The bandit of Capital falls, and shall perish in shame and in filth!
The harvest of Labour's at hand!—The harvest; but red is the tilth,
And the reapers are wrathful and rash, and the swift-wielded sickle that strives
For the sheaves, not the gleaners' scant ears, seems agog for the reaping of—lives!
Assassins of Capital? Aye! And their weakening force will ye meet
With assassins of Labour? Shall Brotherhood redden the field and the street?
Beware of the bad black old lesson! Behold, and look close, and beware!
There are flowers at your newly-built shrine, is the evil old serpent not there?
