Yes, Kultur, the German Juggernaut, has passed this way. There is no mistaking the foul track of his chariot-wheels. Kultur is the German God. But there is a greater God still. He sees it all. He speaks,—

"Was it for this I died?
—Black clouds of smoke that veil the sight of heaven;
Black piles of stones which yesterday were homes;
And raw black heaps which once were villages;
Fair towns in ashes, spoiled to suage thy spleen;
My temples desecrate, My priests out-cast:—
Black ruin everywhere, and red,—a land
All swamped with blood, and savaged raw and bare;
All sickened with the reek and stench of war,
And flung a prey to pestilence and want;
—Thy work!
"For this?—
—Life's fair white flower of manhood in the dust;
Ten thousand thousand hearts made desolate;
My troubled world a seething pit of hate;
My helpless ones the victims of thy lust;—
The broken maids lift hopeless eyes to Me,
The little ones lift handless arms to Me,
The tortured women lift white lips to Me,
The eyes of murdered white-haired sires and dames
Stare up at Me. And the sad anguished eyes
Of My dumb beasts in agony.
—Thy work!"

JOHN OXENHAM.