St. J. Terror and splendour, Tristram! Who shall tell-- Who shall persuade the kings that God is not, The politicians, usurers, financiers, Priests, warriors, that depend on God to bear The burden of their inhumanities? All inhumanity that flings itself On God's unsearchable device will fight To the last drop of blood, last labouring sigh For God and Heaven and Hell. And who shall teach The orphans that their mothers are not; who Unpeople Heaven of lovers, children, saints? Women will fight with babies at their breasts, Old palsied hags, peace-lovers, cripples, cowards, When this is put to war. Their sons that died In battle, where are they? Their enemies That should lament in Hell? The little child That lived a year and holds its parents' hearts In dimpled hands for ever? Christ himself That pardoned wanton women, where is he?
St. J. It can, it will! For through the mist of tears and blood I see A greater breed of men, a nobler world, An independent power in the Universe, The Universe itself become aware.
[Neither speaks again, and shortly both die within a few moments of each other.]
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Theatrocrat, by John Davidson