If this thing be and no new world
Rise from the old dead world beneath,
Then morning's chaplet seven-pearled
Is made the bauble-crest of death;
All dreams belied, all vows made void,
Pale Hope a wingless fugitive,
And man a stumbling anthropoid--
Can these things be if England live?

If England live, the anarch tide
Shall lose itself among her waves,
And the grey earth be glorified
By the young blossom on her graves;
And by her grace no power shall part;
Fulfilment from the dreams that were,
If still the music of her heart
Be theirs who lived and died for her.

D.M.S.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE DOVE AT SEA.

BIRD OF PEACE. "EXCUSE ME, BUT IS THIS THE ARK?"

MAN OF WAR. "DUNNO NOTHIN' ABOUT NO ARK; BUT WE'RE FOR ARK-ANGEL, IF
THAT'S ANY USE TO YOU."]