It is no more fume of faction,
It is no more weary calls;
We are strong in faith and steady,
With the sword of Justice ready
And our iron men and walls;
Since the hour has struck for action,
And red retribution falls.
We have wrongs, which for redressing
Cry aloud to God at last;
It is woe to him who trifles
When we speak across our rifles
At the great and final cast;
And we seek no other blessing
Than the blotting out the past.
We will brook no new denial,
We will have no second tale;
And we seek no sordid laurels,
But here fight the ages' quarrels
And for freedom's broadening pale--
Lo, an Empire on its trial,
Hangs within the awful scale.
WANTED--A CROMWELL.
BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.
O for an hour of Cromwell's might
Who raised an Empire out of dust,
And lifted it to noontide light
By simple and heroic trust;
Whose word was like a swordsman's thrust,
And clove its way through crowned night.
We want old England's iron stock,
Hewn of the same eternal rock.
Pages:
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282