One of the most interesting of patriotic poets was Julian Grenfell, who
came to be known as "the happy warrior." His poem "Into Battle" suggests
a kind of mystique about war, a natural urge for man to fight that binds
him to nature and his fellowman. The soldier is associated in the imagery
of the poem with the sun, the heavens, the birds and the trees.
As one critic observes, war creates for Grenfell a kind of "curious rapture."
It is ironic that "Into Battle" was published in The Times the same
day he died in 1915.
"Into Battle"
The naked
earth is warm with spring,
And with
green grass and bursting trees
Leans
to the sun's gaze glorying,
And quivers
in the sunny breeze;
And life
is colour and warmth and light,
And a
striving evermore for these;
And he
is dead who will not fight;
And who
dies fighting has increase.
The fighting
man shall from the sun
Take warmth,
and life from the glowing earth;
Speed
with the light-foot winds to run,
And with
the trees to newer birth;
And find,
when fighting shall be done,
Great
rest, and fullness after dearth.
All the
bright company of Heaven
Hold him
in their high comradeship,
The Dog-Star,
and the Sisters Seven,
Orion's
Belt and sworded hip.
The woodland
trees that stand together,
They stand
to him each one a friend;
They gently
speak in the windy weather;
They guide
to valley and ridge's end.
The kestrel
hovering by day,
And the
little owls that call by night,
Bid him
be swift and keen as they,
As keen
of ear, as swift of sight.
The blackbird
sings to him, "Brother, brother,
If this
be the last song you shall sing,
Sing well,
for you may not sing another;
Brother,
sing."
In dreary,
doubtful, waiting hours,
Before
the brazen frenzy starts,
The horses
show him nobler powers;
O patient
eyes, courageous hearts!
And when
the burning moment breaks,
And all
things else are out of mind,
And only
joy of battle takes
Him by
the throat, and makes him blind,
Through
joy and blindness he shall know,
Not caring
much to know, that still
Nor lead
nor steel shall reach him, so
That it
be not the Destined Will.
The thundering
line of battle stands,
And in
the air death moans and sings;
But Day
shall clasp him with strong hands,
And Night
shall fold him in soft wings.