Page:Canadian poems of the great war.djvu/67

W. A. Fraser The land is dead! The mills turn slowly, for the corn is less; The sails flap idly, for the way is closed; The waters lap lean, hungered hulks; The quays are sombre with the tools of war; Faith lies shattered in the souls of men; Worms channel through the God of Might.

With foot on neck you mounted 'Uber Alles' The human stepping-stones you labelled swine—'schwinehund.' Their souls, are they, too, with the swine-'schwinehund'? And you expect the lips that wail in anguish for their dead To frame a glad acclaim when you in splendour pass— You, and your friend, the Turk.

Small greatness this, to bring a people to their knees, To bow the heads of men to walk in shame, To putrify their fame— to thrust them back in lust, And nourish in their hearts the crime of Cain; Unmask the strident cry of culture as a lie, Loose within the garden of the world your viper breed, Unleash that pariah, the Turk.

The net draws closer and your glass is run; Much hushed the clamour of your pirate song- Unfathered, from despair, your cry, 'We clogged the fount of pity with their blood, We closed Thy gates of mercy, Lord, But in our hour of need make Peace, I do not know the Turk.'