Canadian Poems of the Great War/The Rose of a Nation's Thanks
THE ROSE OF A NATION'S THANKS
A WELCOME? Oh, yes, 'tis a kindly word, but why will they plan and prate
Of feasting and speeches and such small things, while the wives and mothers wait?
Plan as ye will, and do as ye will, but think of the hunger and thirst
In the hearts that wait; and do as ye will, but lend us our laddies first.
Why, what would ye have? There is not a lad that treads in the gallant ranks
Who does not already bear on his breast the Rose of a Nation's Thanks!
A welcome? Why, what do you mean by that, when the very stones must sing
As our men march over them home again; the walls of the city ring
With the thunder of throats and the tramp and tread of feet that rush and run?—
I think in my heart that the very trees must shout for the bold work done!
Why, what would ye have? There is not a lad that treads in the gallant ranks
Who does not already bear on his breast the Rose of a Nation's Thanks!
A Welcome? There is not a babe at the breast won't spring at the roll of the drum
That heralds them home—the keen, long cry in the air of 'They Come! They Come!'
And what of it all if ye bade them wade knee-deep in a wave of wine,
And tossed tall torches, and arched the town in garlands
of maple and pine?
All dust in the wind of a woman's cry as she snatches
from the ranks
Her boy who bears on his bold young breast the Rose of a
Nation's Thanks!
A welcome? There's a doubt if the lads would stand like
stone in their steady line
When a babe held high on a dear wife's hands, or the stars
that swim and shine
In a sweetheart's eyes, or a mother's smile, flashed far in
the welded crowd,
Or a father's proud voice, half-sob and half-cheer, cried
on a son aloud.
O the billows of waiting hearts that swelled would sweep
from the martial ranks
The gallant boys who bear on their breasts the Rose of a
Nation's Thanks!
A welcome? O Joy, can they stay your feet, or measure
the wine of your bliss?
O Joy, let them have you alone to-day-a day with a pulse
like this!
A welcome? Yes, 'tis a tender thought, a green laurel that
laps the sword-
But Joy has the wing of a wild white swan, and the song
of a free wild bird!
She must beat the air with her wing at will, at will must
her song be driven
From her heaving heart and tremulous throat through the
awful arch of heaven.
And what would ye have? There isn't a lad will burst
from the shouting ranks
But bears like a star on his faded coat the Rose of a
Nation's Thanks!