The Colorado statesman., 1918-09-14

This hip-hurrah greeting for bloody
war was Characteristic of most of the
early war poetry. The poets, unfortu-
nately, were not prophets. The blood
which they viewed In prospect was to
flow mostly from the bodies OF the con-
temptible foe. Germany, marching
with God, was invlncible. A short war
and merry one, and at the end the
| great German hosts conquerors of the
world If they could have foreseen
then the long and weary road ahead,
| the hip-hurrah note might have been
mingled even more freely with the
venom and hate the baked and beaten
monster feels for those who stand in
his way.
Where God Stands.
One looks in vain in this output of
German poetry for n note of abhor-
renee of war, question as to whether
or not this is Gods way for settling
disputes. There is no question as to
where God stands, he rides on the Ger
man shells, directs the Zeppelin, greets
| joyously the submarine chuckles with
! delight that his chosen people have in
their hands the weapons whereby to
impose their will-which is his will
on the world. More of this peculiar
German god anon. Through this well
ter of harsh German poetry runs only
a roar of delight in German strength, a
great satisfied sigh that now at last
the world is to feel that strength.
Here and there, as though by way of
afterthought, there is bit of camou-
fage as to who started the war. Be
fore going on to picture the downfall
of the enemy one bard pauses to re-
mark:
War! War! Awake! The French have
crossed the Rhine,
And CossaclIs swarm upon our eastern
line
These obvious lies are not dwelt on,
however. Probably not even the poet
expected anybody to believe them.
They were just thrown in as n sop to
the diplomats at the Wilhelmstrasse.
Public opinion, which had been taken
charge of by the authorities, was 'ver-
boten" to forget these things. And 1t
was added, in faint voice here and
there: "We did not wish this war"
One is reminded, by way of aside, of
the excellent Australian cartoon which
pictured the kaiser sitting, head in
hands, in the company of the crown
prince. 81 did not want this war"
NO" says the crown prince in a lucid
moment, at was quite a different war
you wanted, wasn't 1t, papa?"
But coming back to the poets it may
be said that while at rare intervals
they remembered to make a note of
the fact that the war was complete
and unpleasant surprise to Germany,
their whole attitude was that now that
it had come, they were delighted. They
dreamed of blood, they sang of it. AT
last the weapons Germany bad been
fondling so long were to find a mark.
Rudolf Herzog wrote a dainty little
thing, urging the soldiers on-he was
evidently somewhere in the rear him
self-and the refrain of each verse
ran:
What though the earth of hell be full.
Our steel shall cleave the foeman's skull.
Such was the picture that inspired
the frenzied poets, the gentlemen of
the pen. A soul-satisfying, delectable
picture of German steel deep in the
foeman's skull, while rich, delicious
blood was everywhere.
England With the Allies.
While they were in the midst of CORY
composition, their eyes in n fine frenzy
rolling, England entered the war on
the side of the allies. This was dis
tinctly verboten. and it upset the Ger
man plan horribly. England was to
stand aside until Russia and France
were annihilated, and then be wiped
out in her turn. Anyone who has ever
been in Germany knows the fury of
German whose system is upset. Imme-
diately the mad poets grew madder
yet, and the recipient of all their poi
soned darts was poor old England.
The anger of German when things
are going as he wished is not pretty
thing, but the anger of the same man
when things are g2rg wrong is enough
20 make God trelnble.
In this dark hour when all Germany
was sputtering with a fury so terrible
it seemed words could not be found to
express it, Herr Ernst Lissauer came
forward and earned the nations graft
tude by penning his famous "Hymn
of Hate" In our country we are all
lOlnlllar Will lilS uulhty htlle tiinS,
which ends:
So what care we for French or Russ?
It's a shot for a shot when they shoot
at us.
We fight our battles with bronze and
steel
And when we stop we shall see you kneel!
It's you we hate with a lasting hate
Nor win we abate one little of hate
Hate by water and hate by land,
Hate of the head and hate of the hand.
Hate of artisan hate of king,
Hate which seventy millions fling;
one love they know. one hate they know.
They know but one, one only foe:
England
Little Ernst cropping around in the