AUGUST, 1915.

In royal splendour rose the house of prayer,

Its mystic gloom arched over by the flight

Of soaring vault; above the nave's dim night

Rich gleamed the painted windows wondrous fair.

Sweet chimes and chanting mingled in the air;

Blue clouds of incense dimmed the vaulted height;

And on the altar, like a beacon light,

The gold cross glittered in the candles’ glare.

To-day no bells, no choirs, no incense cloud,

For thou, O Rheims art prey of evil powers;

But with a voice a thousand times more loud

Than siege-guns echoing round thy shattered towers,

Do thy mute bells to all the world proclaim

Thy martyred glory and thy foeman's shame.