"And in the brotherhood of Man reposing,
Joined to their hopes and nursed in their new day,
The anguish of the years shall be forgotten
And God, with these, shall wipe your tears away."
IV
I have a thing to say. But how to say it?
How shall I tell the mystery of guile—
The fraud that fought—the treason that disbanded—
The gold that slew the children of the Nile?
The ways of violence are hard to reckon,
And men of right grow feeble in their will,
And Virtue of her sons has been forsaken,
And men of peace have turned aside to kill.
How shall I speak of them, the priests of Baal,
The men who sowed the wind for their ill ends?
The reapers of the whirlwind in that harvest
Were all my countrymen, were some my friends.
Friends, countrymen and lovers of fair freedom—
Souls to whom still my soul laments and cries.
I would not tell the shame of your false dealings,
Save for the blood which clamours to the skies.
A curse on Statecraft, not on you my Country!
The men you slew were not more foully slain
Than was your honour at their hands you trusted.
They died, you conquered,—both alike in vain.
Crime finds accomplices, and Murder weapons.
The ways of Statesmen are an easy road.
All swords are theirs, the noblest with the neediest.
And those who serve them best are men of good.
What need to blush, to trifle with dissembling?
A score of honest tongues anon shall swear.
Blood flows. The Senate's self shall spread its mantle
In the world's face, nor own a Cæsar there.
"Silence! Who spoke?" "The voice of one disclosing
A truth untimely." "With what right to speak?
Holds he the Queen's commission?" "No, God's only."
A hundred hands shall smite him on the cheek.