because she knows that she is not, and never will be, deprived of nationhood.

In some minor ways Serbia may, in her civilization, have been behind other nations in the west of Europe, but she was ahead of Western Europe in that one thing which is of real importance, that one thing which cannot be copied or learned from other nations, and which is therefore either innate or unachievable: Serbia is ahead of other nations in her power of sacrificing herself for ideals. All nations are ready to sacrifice life for nationhood. Serbia made first this common sacrifice, but when that did not avail, she voluntarily, for the sake of an abstract and spiritual ideal, made the supreme sacrifice, the sacrifice of country, the sacrifice for which other nations make the penultimate sacrifice of life. The Serbian people sacrificed their country rather than bow the knee to militarism and foreign tyranny; they sacrificed their country in Utopian quest for the right, both for themselves and for other Slav brethren, to work out their own salvation in spiritual freedom. A people with such ideals, and with such power of sacrifice, must be worthy of a great future.

SERBIA

AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR

Hark, from the East a keen and bitter cry

New tears are flowing in the furrows of old sorrow. On your wasted fields your dead drift like fallen leaves; Only the Pale Harvester garners heavy sheaves.

How have you the courage to struggle toward to

morrow,

Serbia, Serbia, land that will not die?

I have stood for freedom-freedom can not perish.

I have stood for honor-honor must endure. But my children starve, the children who should cherish For the world's to-morrow my spirit flaming-pure. You who sit in safety, you whose babes are fed, You who by the peril of other men are free, Listen to my living, ere the hour be sped,

Lest you hear forever the silence of my dead. Serbia, Serbia, God hears. Do we?

SCARRED

Far nobler the sword that is nicked and worn,
Far fairer the flag that is grimy and torn,
Than when to the battle fresh they were borne.

He was tried and found true; He stood the test;
'Neath whirlwinds of doubt, when all the rest
Crouched down and submitted, He fought best.

There are wounds on His breast that can never be healed, There are gashes that bleed and may not be sealed,

But, wounded and gashed, He won the field.

And others may dream in their easy chairs,

And point their white hands to the scars He bears;
And the palm and the laurel are His-not theirs.

SALONIKA IN NOVEMBER

BRIAN HILL

Up above the gray hills the wheeling birds are calling, Round about the cold gray hills in never-resting flight; Far along the marshes a drifting mist is falling,

Scattered tents and sandy plain melt into the night.

SALONIKA IN NOVEMBER

183

Round about the gray hills rumbles distant thunder, Echoes of the mighty guns firing night and day,— Gray guns, long guns, that smite the hills asunder, Grumbling and rumbling, and telling of the fray.

Out among the islands twinkling. lights are glowing, Distant little fairy lights, that gleam upon the bay; All along the broken road gray transport wagons going Up to where the long gray guns roar and crash alway.

Up above the cold gray hills the wheel-birds are crying, Brother calls to brother, as they pass in restless flight. Lost souls, dead souls, voices of the dying,

Circle o'er the hills of Greece and wail into the night. -From The Poetry Review