They do my bidding. God, look down
And bless the sword that I have drawn.
My blight shall fall on field and town,
And thousands shall not see the dawn.

To Thee, O God, I give all praise

That Thou hast made my hand so strong;

That now, as in my father's days,

The King and Thee can do no wrong.

-The New York Sun.

IF!

BY BARTHOLOMEW F. GRIFFEN

Suppose 'twere done!

The lanyard pulled on every shotted gun;
Into the wheeling death-clutch sent
Each millioned armament,

To grapple there

On land, on sea and under, and in air!

Suppose at last 'twere come

Now, while each bourse and shop and mill is dumb,

And arsenals and dockyards hum

Now all complete, supreme,

That vast, Satanic dream!

Each field were trampled, soaked,

Each stream dyed, choked,

Each leaguered city and blockaded port

Made famine's sport;

The empty wave

Made reeling dreadnought's grave;

Cathedral, castle, gallery, smoking fell

'Neath bomb and shell;

In deathlike trance

Lay industry, finance;

Two thousand years'

Bequest, achievement, saving, disappears

In blood and tears,

In widowed woe

That slum and palace equal know,

In civilization's suicide

What served thereby, what satisfied?

For justice, freedom, right, what wrought?
Naught!

Save, after the great cataclysm, perhap

On the world's shaken map

New lines, more near or far,

Binding to king or czar;
In festering hate

Some newly vassalled state;

And passion, lust and pride, made satiate;

And just a trace

Of lingering smile on Satan's face!

-The Boston Globe.

THE VICTORY

BY JAMES J. MONTAGUE

No martial music goes before,
No stirring bugles play,
As in the smoking wake of war
I take my somber way.

But where pale women wait and weep,
Where old men cringe in dread,
And little trusting children sleep,
I take my toll of dead.

Afar from fame's highways I seek,
Through farm and little town,
The frail, the innocent, the meek,
And swiftly strike them down.
They never know the battle's thrill
Nor watch the flag that waves
Its inspiration, ere they fill

Their unremembered graves.

They shall not wake a nation's pride
In years that are to be;

For war and fame march side by side,
But hunger walks with me.

I fill no glowing history's page
With thrilling hero lore;

Yet I have been, through every age,
The blackest curse of war.

-Hearst's Magazine.

THE MESSENGER

BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX

Copyright, 1914, by Star Company.

She rose up in the early dawn,
And white and silently she moved
About the house. Four men had gone
To battle for the land they loved,
And she, the mother and the wife,
Waited for tidings from the strife.

How still the house seemed! and her tread
Was like the footsteps of the dead.

The long day passed; the dark night came,
She had not seen a human face,
Some voice spoke suddenly her name.
How loud it echoed in that place,
Where, day on day, no sound was heard
But her own footsteps. "Bring you word,"
She cried to whom she could not see,
"Word from the battle-plain to me?”

He said, "who left you for the fight."

"God bless you, friend," she cried, "speak on!

For I can bear it. One is gone?"

'Ay, one is gone,” he said.

"Which one?"

"Dear lady, he, your eldest son.

A deathly pallor shot across

Her withered face; she did not weep.
She said: "It is a grievous loss,

But God gives His beloved sleep.
What of the living-of the three?
And when can they come back to me?"
The soldier turned away his head:
"Lady, your husband, too, is dead."

She put her hand upon her brow;
A wild, sharp pain was in her eyes.
"My husband! Oh, God help me now!"
The soldier heard her shuddering sighs.

The task was harder than he thought.
"Your youngest son, dear madam, fought
Close at his father's side; both fell
Dead, by the bursting of a shell."

She moved her lips and seemed to moan.
Her face had paled to ashen gray:
"Then one is left me-one alone,"

She said, "of four who marched away.
Oh, overruling, All-wise God,
How can I pass beneath Thy rod!"
The soldier walked across the floor,
Paused at the window, at the door,

Wiped the cold dew-drops from his cheek
And sought the mourner's side again.
"Once more, dear lady, I must speak:
Your last remaining son was slain
Just at the closing of the fight.
"Twas he who sent me here to-night."

Have ye heard the thunder down the wind?
Have ye seen the smoke against the sky?

Nay, for my love goes from my arms

To march and die!

Have ye seen the scarlet battle flags,
The distant lightnings of the sword?
Nay, for my house hath lost its king,
My heart its lord!

Have ye heard the splendid lifting song
The wind-blown pæan of the strife?

Nay, for they sing of Death-and I

Am chained to life!

-The New York Evening Sun,