"How beautiful upon the mountain-tops
Their feet would sound, the messengers of Peace!"
So into neutral cars your unction drops,
Hinting a pious hope that War may cease--
War, with its dreadful waste,
Which never suited your pacific taste.
Strange you should turn so suddenly humane,
So sick of ravage and the reek of gore!
Dare we assume that Verdun's long-drawn strain
Makes you perspire at each Imperial pore?
Or that your nerve's mislaid
Through cardiac trouble caused by our Blockade?
You thought to finish on the high wave's crest;
To say, "These lands that 'neath our sceptre lie--
Such as we want we'll keep, and chuck the rest,
And to the vanquished, having drained 'em dry,
We will consent to give,
Out of our clemency, the right to live."
Then you came down a long, long way, and said,
"For pure desire of Peace, and that alone,
We'll deem the dead past buried with its dead,
Taking, in triumph's hour, a generous tone;
Uplift the fallen foe
And affably restore the _status quo_."
Fool's talk and idle. In this Dance of Death
The man who called the piper's tune must pay,
Nor can he stop at will for want of breath.
Though War you chose, and chose its opening day,
It lies not in your power
To stay its course or fix its final hour. O.S.
* * * * *