A Higher Pile
FULL half a million men, yet not enough
To break this township on a winding stream;
More yet must fall, and more, ere the red stuff
That built a nation’s manhood may redeem
The Highest’s hopes and fructify his dream.
They pave the way to Verdun; on their dust
The Hohenzollern mount and, hand in hand,
Gaze haggard south; for yet another thrust,
And higher hills must heap, ere they shall stand
To feed their eyes upon the promised land.
One barrow, borne of women, lifts them high,
Piled up of many a thousand human dead.
Nursed in 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! Thy name is holy evermore;
In thine heroic ruin the nations see
A monument, upon whose living shore
In vain the evil breaks; we bend the knee,
Thou symbol of all human liberty.
EDEN PHILLPOTTS.