COPYRIGHT, 1914 AND 1915, BY THE BOSTON NEWS BUREAU COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY CLARENCE W. BARRON

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Published February 1915

SECOND IMPRESSION

SUPPOSE 't were done!

The lanyard pulled on every shotted gun;
Into the wheeling death-clutch sent
Each millioned armament,

To grapple there

On land, on sea and under, and in air!

Suppose at last 't were come

Now, while each bourse and shop and mill is dumb

And arsenals and dockyards hum,

Now all complete, supreme,

That vast, Satanic dream!

Each field were trampled, soaked,

Each stream dyed, choked,

Each leaguered city and blockaded port

Made famine's sport;

The empty wave

Made reeling dreadnought's grave;

Cathedral, castle, gallery, smoking fell

'Neath bomb and shell;

In deathlike trance

Lay industry, finance;

Two thousand years'

Bequest, achievement, saving, disappears

In blood and tears,

In widowed woe

That slum and palace equal know,

In civilization's suicide,

What served thereby, what satisfied?

For justice, freedom, right, what wrought?
Naught! -

Save, after the great cataclysm, perhap
On the world's shaken map

New lines, more near or far,

Binding to king or czar
In festering hate

Some newly vassaled state;

And passion, lust and pride made satiate;

And just a trace

Of lingering smile on Satan's face!

-Boston News Bureau Poet.

This poem has been called the great poem of the war. It was written just preceding the war, and published August 1 by the "Boston News Bureau." Of it, and its author, Bartholomew F. Griffin, the following was written by Rev. Francis G. Peabody: "The English poets, Bridges, Kipling, Austin, and Noyes, have all tried to meet the need and all have lamentably failed. I am proud not only that an American, but that a Harvard man, should have risen to the occasion."

THE SOLDIER.

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich dust a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made
aware,

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to
roam,

A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of
home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by Eng-

land given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her

day;

And laughter learnt of friends; and gentle

ness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Rupert Brooks

billed in the Lardonelles

PREFACE

THE Scotch have this proverb: "War brings poverty. Poverty brings peace. Peace brings prosperity. Prosperity brings pride. And pride brings war again." Shall the world settle down to the faith that there is no redemption from an everlasting round of pride, war, poverty, peace, prosperity, pride, and war again?

But it was not primarily to settle, or even study this problem that I crossed the ocean and the English Channel in winter. As a journalist publishing the Wall Street Journal, the Boston News Bureau, and the Philadelphia News Bureau, and directing news-gathering for the banking and financial communities, I deemed it my duty to ascertain at close hand the financial factors in this war, and the financial results therefrom.

I found myself on the other side, not only in the domain of the finance encircling this war, but unexpectedly in close touch with diplomatic and government circles. The whole of the war, its commercial causes, its financial and military forces, its tremendous human sacrifices, the