  BY LEONARD CHARLES VAN NOPPEN THE world cries loud for blood; for never grew One saving truth that blossomed, man to bless, That withered not in barren loneliness Till watered by the sacrificial dew. Behold the prophets stoned—the while they blew A warning blast—the sad immortal guess Of Socrates—the thorn-crowned lowliness Of Christ! And that black cross our Lincoln knew! ’Tis only through the whirlwind and the storm That man can ever reach his starry goal; Someone must bleed or else the world will die. Upon the flaring altar of reform Some heart lies quivering ever. To what soul That dares be true, comes not the martyr’s agony? The Debt BORROWBY—By Jove, old man! I owe you an everlasting debt of gratitude! Grimshaw—No, you don’t, Borrowby! You owe me fifty dollars in money. |
|
