Accurs-ed be all they that hate
Their brother, so to serve their God!
Soon had I cursed thy name, O Fate,
Had I not seen thee ready shod,
The besom in thy seasoned hand,
To sweep six centuries of the Turk
Out of a desecrated land!
Woe be to him who stays thy work!
Yea, woe unto the recreant tribe
That hath no legion for the Lord;
That for a warrior sends a scribe
To palter with a prodigal ward!
Where is your manhood, O ye States?
Ye Governments that govern down
All in the soul that elevates!
Ye hypocrites who, prudent, frown
On sympathy that warms the breast,
And boast you of the devilish grace,
Save in the name of interest
Ye meddle with your neighbors not!
Ten fleets to guard a gilded pot,
Not one to lift a bruised race!