Classic Poem

Yet doth thy triumph find its better part,
Soldier of Mercy, in thine own great heart,
That, in the vision of thy loneliest time,
Learned, like the poet, " All revenge is crime. "
But though thine enemies may never feel
The gyves that with injustice mangled thee,
Pierced shall their souls be by a sharper steel —
The blade of conscience — faultless weaponry!
Though, free from Law's reprisal,
They lie within no dank and sheathing cell
Where horror doth approximate to hell; —
Though they may never, near the brink of death,
Accuse with proud, pure hands the God of Light; —
Yet is the day their night;
Yet is the world their prison, and their breath
But the slow poison of the world's despisal.
Leave them — so deaf to pity — unto Him
Who taught thee pity in thine exile caged and dim.

ENVOI

O H , tremble, all oppressors, where ye be —
Throne, senate, mansion, mart, or factory;
One against many, many against few;
Ye poor, once crushed, that crush your own anew;
Ye vulgar rich, new-risen from the mud,
Despoilers of the flower in the bud:
For justice is the orbit of God's day,
And He hath promised that He will repay.