  I Through the April meadows ambling Where the new born lambs are gamb'ling Cometh May and vanisheth;— Cometh lovely June a-rambling;— July follows out of breath Scattering the playful swallows; On her heels a Shepherd follows, All dolled up like Old Man Death. II While he capers, pipes, and prances, Meadows wither where he dances; Suddenly the sunshine ends! Shrinking from his grinning glances, Every blossom wilts and bends. Spectral forests rise and tower, Bursting into crimson flower, And an iron rain descends. III Shepherd, Shepherd, lithely whirling, To your screaming pipes a-skirling, But the shrilling tempest, hurling Shrivelled blossoms of Romance, Answered: "Help! For Christ is dying!" And I heard the pipes replying: "Let the Friend of God advance!" IV Prince of the Vanguard, armed from head to heel, And reassuring God amid your bayonets Where the Imperial standard frets And the sun sets Across five million marching acolytes in steel, Red looms a ruined world against the West, Red lie its dead beneath your sombre crest, And redly drips your sword And the lances of your horde Where all things died, the loveliest and best. In this dead land there stirs no pulse, no breath, For, where you ride, on your right hand rides Death. V God's ally, self-ordained to wield His rod, Trampling His will into the heretics, Leveling their shrines to heaps of bricks, How the red stain sticks To the ten million pair of boots that plod! Quickly on Him your Iron Cross bestow That He may wash you whiter than the snow. VI Prince of the Vanguard, heed no bleeding clod Left on the reeking sod among your myrmidons Where the anathema of your Huns Hurled from iron guns Dashes a million frightened souls to God! Bright shines the promise of the Prince of Peace: "Sheer you My sheep; garner their fleece,"— Or was it "feed" He said? Too late! His sheep are dead. All things must die, and even Death shall cease. Then the Almighty on His throne may nod Unvexed by martyrs importuning God. |
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