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cal literature. Poland is in a most unfortunate position with reference to this war, as her territory is the natural theater of hostile activities. Before the war is over, and whatever its result, her wealth will be annihilated, her population decimated, her soil drenched in blood, and her sons incorporated in three hostile armies, killing off one another. Shall she not be compensated for this unexampled and innocent loss? Can she rely on the magnanimity or sense of justice of any of the Powers engaged in the war? History supplies a somber reply. She has counted vainly on justice and help and sympathy too many times to entertain any foolish hopes at present. She has to count on herself if she is to live. A people of over twenty millions, with a history ten centuries old, with a high and distinct culture, cannot afford to die simply because three militaristic and landgrabbing neighbors have so decreed. She has to meet them on their own terms, and she has been constantly asserting herself despite all oppression. Some of her political writers see a winning chance in a conflict like the present one. There is no doubt that the sympathies and help of the people of Poland are going to be a factor of great importance in the present struggle of supremacy between the Russian and the Germanic world. A considerable number of writers advise a decided pro-Austrian direction, a complete affiliation with the Dual Monarchy and a lifeand-death struggle against Russia. For the defeat of Russia may mean, if not an entire independence, then at least à concentration of the greater part of the Polish provinces under one sovereign power. The splitting of the nation into three parts under three different rules was the greatest calamity that I could have befallen Poland. It estranged the people from one another and made concerted action almost impossible. Although a victory of the Germanic forces over Russia would be a distinct gain to Poland, yet an overwhelming Prussian victory would be unfortunate, as the bulk of Poland might fall to Prussia, which in her spirit and manner is as offensive as Russia to a people of a refined spiritual culture and of republican inheritance. Moreover, the Poles have another common bond with Austria in their religion.

From the point of view of the Poles the ideal outcome of this present gigantic mix-up would be an independent Poland, which would act as a buffer between the ever-quarreling neighbors and would supply the balancewheel in the struggle for supremacy between the Russian and Germanic world. If this be unattainable at present, the next best solution of the Polish question would be a unification of the entire Polish nation into an autonomous unit under the sovereignty of AustriaHungary. Outside of the Pole's most vital and intense interest in his national existence, there is not anything which touches him more deeply than art and culture. He consequently would like to see the great Northern Bear defeated and pushed back to the wild forests of Russia, where he properly belongs; but it would make his heart bleed to see France or England beaten by Germany. hopes that France will recover her lost provinces and expand her benevolent and radiating cultural influence over Europe. A defeat of France is a defeat of civilization, and spells complete supremacy of sword and gross and brutal materialism over refinement and culture. Similarly, a victory of Germany over England is too horrid to think of. It would mean a destruction of political liberty, freedom of thought, initiative, and action, and the dominance of the insolent Prussian over the world. Even the Germans themselves, outside of Prussia, dread it as the greatest calamity. It would mean, incidentally, the deathknell to Holland, Denmark, Belgium, and Switzerland, and a destruction of their beautiful civilizations and free institutions.

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The present war bears within it all these possibilities. It is a bitter disappointment to all those who had faith in reason and culture to see the destinies of the world's greatest nations and their civilizations depend on the blind forces of passion and destruction. will be a still greater disappointment to Poland if, after the new political units emerge from the sea of dissolution and anarchy, she, having borne the brunt of a devastating three-cornered war, with all her population actively and passively engaged in it, should not gain a breath of freedom so passionately fought for during the last one hundred years.

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THREE POEMS
POEMS OF THE WAR

I-THE WAR OF KINGS

BY CLINTON SCOLLARD

From dawn to dusk reign horror and affiright,
And the sad night no healing respite brings;
In all its hideous panoply of might,

This is the war of kings!

The people are but pawns upon the board;

What of their wants, their woes, their sufferings?
Speak, Death, dark watcher both by field and ford,
In this grim war of kings!

Will history still repeat the sanguine past,
With all its trail of ruthless anguishings?
Oh, may this slaughter-carnival be the last-
The last dread war of kings!

II-WAR AND DEATH

BY HELEN COALE CREW

Two figures out of the gloom of despair on man's vision broke;

And one, colossal, brute-visaged, vengeful, and pitiless, spoke—

"I am War! And behold in the courts of the gods none is greater than I!
Earth quivers and reels at my gauntlet's touch, and the dome of the sky
Is shattered and torn by my trumpet's blare and the flash of my sword;
And man at my coming is fearful and fain of the help of the Lord.
Yea, black is the doom that I spread on the world, and the ruin is wide.
Man may pray himself dumb!

Can he slay me in fear who begot me in pride?".

But he, the other, benignant, pitying, quiet of breath,

Smiled, "You shall know me and fear me not. I am but Death !"

III-AMERICA

BY CONRAD AIKEN

We lay and smiled, to see our sky
So blue, so luminous with sun;
Lo, far off, wailed an ominous cry;
We heard a thunder of footsteps run

Under a darkness settling there,

Some huge and sinister wing's eclipse;
Smoke fouled the east; a baleful glare
Lightened beneath; and maddened lips
Took up that cry, while darkness stirred

And heaved, and like a wounded thing

Bled, by the utterance of one word
Which bade a myriad war-swords sing.

What murderous shadow troubled so

Our summer dream? . . The sunlight ceased.
A sick and fetid wind came slow

From the stale tenements of the east.

Brother to slay his brother rose,

The shambles fell, and from that gloom
Came the hoarse herded cry of those

Who blindly massed to fight for room.

Room! Give us air! A breathing space!
The sunlight and the land, for all!
Each lifted up a stifled face,

And battered door, and beat at wall,

And surged against resurgent horde
For space to sow his little seed.

Lo, they would plow the earth with sword,
Strew dead on earth that earth might feed.

And we where now our summer bliss?
From the stale tenements of the east
Stole fear lest we should come to this,
And prove us brother to the beast.

PROLOGUE

BY HERMANN HAGEDORN

Written for the opening of an outdoor stage at Boulder Farm, Chocorua, New Hampshire, and acted, as a prelude to an exhibition of Old English Folk-Dances, on July 18, 1914, with Professor George Pierce Baker, of Harvard University, as the Mountain Spirit.

From the distance THE SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAIN, a wild, shaggy, uncouth being, is seen coming, darting from tree to tree, from rock to rock, until with a leap he reaches the top of the boulder at left, back of stage.

THE MOUNTAIN SPIRIT: (Laughing derisively in the distance.) Ho, ho! What's here? Ho, ho! What game is on?

Humans! Ho, ho! Men! Women! Decked

and gay.

A crowd such as the cities know, beneath My boughs, my pines, my green and lowvoiced pines

A crowd!

(Savagely) What do they here? Their faces

say,

"We wait." For what? What do they think
my pines

Will wisely utter to that waning moon,
Death-stricken on th' unruffled blue of day,
That they sit there with quiet eyes, and wait?
Oh, foolish humans! Though my pines cry
low

Ultimate wisdom, and my grasses cry
Secrets, and my undying rivulets
Murmur the hidden meanings of the worlds-
Why should they wait? (Scornfully) They
cannot understand.

(He leaps from the rock to the stage.) What's this? A raked and rolled and tended place

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VOICE OF FAUSTUS:

Is this the face that launched a thousand ships

And burned the topless towers of Ilion?
Helen, make me immortal with a kiss!

THE MOUNTAIN SPIRIT :

Oh, voice of summer noon, crying among Roses for one brighter than rose may be ! Voice, voice, whence didst thou steal such love?

My flow'rs cry so when heavily the air Hums in midsummer noons, and odor calls To odor, light to shadow, gold to green, Azure to scarlet, and the sun to all!

(He breaks from his trance and leaps on a boulder, peering to right and

left.)

Voice, voice! Where art thou? Brother voice, where art thou?

(He comes forward slowly. From another direction another voice is heard.)

VOICE OF OTHELLO:

It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,—
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!—
It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood;
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.

Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then-put out the light:
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore
Should I repent me; but once put out thy light,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relume. When I have
plucked thy rose,

I cannot give it vital growth again,

It needs must wither: I'll smell it on the tree. Oh, balmy breath, that dost almost persuade Justice to break her sword! One more, one

more.

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THE MOUNTAIN SPIRIT :

Voice of my winter angers and despairs!
I did not know that man could speak in
tempest

And cry in wild and unavailing storm.
Ye voices, voices ! Kindred of my being!

I claim this plot of earth as mine alone
No more. Come, we will share it, you and I!
I and my pines shall watch about you here.
(Pause. Then beseechingly.)
Voices, return! Voices of love and pain!
Voices, return!
Voices, return!

Anger, despair, remorse! Voices of mirth and peace! (Dance music is faintly heard, growing louder.)

Music! And footsteps! Hark, my pines, they come !

Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill My poplar leaves with sunlight on the gray, thee, Dancing they come! Hail, children of my mirth!

And love thee after.

THE MOUNTAIN SPIRIT:

Oh, voice of night, when moon and stars are dark!

I have cried thus among the tumbled crags And treeless peaks. I did not know that man

(He darts toward the rear. As he cries, he darts deeper into the woods, crying the last words after he has disappeared in the thicket.)

The dancing feet! Hail, hail! They come ! Hail, hail!

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