The corn-fields, not yet "white to harvest,"
acquire new dignity from the thought of all that is involved in
"the staff of life." The smoke-cloud over the manufacturing town
is no longer a mere blur on the horizon, but tells of a prodigality
of human effort, directed to the destruction of human life, such
as the world has never known. Even from the towers of the village
churches floats the Red Cross of St. George, recalling the war-song
of an older patriotism--"In the name of our God we will set up
our banners."[*]
[Footnote: Psalm xx. 5.]
Yes, this fair world of ours wears an altered face, and what this
year is "the promise of May"? It is the promise of good and truth
and fruitfulness forcing their way through "the rank vapours of
this sin-worn mould." It is the promise of strong endurance, which
will bear all and suffer all in a righteous cause, and never fail
or murmur till the crown is won. It is the promise of a brighter
day, when the skill of invention and of handicraft may be once
more directed, not to the devices which destroy life, but to the
sciences which prolong it, and the arts which beautify it. Above
all, it is the promise of a return, through blood and fire, to
the faith which made England great, and the law which yet may wrap
the world in peace.
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