Are ye worth the kiss of a woman?
Were ye worth the roof of a womb?
Are ye worth the price of your grave-clothes?
Are ye worth the name on a tomb?
Nay! None of these is your earning,
And none of these be your meed,
If the deathless wail of their yearning
Shall add to your pulse no speed.
Never by hand of a warrior,
Never by act of a man,
Have the Little Ones thus perished,
Since ever that Heaven began.
Such deed and the beings who wrought it--
Ah! deep must the cutting go
To cure the world of the memory
Of the Little Ones in woe.
The Three watch high in Their Heaven,
And aye! the Three be grieved;
The sword is the key of Their Heaven,
If the babes shall be received.
Rise then, men of our banner--
Speak in our ancient tone--
Each of you for his mother,
Each of you for his own!
Smite full and fell and fearless,
Till that these be set free--
These, slain of the foulest slaying
That ever made red the sea.
The sword of the Great Avenger
Is now for the sons of men;
It must redden in errand holy
Till the babes be cradled again.
_Copyrighted, 1917, by Emerson Hough_