Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/392

 They watch him pass, or lightly hold In mock lip-loyalty his name: A thousand—were they his to lead! But meek, without a sword, he came.

A myriad horsemen swept the field With Attila, the whirlwind Hun; A myriad cannon spake for him, The silent, dread Napoleon.

For these had ready spoil to give, Had reeking spoil for savage hands; Slaves, and fair wives, and pillage rare: The wealth of cities: teeming lands.

And if the world, once drunk with blood, Sated, has turned from arms to peace, Man hath not lost his ancient lusts; The weapons change; war doth not cease.

The mother in the stifling den, The brain-dulled child beside the loom, The hordes that swarm and toil and starve— We laugh, and tread them to their doom.

They shriek, and cry their prayers to Christ; And lift wan faces, hands that bleed: In vain they pray, for what is Christ? A leader—without men to lead.

Ah, piteous Christ afar he rides! We see him, but the face is dim; We that would leap at crash of drums Are slow to rise and follow him.