'Twas but a pebble from the brook, sent by a loyal will;
But sword and spear not mightier were God's purpose to fulfil.
For one may chase a thousand, and ten thousand flee from two;
The God of right is strong to save by many or by few.
* * * * *
Years, ages pass and now I see a land beloved and fair;
And lo! a cruel enemy hath gained possession there.
The riches of this goodly land into his coffers pour;
Insatiate and unscrupulous, his constant cry is "More!"
"More money clinking in my till, more men—my licensed prey;
More boys to feed my traffic when these men have passed away."
Thus man is robbed of purse and soul, home of its peace and joy;
The wife of husband is bereft, the mother of her boy.
The land doth mourn. On every side the spoiler hath his way;
No past oppression hath surpassed this vision of to-day.
And who, like Moses, will exchange his self-distrust and fear
For faith to meet the encroaching foe and check his bold career?
And who, like Deborah, will arise and lead a valiant band
To drive the Tyrant from her gates, the Traffic from her land?