And orphans' sighs are mute 'mid the acclaim
Of multitudes.
(What is the grief of Jesus unto thee?)
"Statesman, behold, thy trustful neighbors sleep,
And rust is on their swords, your blades are sharp!
Swift and relentless press thy specious claim;
Not thine the toil or risk, thine the fame to win
With others' blood.
(That human blood that filled the veins of Christ!)
"Flushed with a spotless triumph, patriots,