But—beasts must bleed, in the name of Glory!
Beasts of burden, ye peoples, still
Ridden hard by a ruthless will!
Militarism is mounted firm.
The saddled slaves may shudder and squirm,
The bridled brutes may shy and shrink,
The road is long, and the gulf's black brink
Seems distant yet, and is scarcely seen
By the rival riders, whose pride and spleen
Blind them—save to each other's glare,