Aye, strew the dead to saddle girth,
They make so rich a mould,
Thoul't thus enrich the wasted earth--
They'll turn to yellow gold.
On with thy thunders, shot and shell,
Send screaming, featly hurl'd;
Science has made them in her cell,
To _civilize_ the world.
Not, not alone where Christian men
Pant in the well-arm'd strife;
But seek the jungle-throttled glen--
The savage has a life.
He has a soul--so priests will say--
Go! save it with thy sword;
Thro' his rank forests force thy way,
Thy war cry, "For the Lord!"
Rip up his mines, and from his strands
Wash out the gold with blood--
Religion raises blessing hands,
"War's evil worketh good!"
When striding o'er the conquer'd land,
Silence thy rolling drum,
And led by white-robed choiring bands
With loud _"Te Deum"_ come.
Seek the grim chancel, on its wall
Thy blood-stiff banner hang;
They lie who say thy blood is gall.
Thy tooth the serpent's fang.
See! the white Christ is lifted high,
Thy conqu'ring sword to bless;
Smiles the pure monarch of the sky--
_Thy_ king can do no less.
Drink deep with him the festal wine,
Drink with him drop for drop;
If, like the sun, his throne doth shine,
_Thou_ art that throne's prop.
If spectres wait upon the bowl,
Thou needs not be afraid,
Grin hell-hounds for thy bold black soul,
His purple be thy shade.
Pages:
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139