Lines

Again we gather here,
Beneath the aegis of a sacred name,
To hold our feast, and with our altar-flame
Signal the passage of the furtive year.
Alas, how small our gifts, how light appear
Our vows, our songs, the words that we declaim!
While o'er the tortured nations from afar
Rolls the hot breath of universal war.

Yet must I speak—Again we dedicate
Ourselves, our children and our country's fame
To Her from whom our earliest welcome came.
Once more—but now in arms—we kneel,
Like Joan of Arc in shining steel
A Sword to consecrate
To France, and to the Cause that makes her great!

And even while we hold our holiday
The Allied ranks in fierce array
Press on the foe like huntsman on the prey:
The Wild Boar of the North is brought to bay!

Hark, did you hear the triumph in the air?
Horns and halloos—a universal shout.
The hunters have him: he has turned about:
The Teuton beast is lurching toward his lair.
The boar is sorely wounded; but beware!
Strike, when you strike, to kill! For in his eye
Cunning and Hatred shine, a ghastly pair!
Which of these passions is the last to die,
When both are linked together by despair?

'Tis not alone the havoc; but his breath
Spreads desecration o'er mankind.
Beware lest in his gasp of death
The German leave behind
A sting to hurt the heart of man
Worse than his living fury can—
The poison of his mind.

When shall the shepherd sup in peace once more,
Or tend his trellis unafraid
While children play about the farmhouse door,
Or cows at even watch the river
Beneath the elm-tree's shade?
Is heart's ease gone forever?
Must there be newer anguish, endless strife?
Ah, huntsman draw the knife
That kills the creature at the core!
Plunge the bright truncheon and restore
The bloom to human life.