Suppose ’twere done!
The lanyard pulled on every shotted gun;
Into the wheeling death-clutch sent
Each millioned armament,
To grapple there
On land, on sea and under, and in air!
Suppose at last ’twere come--
Now, while each bourse and shop and mill is dumb
And arsenals and dockyards hum,--
Now all complete, supreme,
That vast, Satanic dream!--
Each field were trampled, soaked,
Each stream dyed, choked,
Each leaguered city and blockaded port
Made famine’s sport;
The empty wave
Made reeling dreadnought’s grave;
Cathedral, castle, gallery, smoking fell
’Neath bomb and shell;
In deathlike trance
Lay industry, finance;
Two thousand years’
Bequest, achievement, saving disappears,
In blood and tears,
In widowed woe
That slum and palace equal know,
In civilization’s suicide,--
What served thereby, what satisfied?
For justice, freedom, right, what wrought?
NAUGHT!--
Save, after the great cataclysm, perhap
On the world’s shaken map
New lines, more near or far,
Binding to King or Czar
In fostering hate
Some newly vassaled state;
And passion, lust and pride made satiate;
And just a trace
Of lingering smile on Satan’s face!
_Boston New Bureau_ _Bartholomew F. Griffin_