You thought to grasp the world; but you shall keep
Its crown of curses nailed upon your brow.
You that have fouled the purple, broke your vow,
And sowed the wind of death, the whirlwind you shall reap.
Shout to your tribal god to bless the blood
Of this red vintage on the poisoned earth;
Clash cymbals to him, leap and shout in mirth;
Call on his name to stay the coming, cleansing flood.
We are no hounds of heaven, nor ravening band
Of earthly wolves to tear your kingdom down.
We stand for human reason; at our frown
The coward sword shall fall from your accursed hand.
We do not speak of vengeance; there shall run
No little children's blood beneath our heel.
No pregnant woman suffers from our steel;
But Justice we shall do, as sure as set of sun.
Or short, or long, the pathway of your feet,
Stamped on the faces of the innocent dead,
Must lead where tyrant's road hath ever led.
Alone, O perjured soul, your Justice you shall meet.
No sacrifice the balance of her scale
Can win; no gift of blood and iron can weigh
Against this one mad mother's agony:
In her demented cry a myriad women wail.
The equinox of outraged earth shall blaze
And flash its levin on your infamous might.
Man cries to fellow-man; light leaps to light,
Till foundered, naked, spent, you vanish from our gaze.

EDEN PHILLPOTTS.