Page:When the Leaves Come Out (Chaplin 1917).pdf/24

  The torpid ages travailed long while systems died and grew, Until the final hour struck that sounded DOOM for you; You are the Past, the Dead, the Dust; we Heralds of the New.

We are the Herators of Time, not outcasts of despair— The Builders of a gleaming world, the Future, calm and fair; And we've starved through your dismal night to feast in plenty there.

We want this world for all who work—a heritage by birth; We want as "pay" the fullest joy that Human Life is worth: We therefore start the New Crusade the Conquest of the Earth.

From out the reeking hells of greed where we have delved and spun We'll stream forth with a ringing song, the Final Battle won, To find upon the fair green earth our place within the sun!

The War is on—a howling storm—against your fastness hurled. Our battle-line now girts the globe, the death-flag is unfurled. We, who have slaved and slept and bled, shall soon possess the world !

