THE TEARS OF BERLIN.

A gala night at the Opera Royal was arranged during the German Emperors stay in Berlin, but when the opening scene of Lohengrin commenced, instead of cheers a storm of hysterical laughter and weeping swept over the house. Cable The Emperor spoke: Though scourged with many a strip, Though much is lost and nothing worthy gained, The time for official joy is ripe Let us be entertained. With stiff, set smiles the public booked its seat, From stall to gallery the house was filled. None from commanded gladness dared retreat Till Bill the movement willed. Without, the newsboys yelled their doubtful tale Of stars of victory in east and west; Within, official gaiety sat pale, The Kaiser with the rest. The tingling fiddles stung the hard-drawn nerves, The trombone pomed dismay to heart and brain, The shrill flute piped to call the last reserves Of memory and pain. In Flanders death sat grinning oer the mud, In Poland many graves were very new1; Smiling officially, men heard raw blood Dripping the music through. The lights went down. A silence held the throng Like the cold hush before the tempest breaks, Such proud official mirth must needs be strong So bitterly it aches!

By the start of 1915 the Russian Army had been forced back into Poland after their offensive into East Prussia was decisively halted at the Battle of Tannenberg at the end of August and at the Battle of the Masurian Lakes in September. At the time this poem was written there had been a series of indecisive battles in Poland, the most bloody being the Battle of d.

The curtain rose. The pent-up feeling found A sudden vent in sobs and blinding tears. Emotion, hot and unofficial, drowned the The music for all ears. In Flanders death sat cold upon the flood, Far Polish graves with Teuton dead were full, And watchful vengeance yet should purge in blood The shame of Hartlepool2. The curtain fell. In unofficial tears The crowd passed out into the winter dark, And hates cold weapon forged in kindlier years Returned to find its mark. In Paris widows wept. On Belgian soil Men blindly cursed above their tortured slain. Berlin foresaw destructions red recoil In passion fierce as vain. Like some grey wolf, fang-bare before the chase, That of no choice must grimly stand at bay, The German looked his treason in the face And rued the bitter day. Sure as the night crept on the sword of doom, Tempered in human scorn as in a flame. The worlds best promise was his nations tomb A tomb of blood and shame!
Mary McCommonwealth Pseudonym of David McKee Wright N.S.W. The Bulletin, 14th January 1915

Hartlepool was bombarded by the German Navy on 16 th December. 117 people were killed.