dyes it white--
The Hope that makes it shine.

We are they whose bugle rings,
That all the wars may cease;
We are they will pay the Kings
Their cruel price for Peace;
We are they whose steadfast watchword
Is what Christ did teach--
"Each man for his Brother first--
And Heaven, then, for each."

We are they who will not falter--
Many swords or few--
Till we make this Earth the altar
Of a worship new;
We are they who will not take
From palace, priest or code,
A meaner Law than "Brotherhood"--
A lower Lord than God.

Marching down to Armageddon--
Brothers, stout and strong!
Ask not why the way we tread on
Is so rough and long!
God will tell us when our spirits
Grow to grasp His plan!
Let us do our part to-day--
And help Him, helping Man!

Shall we even curse the madness
Which for "ends of State"
Dooms us to the long, long sadness
Of this human hate?
Let us slay in perfect pity
Those that must not live;
Vanquish, and forgive our foes--
Or fall--and still forgive!

We are those whose unpaid legions,
In free ranks arrayed,
Massacred in many regions--
Never once were stayed:
We are they whose torn battalions,
Trained to bleed, not fly,
Make our agonies a triumph,--
Conquer, while we die!

Therefore, down to Armageddon--
Brothers, bold and strong;
Cheer the glorious way we tread on,
With this soldier song!
Let the armies of the old Flags
March in silent dread!
Death and Life are one to us,
Who fight for Quick and Dead!

_Edwin Arnold._

Picciola

It was a sergeant old and gray,
Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage.
Went tramping in an army's wake
Along the turnpike of the village.

For days and nights the winding host
Had through the little place been marching,
And ever loud the rustics cheered,
Till every throat was hoarse and parching.

The squire and farmer, maid and dame,
All took the sight's electric stirring,
And hats were waved and staves were sung,
And kerchiefs white were countless whirring.

They only saw a gallant show
Of heroes stalwart under banners,
And, in the fierce heroic glow,
'Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannas.

The sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs,
Where he behind in step was keeping;
But, glancing down beside the road,
He saw a little maid sit weeping.

"And how is this?" he gruffly said,
A moment pausing to regard her;--
"Why weepest thou, my little chit?"