Where that golden boat, the moon,
                       Drifts slowly down the night.                     

                  Aloud, alert, alone they cease
                       And wake these midnight bells,
                  Proclaiming, through their calmer, Peace
                       Where Peace no longer dwells.                    

                  Yet chime by chime, like homing birds,
                       They float, soar up, recede,
                  A gust of old-time gladdening words
                       That back to Sorrow lead.                    

                  For as we listen, bell by bell,
                       They bring about us here
                  Our hotly dead who sleep so well
                       We dare not dream them near.                    

                  So be still blithe, O Bells, and gay.
                       Since through the old glad sound
                  Our dead come home this Christmas Day
                       From grave strewn Flanders' ground!

Related posts:

'Christmas 1916' by Robert Stanley Weir

A Century-Old Prayer for Christmas
Timely Verse from a Christmas a Century Past
Christmas Greetings from Gay Page

'Christmas in Heaven' by Isabel Ecclestone Mackay

Arthur Stringer Pines for Christmas
Miss Machar's 'The Call of Christmas - 1914'

Christmas Verse by the Master of All Poets

The Season's Best Books in Review – A.D. 1917: The String of Canadian Patriotism is Fingered

The "Globe 100" of its time, I've long been interested in the Globe & Mail's "Season's Best Books in Review," which ran annually in the early part of last century. Regulars may remember me writing about it here and here. After all these years, I thought I knew the feature, and so was taken aback by the opening paragraphs of the 1917 edition, published one hundred years ago today. Unlike others, it begins with a focus on children's books, as recommended by Miss Lillian Smith of Toronto's Reference Library. E. Boyd Smith's The Story of Noah's Ark tops the librarian's list, followed by new illustrated editions of Uncle Remus, The Black Arrow, Kidnapped, and The Prince and the Pauper.

The Great War, the subject of the three previous introductions, intrudes only briefly – "There are war books for boys, though Miss Smith declares that girls, too, read them constantly. One of the best of these is 'The Post of Honor' by Richard Wilson" – and then it's back to Pinocchio, The Real Mother Goose, and the "Mary Frances" books by Jane Sayre Fryer.

Lest anyone think Canadians were beginning to tire reading of the war, I point out that the most prominent element of the feature's first page is "The Dead," by early casualty Rupert Brooke.

Brooke was himself over two years dead by then. A more recent loss – May 7, 1917 – was Bernard Freeman Trotter, whom McClelland, Goodchild & Stewart positioned as "the Canadian Rupert Brooke." He wasn't, of course, which is not to say that his poems do not affect. Consider "A Kiss":

Several column inches are devoted to Trotter's lone book, Canadian Twilight and Other Poems of War and of Peace, which was published just in time for Christmas gift giving. It came in its own box.

Of the seventy-six books listed in the 1917 "Season's Best," twenty were about or directly inspired by the war... and of those, the one I'd most like to add to my collection is Crumps: The Plain Tale of a Canadian Who Went. A book I've put off buying for far too long, it was written and illustrated by editorial cartoonist turned soldier Louis Keene. He seems to have been a lucky man, but not lucky enough, returning from the war with a mangled right hand. Here's hoping he was a lefty.

Keene is one of ten Canadians whose books made the thirty-one title non-fiction list. An impressive showing, but it pales when compared to our poets:

The year 1917 has been fruitful of good verse. Poetry was given a marked impetus at the beginning of the year by the publication a few weeks before of John W. Garvin's "Canadian Poets" (McClelland, Goodchild & Stewart). This notable work, which as steadily made its way in Canada, the United States and Great Britain, was recently referred to by the editor of The Poetry Review, London England, as a "monumental collection," and as "the one permanent celebration of the jubilee of the British North American Provinces."

Such was the force unleashed by Garvin's "permanent celebration" (last printed in 1917) that Canadian poets took up all twelve spots, pushing aside Eliot's Prufrock, and other observations, Gurney's Severn and Somme, Sassoon's The Old Huntsman, and Other Poems, Yeats' The Wild Swan's at Coole, and posthumous collections by Alan Seeger and Edward Thomas. Lt Trotter's Canadian Twilight and Other Poems of War and of Peace is joined by:

In a Belgian Garden - F.O. Call
Marching Men - Helena Coleman
Irish Lyrics and Ballads by Rev James B. Dollard
The New Joan - Katherine Hale
Songs of Ukrania by Florence Randall Livesay
Idylls of the Dane - Irene Elder Morton
The Piper and the Reed - Robert Norwood
Songs from a Young Man's Land by Clive Phillips-Wolley
Carry On - Virna Sheard
The Shell - A.C. Stewart
Heart of the Hills - Albert Durrant Watson

The 1916 "Season's Best" had wonderful things to say about new talent Robert Norwood, and his praises continued to be sung in 1917, but it seems much of the love had moved on:

Of recent years no Canadian poet has made more solid progress than Albert D. Watson of Toronto. His 'Love and the Universe' (1913) established him among the leaders of the new school of Canadian verse; and 'Heart of the Hills', recently published, contains several poems of great originality and power. Of these, the most outstanding is 'To Worlds More Wide.' It is aglow with a divine spirit and message.

In best "Season's Best" tradition, Canadian fiction is given short shrift. The most that can be said is that the fiction list leads with an enthusiastic review of Ralph Connor's The Major:

There is in it every element required: noble men, lovely women, a villain or two; also the string of Canadian patriotism is fingered, not tone harped upon; and there is an attempt to show the influence on a man of his early training and environment.

Discussion of The Major is several paragraphs longer than any other novel. And why not? After all, Connor was then our biggest author, outselling even Gilbert Parker and L.M. Montgomery (whose Anne's House of Dreams failed to make the list).* Other novels considered to be of note include works by foreigners H.G. Wells, Mary Robert Rinehart, Arthur Conan Doyle, Joseph Conrad, Phyllis Bottome, J.C. Snaith, Stephen McKenna, William MacHarg and Edwin Balmer. I'm sorry to report that only one other Canadian novelist, Basil King, is so much as mentioned. The description of his latest, The High Heart, is brief: "A love story of a Canadian governess with the war as a background."

I'm not quite sold on The Major or The High Heart. This may have something to do with the 1916 "Season's Best" dismissal of Canadian fiction as stagnant and undeveloped. But then, under "Books for Juveniles," the feature's final section. I came upon a novel that sounds as exciting as anything by J.C. Snaith. I refer here to Frank Lillie Pollock's Northern Diamonds, described as "an exciting and realistic story of three Canadian boys – one a young medical student, a big Scotch-Canadian – who comes with a wondrous tale told him by a sick Indian of the discovery of diamonds found in the country north of the Abitibi River, a packet of which had been left in a certain cabin; the Indian leaving hurriedly on an alarm of smallpox, deserting the prospectors a like strait. The boys are, of course, fired with the idea of of resuming the precious stones. The account of the start with steel-shod toboggan, piled high with 'grub,' and on skates to fly the frozen waters; and carrying snowshoes for their many portages; the making of camps, the game shot, the perils of land and water; the fight with the ruffians who come to the cabin; an especially exciting chase after a deer by 'Jack Light'; the trapping of some black foxes; the fearful cold; all go to make up a capital boy's book for a holiday gift."

Indeed! This boy would like to receive a copy as a holiday gift.

But, I wonder, would Miss Smith approve?

Lillian Smith
1887-1983
RIP

* Other Canadian novels that did not make the list include Frank L. Packard's The Adventures of Jimmie Dale (not surprising) and Up the Hill and Over by Isabel Ecclestone Mackay (somewhat surprising), both of which are reviewed in my new book.

Related posts:

The Season's Best Books in Review – A.D. 1916

The Season's Best Books in Review – A.D. 1915;

Featuring the Best Canadian Book Ever Published

'Halifax in Ruins' by Stanley Burton Fullerton

Verse for the one hundredth anniversary of the Halifax Explosion by Stanley Burton Fullerton of Amherst, Nova Scotia. A carpenter by trade, the poet enlisted the month before his forty-seventh birthday. He was serving overseas at the time of the disaster.

Halifax in Ruins

It was on the sixth of December,
     The Day I never forget,
When steaming up our harbour,
     Came that Fatal Ship.

Then came the sound of fire
     What ever can it be?
It is on board that fatal ship,
     Loaded with that dangerous T.N.T.

Then came the roars like thunder,
     What ever can it be
Some thought it was the Germans
     From far across the sea.

Then came a flash like lightning,
     That swept over our town,
And crumbled up our buildings,
     And played them to the ground.

Then came the sound of weeping,
     And goals from everywhere.
My God! It is so dreadful to see
     Our loved ones perish there.

Then thousands came from everywhere,
     To help those loved ones in despair,
My God, To see that dreadful sight,
     With bodies strewn along the streets that night.

Such sights that were seen, can never be told
     From the ones that were rescuing those poor wounded souls.
Weeping and crying came from everywhere,
     And mothers offered up to God their favourite prayer.

The lights went out, the streets were dark,
     And groans were heard from every part.
Helping hands came from every where,
     To rescue those who were suffering there.

They toiled all night till break of morn,
     And then came down that dreadful storm.
And willing hands that worked so fast,
     Rescued those poor souls at last.

Doctors and nurses came from everywhere,
     Dressed the wound of the sufferers there.
In homes of comfort they were placed,
     With smiling courtesies on their faces.

The undertakers came from everywhere,
     And washed and dressed those who perished there.
Into their coffins they were laid,
     And taken to the resting place.

The tale of the rescuers can hardly be told,
     Of the brave ones, who worked in the storm and the cold.
They worked night and day and never gave up,
     Till the bodies were taken from under the stuff.

Here's to Capt. Harrison, who was thoughtful in mind,
     He saw there was danger in the ship that was moored.
So he cut her adrift and steamed out of the bay,
     And sailed her to safety, where no danger lay.

Now we come to the Steamer, that was ruined that day.
     Her anchor stock was blown two and a half miles away
Even box cars were blown across the wide waves,
     And her big guns were carried 'way out in the bay.

Now she is gone and will sail never more,
     Her big iron plates are all over out shores.
The game will be remembered for long years to come,
     The great wreck and ruin and sadness she done.

Now our people are cared for in huts everywhere,
     And their homes that were ruined, will soon be repaired.
And they will  be placed in their homes once more,
     And dwell by the harbour in peace ever-more.

Thanks to our Government, who thoughtfully responded
     Sending the needed with every-thing wanted.
In money and food stuffs that hastily came,
     To those who were homeless and deserving of same.

Even Australia responded to the call,
     And sent us their gold from that far off land.
To those who were suffering from that dreadful day
     And helped to build up their homes that were blown away.

And even dear England with her troubles at hand,
     She sent us assistance to built up the land
We'll never forget what she has done,
    And always be true to her. As true as the Sun.

Here's to the Star Spangles Banner that waves in the breeze,
     That stands for Liberty, over land and seas.
For the help they gave  in our time of need,
     And binds fighter the friendship for so noble a deed.

When the word was flashed across the line.
     That a helping and was needed.
How nobly the call was answered,
     From those true friends across the seas.

They sent us relief in abundance,
     It came from every-where.
To comfort our homeless loved ones.
     That were so sadly in despair.

Half of our town is lying in ruins,
     And our buildings are badly smashed.
But President Wilson says to build them up again
     And they will send over the cash.

Here's to that good old Union Jack,
     And to the Allies that are it'd defenders.
We thank the Star Spangled Banner
     For the help that they rendered.

The Union Jack and Stars and Stripes,
     I pray will always wave together,
God bless them for evermore,
     And our Maple Leaf Forever.

"Halifax in Ruin" appeared in the Fullerton's sixteen-page chapbook Poems (1918). It can be read in its entirety here, through the Internet Archive.

Note: "SGT. S.B. FULLERTON" is incorrect; in fact, the poet never rose above the rank of private. Let's just say it was a printer's error.

Related posts:

'Over the Top: Ypres, July 31, 1917', a Great War Poem

by 'Sgt. S.B. Fullerton, Returned Soldier'

Trotsky: The Accidental Terrorist

A Poet Remembers Fallen Great War Poets: McCrae, Langstaff, Trotter, Seeger and Kilmer

John Douglas Logan
1869 - 1929
RIP

On Remembrance Day, verse from one who survived in memory of those who did not.

The New Apocalypse and Other Poems of Days and Deeds in France
T.C. Logan
Halifax: T.C. Allen, 1917

The New Apocalypse: Passchendaele

On the centenary of the Second Battle of Passchendaele, verse by John Douglas Logan, 85th Battalion, Nova Scotia Highlanders, from his second volume, The New Apocalypse and Other Poems of Days and Deeds in France (Halifax: T.C. Allen, 1917):

Related posts:

Isaac Brock: 200 Years

'Over the Top: Ypres, July 31, 1917', a Great War Poem

by 'Sgt. S. B. Fullerton, Returned Soldier'

Canon Scott's Vimy Ridge Poem

'Autumn, 1917' and 'Autumn, 1917'

For this first day of the season, two century-old poems of the Great War, both titled "Autumn, 1917," both written by women on the homefront. The first, by Helena Coleman, the pride of Newcastle, Ontario, is found in her chapbook Marching Men (Toronto: Dent, 1917):

AUTUMN, 1917

(A.L.T.)

               We know by many a tender token
                    When Indian-summer days have come,
               By rustling leaves in branches oaken
                    And by the cricket's sleepy hum. 

               By aspen leaves no longer shaken,
                    And by the river's silvered thread,
               The oriole's swinging cup forsaken,
                    Emptied of music overhead. 

               By long slant lines on field and fallow.
                    By mellowing portals of the wood,
               By silences that seem to hallow
                    Inviting us to solitude.... 

               Are there young hearts in France recalling
                    These dream-filled, blue Canadian days,
               When gold and scarlet flames are falling
                    From beech and maple set ablaze? 

              Pluck they again the pale, wild aster,
                   The bending plume of golden-rod?
              And do their exiled hearts beat faster
                   Roaming in thought their native sod? 

              Dream they of Canada crowned and golden,
                  Flushed with her Autumn diadem?
              In years to come when time is olden,
                  Canada's dream shall be of them — 

              Shall be of them who gave for others
                   The ardour of their radiant years; —
              Your name in Canada's heart, my brothers,
                   Shall be remembered long with tears! 

              We give you vision back for vision,
                  Forgetting not the price you paid,
              O bearers of the world's decision,
                  On whom the nations' debt was laid! 

              No heart can view these highways glowing
                  With gold transmuted from the clod,
              But crowns your glorious manhood, knowing
                  You gave us back our faith in God.

Miss Coleman's poem also features in John W. Garvin's Canadian Poems of the Great War (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1917), in which we find another "Autumn, 1917." This one comes from the pen of Elizabeth Roberts MacDonald, sister to fellow poets Sir Charles God Damn, Theodore Goodrich, and William Carman Roberts.

AUTUMN, 1917 

                       The rain and the leaves together

                            Go drifting over the world;

                       Autumn has slipped his tether

                            And his flag of death unfurled. 

                       'Tomorrow — tomorrow — tomorrow — '

                            Hear how the grey wind cries!

                       Tomorrow the stark bare branches,

                            Tomorrow the steel-cold skies. 

                       The garnet leaves and the golden

                            Are tossed and trampled and thrown

                       As the hopes of man when the trumpets

                            Of crimson war are blown. 

                       Unleashed are the hounds of anguish

                            That hunt the heart of man

                       To tear its dream-bright garments,

                            To rend its valiant plan; 

                       Honour and valour, the priceless

                            Blood of our heroes slain, —

                       Shall their offering all be wasted,

                            Their sacrifice be vain? 

                       No; for the great ideal

                            For which our hearts have bled

                       Lives — by each field of honour,

                            Lives — by our countless dead; 

                       And a wind of Life is blowing,

                            A golden trumpet calls:—

                       'Rally — rally — rally, — 

                            Till the dark fortress falls!'

Related posts:

'A New Year comes white-winged, unstained, a star...':

Bethune Hallowell Bowen's 'The New Year, 1917 A.D.'

Verse from an April a Century Past:

Bernard Freeman Trotter's 'An April Interlude — 1917'

'Canada to England, July 1st 1917' by Horace Bray

'Over the Top: Ypres, July 31, 1917',

a War Poem by Sergeant Stanley B. Fullerton, Returned Soldier

Timely Verse from Christmas a Century Past:
Elizabeth Roberts MacDonald's 'A Christmas Star

'Over the Top: Ypres, July 31, 1917', a Great War Poem by 'Sgt. S. B. Fullerton, Returned Soldier'

Century-old verse by Stanley Burton Fullerton (1869-1952), resident of Amherst, Nova Scotia, from his self-published chapbook Poems (1918). The poet's spelling and punctuation are respected, as is his false claim to having achieved the rank of sergeant.

OVER THE TOP

Ypres, July 31, 1917 

Calm was the morning, not a Hun to be seen,

     As I peeped o'er the land which at one time was green

There in the distance, with a tangle and twine

     Lay the broken barbed wire of the German first line 

Peacefull it looks now, but, ah, they don't know

     That our Boys will be over, we have not long to go.

As I stood in the trench with my phone on my back,

     I looked at our boys who were soon to attack. 

You could tell by their faces, they were deeply in thought

     As you'll always see them before the battle is fought

I then heard a whisper, what's that I hear?

     It was passed by their Captain, is the signaller here. 

Yes, I replied, sir, he answered, thank you

     Two minutes, sir, for zero, it was time to stand to

In that two minutes, they filled the first line,

     Then a roll of great thunder and up went our mine. 

Oh, what an explosion it made one feel shocked

     As we stooped 'til it settled, Lord, how the ground rocked

Then, with a spring, a jump and a hop,

     Like pulled with a string we were over the top. 

Crash, bang, went our guns an unceasing clatter

     As the German first line we started to batter. 

It was like one long fire, with a bursting of shell 

     Nothing could be worse for him, no, not even hell, 

We reached their first line and were slashing them hard,

     Some called for mercy Oh, mercy comrad

With terror stricken faces they were trembling with fright,

     When we get to close quarters they've no heart to fight. 

Onward we went with a rush through the mud

     For our next obective which was, this time, a wood.

At this we were cautious, they had so many runs,

     We knew it was fortified with many machine guns. 

I spoke on my phone and warned my O. C.

     Fire on second target, sir, the big scraggy tree.

I'm going to fire now, he said, so take a good sight

     That is just about it, sir, try two degrees, right 

Got them, that's perfect let them have fifty rounds;

     I knew that would get them, they are running like hounds. 

Now for a smoke as calmly I stood

     Watching my shells burst into the wood. 

Then came a runner with a message that read

     Order all guns to lift, we will now go ahead.

Onward they went, some at the double

     Taking the same wood without so much trouble. 

Then came the report; our objectives are gained 

     The advance was completed so there they remained

It was now gettiug late and night drawing near

     So I found an old dug out, says I, I'l stop here. 

What a miserable feeling as I sat there alone 

     And smoked up my woodbine with my ear to the phone

Then laid my head on a dirty old sack

     Waiting, in case of a counter attack.  

It poured, Heavens hard, rained all through the night, 

     Wet through and slashed up, I did look a sight;

Moreover than that I was feeling half dead 

     Being forced to partake of some German black bread. 

Then came the next morning I was pleased to see light,

     Thanking God to myself for his guard through the night

On my phone came a call so I answered hello;

     A Battery, signaller, you may pick up and go. 

I then disconnected, put the phone on my back

     Then took a glimpse around to make sure of my track.

I braced myself up after picking my trace,

     Then set off in excitement, you bet, a good pace 

Firmiy I walked beneath the Hun's bursting shell

     I am in for a hot time, I know it quite well

Then eventually I reached my old battery once more

     I was pleased to sit down by my old dug out door 

I sat there thinking of what would come next

     I thought of the trenches so badly wrecked.

I have been in some battles but proved this the worst

     I will never forget YPRES on July thirty first

Related post:

'After Ypres' by Robert Stanley Weir

'Canada to England, July 1st, 1917' by Horace Bray

A 100-year-old poem for the sesquicentennial, written during the dark days of the Great War by Horace Bray of Thamesview, Ontario. A rector's son, the poet enlisted in the Canadian Over-Seas Expeditionary Force at the age of eighteen. He fought in the cavalry at the Ypres salient, and was badly wounded. After recovery, Bray joined the RAF. On July 9, 1918, he was killed in a mid-air collision over Shropshire, England.

This version of the poem is taken from John W. Garvin's anthology Canadian Poems of the Great War (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1918).

CANADA TO ENGLAND, JULY 1ST, 1917 

We hold the pride You held — and now we give

        New pride to add unto your garnered store,

New deeds beside the old ones, meet to live

        And pass into our hearts forevermore.

We do not boast: but we are proud this day

        That we have stood the stern and sudden test;

We too have done a little in the fray,

        And we have given of our little best.

We too have lost the ones we held most dear,

        And we are linked by a new bond of grief;

We too have fought against and mastered fear,

        We have sought comfort of the same Belief.

Men called you great, and feared your anger just —

        May we too know the strength of noble ire:

As all men honour you because they must,

        Teach us to grasp a little of your fire.

Now we are proud, and thankful that the Day

        That saw your testing, gave to us our trial,

To pay the debt our fathers fain would pay

        And chalk the even score upon the dial.

Mother and daughters now may journey forth

        Comrades in arms, along that better way

That comes with Peace, and things of nobler worth,

        And brings the dawning of a brighter day.

Perchance in days gone by, we thought you cold —

        You may have thought us childish still, and weak —

But now we know; we know your heart of Gold;

        We know the things you felt and could not speak.

And you, mayhap, have learned a little too,

        Of eager youth, impetuous to aid,

Impatient of delay, and quick to do,

       Too young, too ignorant, to be afraid.

O little Mother of the Island Race!

        O Mother-Mistress of the distant seas!

We heard your call, and proudly take our place

        Now by your side, no longer at your knees!

Horace Edgar Kingsmill Bray
1896-1918
RIP

Related posts:

'O Canada! beloved native land...'
'O Canada! our native land thou art!'
Patriotic Verse from the Garden of a Girl's Dreams
A 123-Year-Old Poem for Canada Day

Two Hurrahs for the New Dominion

Charles G.D. Roberts' Dominion Day Collect

Canon Scott's Vimy Ridge Poem

Verse written on the occasion of the greatest Canadian victory of the Great War by one who was there. This version of Scott's poem is taken from Canadian Poems of the Great War, edited John W. Garvin (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1918).

Related post:

Remembrance Day

Verse from an April a Century Past

Likely the penultimate poem by Toronto's Bernard Freeman Trotter – killed by a German shell the following month – from his posthumous A Canadian Twilight and Other Poems of War and Peace (Toronto: McClelland, Goodchild & Stewart, 1917).

Related posts:

Canada's Great War Poets: Bernard Freeman Trotter

'My Dad an' I': Into the future none may look...

'Ici Repose'

'A Kiss'

'The New Year comes white-winged, unstained, a star...'

Century-old jingoism to begin a New Year by Minnie Henrietta Bethune Hallowell Bowen (1861-1942) of Sherbrooke, Quebec, from John W. Garvin's anthology Canadian Poems of the Great War (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1918). During the conflict, Mrs Bowen served as President of the Sherbrooke Patriotic Association.

THE NEW YEAR, 1917 A.D.

Canada's National Service

          The New Year comes white-winged, unstained, a star
               Loosed from God's hand across a world of night!
          What thoughts await its coming from afar?
               What deeds shall quicken in its unknown light?

          All Time is God's — to give and to withhold!
               To men the power is given to use or waste —
          To turn the passing splendour into gold,
               Lasting and beautiful — or bid it haste.

          Dearer than jewels — bought with holiest blood —
               Are these few months God-given to our hand
          By Him whose might held back the threatening flood
               There at the Marne, that we might arm and stand.

          The grey tide swells apace — the nations fall
               Before its pitiless, embracing lust!
          Here at the threshold of another year —
               Still with God's gift of time — we face our trust!

          The bells are ringing in the quivering towers —
               The chimes are calling over glistening snow.
          The year is dawning in its awful powers —
               The hours are coming and the hours must go!

          These few, small days may be the last that wait
               On our decision! Riven ears may know
          The iron thunders of approaching Fate
               That closes Mercy's door and arms the Foe.

          Dear blood, outpoured for love of God and Man,
               Has drenched the far-off altar with its red,
          And heavenly fire that through the trenches ran
               Has wrapped the lives that suffered in our stead.

          How can we give enough — since they have died?
               Since they have lived — shall we not greatly live
          And know in life or death with holy pride
               No wealth of service is too much to give?

          The Call to Service! ringing loud and clear
               Beats in the angel pinions overhead —
          Still time is given that deadened ears may hear
               Before the final word of doom is said.

          Work! for humanity's sublimest goal!
               Fight! in a cause too great to be denied!
          Hear! for the Dead are speaking to your soul!
               Wake! for God calls the Nation to His side!

Related posts:

A Poet Laureate's 'Prayer for the New Year'
Decades-Old Verse for the New Year by E.J. Pratt

Temperance Verse for New Year's Day

An Old Poem for the New Year by Arthur Stringer

Immature Verse for the New Year

A New Year

'Christmas, 1916' by Robert Stanley Weir

from After Ypres and Other Poems

Robert Stanley Weir

Toronto: Musson, 1917

Related posts:

A Century-Old Prayer for Christmas
Timely Verse from a Christmas a Century Past
Christmas Greetings from Gay Page

'Christmas in Heaven' by Isabel Ecclestone Mackay

Arthur Stringer Pines for Christmas
Miss Machar's 'The Call of Christmas - 1914'

Christmas Verse by the Master of All Poets

A Century-Old Prayer for Christmas

from Canada First and Other Poems

James A. Ross

Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1920

Related posts:

Timely Verse from a Christmas a Century Past
Christmas Greetings from Gay Page

'Christmas in Heaven' by Isabel Ecclestone Mackay

Arthur Stringer Pines for Christmas
Miss Machar's 'The Call of Christmas - 1914'

Christmas Verse by the Master of All Poets

'A Canadian Day, September 15th, 1916'

Century-old verse by Captain Theodore Goodridge Roberts, younger brother of Sir Charles God Damn, inspired by the Canadian victory at Courcellette.

"A Canadian Day, September 15th, 1916" is one of two Roberts poems included in John W. Garvin's anthology Canadian Poems of the Great War (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1918).

Related posts:

Ruth Strong's 'The Campus - June, 1916'

A Poem for Mother's Day from the Great War

Timely Verse from Christmas a Century Past

Thanksgiving in the Midst of War

'After Ypres' by Robert Stanley Weir

The Gazette, 3 June 1916

One hundred year old verse by Montreal's Robert Stanley Weir from After Ypres and Other Poems (Toronto: Musson, 1917).

AFTER YPRES

June 3rd, 1916 

                                  Fight on, O Canada
                                       Fight on!
                                  Still arm thy valiant sons,
                                  Thy best and bravest ones,
                                       Still hangs our fate!
                                  Loud the far battle calls,
                                  Hasten ere Freedom falls!
                                       The hour is great
                                            Fight on! 

                                  Not for thyself alone,
                                  For bone of thine own bone,
                                       Thine own roof-tree!
                                  Fight for thy Motherlands,
                                  And for those other lands,
                                       That they be free.
                                            Fight on! 

                                  Strike, with free flag unfurl'd!
                                  Strike, with the risen world!
                                       Great battle wage!
                                  So shall the brood unborn
                                  At dawn of a new morn
                                       Have heritage.
                                            Fight on! 

                                  Fight on, O Canada,
                                       Fight on!
                                  For those who quiet lie
                                  Beneath another sky:
                                       Blood of thy blood;
                                       (Let them not die)
                                  Thy heroes battle-scarr'd
                                  Thy heroes glory-starr'd,
                                       Now with their God,
                                            Fight on!

The Gazette, 14 June 1916

Related post:

'The Easter Parade, 1915' by Robert Stanley Weir

The Battle of Ridgeway: 150 Years

Verse for this day, the sesquicentenary of the Battle of Ridgeway, by Archibald McKillop, the Blind Bard of Megantic, taken from his Collected Verse (Winnipeg: n.p., n.d.).

ONTARIO’S BRAVE DEFENDERS

(Suggested by the monument to those who fell at Ridgeway)

                              No cooler spread the maple shade
                                   By great Ontario’s waters,
                              Nor ever marshalled truer men
                                   The pride of wives and daughters,
                              Than on the day we lent our ear
                                   To news and rumour vendors.
                              To arms! To arms! the foe is near,
                                   Ontario’s Brave Defenders!

                              Then forward sped with dauntless tread
                                   Our troops, the bugle sounding,
                              To rally by their battle-drums
                                   The British flag surrounding.
                              No patriot or volunteer
                                   One cherished right surrenders.
                              To arms! To arms! the foe is near,
                                   Ontario’s Brave Defenders!

                              By war’s alarms when called to arms
                                   Went sternly forth to duty
                              A true, a tried, heroic band,
                                   The pride of worth and beauty;
                              When parting kiss or falling tear
                                   Foreboding thought engenders,
                              'Twas thus we felt when foes were near,
                                   Ontario’s Brave Defenders.

                              But never yet can we forget
                                   The kind farewells they bade us,
                              Those dear loved ones, who fought and fell
                                   By Ridgeway’s lengthened shadows.
                              The trump of war resounding clear —
                                   To rout the raid-pretenders
                              They rose to arms, our volunteers,
                                   Ontario’s Brave Defenders.

                              They come, they come, with muffled drum,
                                   The victor host returning;
                              A pall is spread around the dead,
                                   The country wrapped in mourning.
                              And lo! This sculptured stone appears,
                                   The gift a nation renders
                              To those departed volunteers,
                                   Ontario’s Brave Defenders.

                              And while we weep for those who sleep,
                                   And grateful mem’ries cherish,
                              From Canada, true Freedom’s shore,
                                   Let all invaders perish!
                              For nobler far than lords or peers
                                   Or knighted court-attenders,
                              Our true, our loyal volunteers,
                                   Ontario’s Brave Defenders.

                              And suns may gleam on lake and stream
                                   In peaceful calm reposing,
                              All echoes die beyond the hills
                                   When daylight’s eye is closing; —
                             But should the tocsin wake our ears
                                  Amid these glowing splendours,
                             To arms will rise our volunteers,
                                  Ontario’s Brave Defenders!

A Bonus:

The St. Catharines Constitutional
7 June 1866

Related posts:

Getting to the Fenian Raids

A Poet's Angry Word with the Fenian Brotherhood