Aye, down the years, behold, he rides,
The lowly Christ, upon an ass;
But conquering? Ten shall heed the call,
A thousand idly watch him pass:
They watch him pass, or lightly hold
In mock lip-loyalty his name:
A thousand--were they his to lead!
But meek, without a sword, he came.
A myriad horsemen swept the field
With Attila, the whirlwind Hun:
A myriad cannon spake for him,
The silent, dread Napoleon.
For these had ready spoil to give.
Had reeking spoil for savage hands;
Slaves, and fair wives, and pillage rare:
The wealth of cities: teeming lands.
And if the world, once drunk with blood,
Sated, has turned from arms to peace,
Man hath not lost his ancient lusts;
The weapons change; war doth not cease.
The mother in the stifling den,
The brain-dulled child beside the loom,
The hordes that swarm and toil and starve,
We laugh, and tread them to their doom.
They shriek, and cry their prayers to Christ;
And lift wan faces, hands that bleed:
In vain they pray, for what is Christ?
A leader--without men to lead.
Ah, piteous Christ, afar he rides:
We see him, but the face is dim.
We, that would leap at crash of drums,
Are slow to rise and follow him.
_The Forum_ _Percy Adams Hutchison_