Spoilers of men, beware the dawning hour; Heed ye the shapes that haunt your dreams of power. The ghosts of centuries of wrong arise, Their oriflammes of death before your eyes. They point with ghastly fingers to your brows of Cain; They cry, "Behold the earth-encumbering heaps of slain." And who are these? These dead that gape unto the skies? Was here a battle where men stood with equal chance,— Fell face to face, each man, his effort like a lance Full set to do its honest worst unto his foe? See ye the helmet and the sword receive the blow, When each one strives alike to wreck or save a life? See ye the weapons of an honorable strife? Ye traffic princes, monarchs of red gold, Beware the fate of kings of old, For ye are one with them in sceptred power; Forget not years have brought the toilers' hour. The centuries accuse ye. But a new one springs From God with promise on its wings! Go haste to loose your brothers' bands before The sounds of woe are heard within your door. The angel of a waiting vengeance stands, The golden censer in his lifted hands; It smokes with fire from off the altar ta'en Where ye have cast atoning gems in vain. Haste, haste; he flings the censer to the floor Of earth; he swears your time shall be no more. |