A Treasury of War Poetry Part 9

With arrows on their quarters and with numbers on their hoofs, With the trampling sound of twenty that re-echoes in the roofs, Low of crest and dull of coat, wan and wild of eye, Through our English village the Canadians go by.

Shying at a pa.s.sing cart, swerving from a car, Tossing up an anxious head to flaunt a snowy star, Racking at a Yankee gait, reaching at the rein, Twenty raw Canadians are tasting life again!

Hollow-necked and hollow-flanked, lean of rib and hip, Strained and sick and weary with the wallow of the s.h.i.+p, Glad to smell the turf again, hear the robin's call, Tread again the country road they lost at Montreal!

Fate may bring them dule and woe; better steeds than they Sleep beside the English guns a hundred leagues away; But till war hath need of them, lightly lie their reins, Softly fall the feet of them along the English lanes.

_Will H. Ogilvie_

THE KAISER AND BELGIUM

He said: "Thou petty people, let me pa.s.s.

What canst thou do but bow to me and kneel?"

But sudden a dry land caught fire like gra.s.s, And answer hurtled but from sh.e.l.l and steel.

He looked for silence, but a thunder came Upon him, from Liege a leaden hail.

All Belgium flew up at his throat in flame Till at her gates amazed his legions quail.

Take heed, for now on haunted ground they tread; There bowed a mightier war lord to his fall: Fear! lest that very green gra.s.s again grow red With blood of German now as then with Gaul.

If him whom G.o.d destroys He maddens first, Then thy destruction slake thy madman's thirst.

_Stephen Phillips_

THE BATTLE OF LIeGE

Now spake the Emperor to all his s.h.i.+ning battle forces, To the Lancers, and the Rifles, to the Gunners and the Horses;-- And his pride surged up within him as he saw their banners stream!-- "'T is a twelve-day march to Paris, by the road our fathers travelled, And the prize is half an empire when the scarlet road's unravelled-- Go you now across the border, G.o.d's decree and William's order-- Climb the frowning Belgian ridges With your naked swords agleam!

Seize the City of the Bridges-- Then get on, get on to Paris-- To the jewelled streets of Paris-- To the lovely woman, Paris, that has driven me to dream!"

A hundred thousand fighting men They climbed the frowning ridges, With their flaming swords drawn free And their pennants at their knee.

They went up to their desire, To the City of the Bridges, With their naked brands outdrawn Like the lances of the dawn!

In a swelling surf of fire, Crawling higher--higher--higher-- Till they crumpled up and died Like a sudden wasted tide, And the thunder in their faces beat them down and flung them wide!

They had paid a thousand men, Yet they formed and came again, For they heard the silver bugles sounding challenge to their pride, And they rode with swords agleam For the glory of a dream, And they stormed up to the cannon's mouth and withered there, and died....

The daylight lay in ashes On the blackened western hill, And the dead were calm and still; But the Night was torn with gashes-- Sudden ragged crimson gashes-- And the siege-guns snarled and roared, With their flames thrust like a sword, And the tranquil moon came riding on the heaven's silver ford.

What a fearful world was there, Tangled in the cold moon's hair!

Man and beast lay hurt and screaming, (Men must die when Kings are dreaming!)-- While within the harried town Mothers dragged their children down As the awful rain came screaming, For the glory of a Crown!

So the Morning flung her cloak Through the hanging pall of smoke-- Trimmed with red, it was, and dripping with a deep and angry stain!

And the Day came walking then Through a lane of murdered men, And her light fell down before her like a Cross upon the plain!

But the forts still crowned the height With a bitter iron crown!

They had lived to flame and fight, They had lived to keep the Town!

And they poured their havoc down All that day ... and all that night....

While four times their number came, p.a.w.ns that played a b.l.o.o.d.y game!-- With a silver trumpeting, For the glory of the King, To the barriers of the thunder and the fury of the flame!

So they stormed the iron Hill, O'er the sleepers lying still, And their trumpets sang them forward through the dull succeeding dawns, But the thunder flung them wide, And they crumpled up and died,-- They had waged the war of monarchs--and they died the death of p.a.w.ns.

But the forts still stood.... Their breath Swept the foeman like a blade, Though ten thousand men were paid To the hungry purse of Death, Though the field was wet with blood, Still the bold defences stood, Stood!

And the King came out with his bodyguard at the day's departing gleam-- And the moon rode up behind the smoke and showed the King his dream.

_Dana Burnet_

MEN OF VERDUN

There are five men in the moonlight That by their shadows stand; Three hobble humped on crutches, And two lack each a hand.

Frogs somewhere near the roadside Chorus their chant absorbed: But a hush breathes out of the dream-light That far in heaven is...o...b..d.

It is gentle as sleep falling And wide as thought can span, The ancient peace and wonder That brims the heart of man.

Beyond the hills it s.h.i.+nes now On no peace but the dead, On reek of trenches thunder-shocked, Tense fury of wills in wrestle locked, A chaos crumbled red!

The five men in the moonlight Chat, joke, or gaze apart.

They talk of days and comrades, But each one hides his heart.

They wear clean cap and tunic, As when they went to war; A gleam comes where the medal's pinned: But they will fight no more.

The shadows, maimed and antic, Gesture and shape distort, Like mockery of a demon dumb Out of the h.e.l.l-din whence they come That dogs them for his sport:

But as if dead men were risen And stood before me there With a terrible fame about them blown In beams of spectral air,

I see them, men transfigured As in a dream, dilate Fabulous with the t.i.tan-throb Of battling Europe's fate;

For history's hushed before them, And legend flames afresh,-- Verdun, the name of thunder, Is written on their flesh.

_Laurence Binyon_

VERDUN

Three hundred thousand men, but not enough To break this towns.h.i.+p on a winding stream; More yet must fall, and more, ere the red stuff That built a nation's manhood may redeem The Master's hopes and realize his dream.