PS 3527 .1325 V5 1918 Copy 1 ice RAYMOND LAWRENCE NICHOLS 1899-1918. Victory s Price By William Newton Nictols Madison 1918 To my son, RAYMOND LAWRENCE NICHOLS Co. G, 127th Infantry, 3 2d Division, American Expeditionary Forces, who died for Liberty August 3d, 1918, near Pismes, Prance, at the victorious close of the Second Battle of the Marne; and to his comrades "Les Terribles" who lie in the shell-riven fields of Prance. BAR 8 m [4] "They have not died in vain!" THE MIDDEN-HEAP (Sept-1914.) Tools of the Giver of Thought are we formed each to carve a line, Base or noble as the great God wills to fit His plan divine; Aught of the meaning shall we e'er know, aught grasp of His design, Its pattern wrought with craftman's hand, set mete, and sacred sign. Handfuls of dross-spoilt ore were we He gathered where it lay, Buried since the Dawn beneath the earth and covered with foul debris; By fire and fan He purged us, till, freed from the cumbering clay, Tools well-tempered we wait till He needs our strength in His day. [ 5] Ever on high among the nations His twin Colossi stand, Fair Justice and Law, the great crea- tions of His all-skilled hand; Battered and bruised, o'er hill and vale, scattered through every land Lie the bones of those who were His tools, tombed but by the drift- ing sand. Battered and scattered by Memnon's shrine lie the tools the carver cast, Used and broken but the midden- heap may give them rest at last; Yet the thought that flowed through the chisel's point, all the strength in the mallet massed, Still endures, when as a God 'tis a memory of the Past. And the thought that swayed each warrior's sword, all the lore the scholar had, The song that swept the lyre's strings, made men be valorous, joyous, sad, The purpose we toil for, the sage's dream, — even when all are dead, — Shall live while they give aid to men, or sweeten the bitter bread. [ 6] ODIN'S CALL (Aug.-1914.) Ho! Arm ye quick my Heroes, For Ragnarok is come! Far borne o'er Niord's billows Echoes the cannon's drum! Lo! Now's the day, — the mighty Day I dreamed of yore, when Amid the Halls Immortal I saw the Cause, — and End! Valhalla's doors are open, Valkyries sweep the plain, To choose for Fame Eternal My Heroes 'mid the slain! Then fight ye well my Chosen, Though Loki lead their host; Nor fear ye Dwarf nor Giant, Nor Kingship's unlaid ghost! For out from all the turmoil, The slaughter and the wrong, I see emerge the Future, A new Race, — a new Song! [7] A PALADIN OF PRANCE (Aug.-1914.) Above fair Brussels the white clouds lie, Like bales of snow-white wool they float by, Borne Rhine-ward by the cold wind from the German Sea; A thunder crash shakes the vaulted blue, A mist of men and iron downward spew, An eagle screams above the cloud in battle glee; "Garros for France!" peals the war- rior cry, As down the lanes of battle dash the chariots of the sky! THE DAWN OF WAR. (Oct.-19i4.) Apart He rolls the grey-toned cur- tain of the Elder World, — The misty, fog-blown vail that Time had wrought to hide the Past, — And from out the vast Unknown, a dire tempest whirled, The myriads of the Slavs pour forth, God's fierce, scourging blast: [ 8] Stagnant, vexed with old corruptions, lay the king-ruled lands; Priests and nobles, in vice and sloth- ness, dyed their hands In Man's blood; and of his wretched- ness made sport; — Then Lo! — amid the flames of battle perish priest and court! Beneath th' cannon's iron hail their age-old cathedrals fall, Their wooded parks are swept away, their fortresses, aged, strong, Their museums, their works of Art, their stately church spires tall, All have perished — for they were builded on the quick-sands of Man's wrong! Note— The Prussian is not a true German, but a Slav cursed with a veneer of Teutonic Kultur. THE GOD OP WAR. (April-1915.) O Galilee! the blood of men In torrents pours on every field Of all the lands that to Him yield Worship, — who walked thy beaches then: Then, when thy storms obeyed His will; Then, when His voice bade them be still; [ 9] Then, when He spake from the fisher's boat, — Pillowed His head on the fisher's coat: Now the king's cry for him to shed Man's blood — He who for Man once bled; In His loved name cry woe and hate, Leave the ravished to the wolves — and Pate! O Galilee! Once thou meant peace! Once by thy marge we met a Friend, Once with Him conversed at day's end, Once found with Him of earth sur- cease; Yet, if these who now chant His name 'Neath Gothic spire or Russian dome, Singing- His praise for war's red fame, Praying within some ruined home, Giving Him thanks who them has blessed — If these be His true priests, — ah, then Ne'er was He the Friend whose footsteps pressed Thy marge; — nor His love Man's desired end! [ 10] ATTILA. (Sept-1915.) Great God of our fathers! Shall we endure The scorn of the Goth? let him sleep secure While the blood of our men, our women, our babes, Red dyeing the seas slakes the lust he craves? Aye craves! An Attila sits on his throne, Who weighs not Man's life, loves the myriad groan Of the wounded who line the tor- ture fields, Who gives armed men Belgian babes for shields! O God! Lift the cup full-brimmed to his lip! May he live to see power from his fingers slip; May he die the death Thou gavest to Cain, — Or rot in a mad-house with crazed brain! [ 11] THE DREAM OF KAISERS TWO. (Nov.-1915.) Two Kaisers there were that dreamed That they should rule land and sea, Two peoples there were they deemed Bound fast to their axle-tree; — Ah me! the woe of that dream! Then first, from the high-borne clouds, Men rained Jove's fierce lightning down; Then first, from the vault of Night, Pell fire on the sleeping town; Then first men scanned the heavens, Whence Christ in His glory rose, In fear lest, 'mid moonbeams hid, Darksome shapes, abhorrent, poise! [ 12] Lo! By day the planes are flitting". Lo! by night the Zeppelins come; And the cannon, mountain-splitting, Drown the note of fife and drum; — Ah me! the world harks to that drum! League on league, from sea to sea, Lie the rotting frames of men; League on league but burnt rafters Mark the homes where love was then; Broken cannon, shattered entrench- ments, Ruined fields and shot-torn woods, Blood-dyed streams and gaping hedges Over which stern Memory broods; — Lo! the glory of the battle! — A woman's hair, — a child's rattle; — And, crushed amid his meek milch cattle, A peasant nigh his hut of wattle! — Woe me! The reaping of their dream! [ 13] THE KAISER'S DREAM. (Sept.-1916.) Where should a Caesar bear his sway, Save where, by its winding- pathway, The golden Tiber seeks the sea? Save where, by Naples' bay of blue, With tresses dark — the raven's hue, — The laughing maidens in wild glee E'er dance, and glance through lashes long, Or sing at eve Santa Lucia's song? Let my footsteps but lead to Rome, And 'neath Saint Peter's arching dome, I'll rear a throne Of Empire that for all my toil, War's tumult, horror, grimy moil, E'en Verdun's futile bloodshed shall atone! THE DAWN OP FREEDOM. (March-1917.) Great Ragnarok indeed was come: Prom Pole to Pole thundered the drum; Cathay and Ind their broad war- banners fly; [14] All Peoples moved their armies forth At battle's call; — no more was mirth In any land; — none heard the widows' and the orphans' cry. Then lo! The Dawn of Freedom breaks! Across the wide Slavic plain shakes The retreating banner of age- crowned Might; The kings tremble, as their high thrones, — Once set on skulls and rotting bones, — Topple, and their glory dies into night. The right of lords to grind the serf? — 'Tis gone! And no more the green turf Is reddened by the despairing patriot's blood; Against the foe, whose German boast Claimed earth as campus for their host, Free men now pour, — a martial flood. L 15] THE MEN OF 1917. (May-1917.) His fathers wore the blue, He wears the khaki-brown; They knew the freedom of the seas, the woods, — He but the streets of paved town; And yet, on History's high roll, his fame Will march with grandsire's storied name: Theirs the rude courage from out- door life, Where contest with the moods of Nature gave them strength To meet all stress; — his that of the cultured brain, That taught, dares any length, Or height, or depth, that leads last To the desired goal, when the toil is past: Each to his country's need freely gave all; Nor held him back from anything Whereby his Nation should grow great, And that to his sons should liberty bring; Nor cared he for self, whether the tossing sea Or whispers 'mid the pines should his requiem be. [ 16 ] MARCH AWAY. (July-1917.) March away! March away! Eager, longing for the fray, — Longing for the coming day When against the German might Storm our legions for the Right. Ah! German Rhine! Thy waters yet Shall run with blood; nor e'er forget, Though long thy sons weep with regret, That each corse sowed in B-elgic field Did hundred-fold of harvest yield. March away! March away! Though your hair turn to gray; Freedom heard you cry "Aye!" When she called against the Hun Men fearing nought 'neath the sun. O'er Prussian plain your banners fly; Let Hartz echo the defeated's sigh; Hohenzollern's black eagle die When o'er Black Forest's shaded gloom Our banner crowns its Empire's tomb. March away! March away! Come back garlanded with the bay; Come you as come you may, — Still our hearts long for you 'Neath the stars and falling dew. [ 17] THE CHARIOTS OF THE AIR. (Aug.-1917.) Bold was the man who first would drive The chariot of Apollo, But bolder yet the men who strive For the eagle as their fellow; That, soaring far above the world, Beyond the thunder-riven cloud, They'd battle there in tempest whirled, Where none could hear their cannon loud. Buried far in the depths of space, Beyond all straining human eyes, They dash, they soar, they upward race, Far swifter than the condor flies; Till, hurtling down, a thing of flame, A darting flash of death and hate, 'Neath crumpled wings and twisted frame Lies the corse of him who met his fate, While, high above the