They say we are revolters—that we stirred
The workers of all nations to rebel—
And that we would not compromise with Hell,
But damned it with our every deed and word.
They feared us as we faced them undeterred,
And gave us each a coffin of a cell
In this steel cave where living corpses dwell—
Hate-throttled here that we might not be heard.
We are those fools too stubborn-willed to bend
Our necks to Wrong and parley and discuss.
Today we face the awful test of fire—
The prison, gallows, cross—but in the end
Your sons will call your children after us
And name their dogs from men you now admire!
BLOOD AND WINE
(A certain little renegade of the Revolution chants a hymn of praise to his erstwhile enemy.)
Behold! The helots of the land
Are cowed beneath thy iron fist;
They are too dumb to understand—
Too tame and spineless to resist.
Victorious one! Against thy gains
These chattels cannot, dare not rise;
Stifle the thought within their brains
And rule . . . with bayonets and lies.
So may thy sons, with greed uncurbed,
Their children's children rule again;
Aye, rule with iron, undisturbed,
The all-prolific sons of men.
What matters that ten million died
To give thy lust a dwelling place?
Does not thy Terror set aside
The ancient freedom of the race?
What matters that the peasant's plow
Bites at a soil baptised with red?
Are not thy bloody dollars now
More myriad than the myriad dead?
That in charred cities, wan with pain,
War-desolated mothers live,
While lips of babies tug in vain
At breasts that have no milk to give?