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They pave the way to Verdun; on their dust The Hohenzollerns mount and, hand in hand, Gaze haggard south; for yet another thrust And higher hills must heap, ere they may stand To feed their eyes upon the promised land.
One barrow, borne of women, lifts them high, Built up of many a thousand human dead.
Nursed on their mothers' bosoms, now they lie-- A Golgotha, all shattered, torn and sped, A mountain for these royal feet to tread.
A Golgotha, upon whose carrion clay Justice of myriad men still in the womb Shall heave two crosses; crucify and flay Two memories accurs'd; then in the tomb Of world-wide execration give them room.
Verdun! A clarion thy name shall ring Adown the ages and the Nations see Thy monuments of glory. Now we bring Thank-offering and bend the reverent knee, Thou star upon the crown of Liberty!
_Eden Phillpotts_
GUNS OF VERDUN
Guns of Verdun point to Metz From the plated parapets; Guns of Metz grin back again O'er the fields of fair Lorraine.
Guns of Metz are long and grey, Growling through a summer day; Guns of Verdun, grey and long, Boom an echo of their song.
Guns of Metz to Verdun roar, "Sisters, you shall foot the score;"
Guns of Verdun say to Metz, "Fear not, for we pay our debts."
Guns of Metz they grumble, "When?"
Guns of Verdun answer then, "Sisters, when to guard Lorraine Gunners lay you East again!"
_Patrick R. Chalmers_
THE SPIRES OF OXFORD
I saw the spires of Oxford As I was pa.s.sing by, The gray spires of Oxford Against the pearl-gray sky.
My heart was with the Oxford men Who went abroad to die.
The years go fast in Oxford, The golden years and gay, The h.o.a.ry Colleges look down On careless boys at play.
But when the bugles sounded war They put their games away.
They left the peaceful river, The cricket-field, the quad, The shaven lawns of Oxford, To seek a b.l.o.o.d.y sod-- They gave their merry youth away For country and for G.o.d.
G.o.d rest you, happy gentlemen, Who laid your good lives down, Who took the khaki and the gun Instead of cap and gown.
G.o.d bring you to a fairer place Than even Oxford town.
_Winifred M. Letts_
OXFORD IN WAR-TIME
[The Boat Race will not be held this year (1915). The whole of last year's Oxford Eight and the great majority of the cricket and football teams are serving the King.]
Under the tow-path past the barges Never an eight goes flas.h.i.+ng by; Never a blatant coach on the marge is Urging his crew to do or die; Never the critic we knew enlarges, Fluent, on How and Why!
Once by the Iffley Road November Welcomed the Football men aglow, Covered with mud, as you'll remember, Eager to vanquish Oxford's foe.
Where are the teams of last December?
Gone--where they had to go!
Where are her sons who waged at cricket Warfare against the foeman-friend?
Far from the Parks, on a harder wicket, Still they attack and still defend; Playing a greater game, they'll stick it, Fearless until the end!
Oxford's goodliest children leave her, Hastily thrusting books aside; Still the hurrying weeks bereave her, Filling her heart with joy and pride; Only the thought of you can grieve her, You who have fought and died.
_W. Snow_
OXFORD REVISITED IN WAR-TIME
Beneath fair Magdalen's storied towers I wander in a dream, And hear the mellow chimes float out O'er Cherwell's ice-bound stream.
Throstle and blackbird stiff with cold Hop on the frozen gra.s.s; Among the aged, upright oaks The dun deer slowly pa.s.s.
The chapel organ rolls and swells, And voices still praise G.o.d; But ah! the thought of youthful friends Who lie beneath the sod.
Now wounded men with gallant eyes Go hobbling down the street, And nurses from the hospitals Speed by with tireless feet.
The town is full of uniforms, And through the stormy sky, Frightening the rooks from the tallest trees, The aeroplanes roar by.
The older faces still are here, More grave and true and kind, Enn.o.bled by the steadfast toil Of patient heart and mind.
And old-time friends are dearer grown To fill a double place: Unshaken faith makes glorious Each forward-looking face.
Old Oxford walls are grey and worn: She knows the truth of tears, But to-day she stands in her ancient pride Crowned with eternal years.
Gone are her sons: yet her heart is glad In the glory of their youth, For she brought them forth to live or die By freedom, justice, truth.
Cold moonlight falls on silent towers; The young ghosts walk with the old; But Oxford dreams of the dawn of May And her heart is free and bold.
_Tertius van d.y.k.e_
_Magdalen College_,
_January, 1917_
