V.

“Peace on earth and good will unto Men!” Came the tidings borne o'er wide dominions; The glad tidings thrilled the world as when Spring comes fluttering on the west wind's pinions,

When her voice is heard Warbling through each bird, And a new-born hope Throbs through all things infinite in scope.

“Peace on earth and good will!” came the word Of the Son of Man, the Man of Sorrow — But the peace turned to a flaming sword, Turned to woe and wailing on the morrow

When with gibes and scorns, Crowned with barren thorns, Gashed and crucified, On the Cross the tortured Jesus died.

And the world, once full of flower-hung shrines, Now forsakes old altars for the new, Zeus grows faint and Venus’ star declines As Jehovah glorifies the Jew,

He whom — lit with awe — God-led Moses saw, Graving with firm hand In his people's heart his Lord's command.

Holding Hells and Heavens in either hand Comes the priest and comes the wild-eyed prophet, Tells the people of some happier land, Terrifies them with a burning Tophet;

Gives them creeds for bread And warm roof o'erhead, Gives for life's delight Passports to the kingdom, spirit-bright.

And the people groaning everywhere Hearken gladly to the wondrous story, How beyond this life of toil and care They shall lead a life of endless glory:

Where beyond the dim Earth-mists Seraphim, Love-illumined, wait — Hierarchies of angels at heaven's gate.

Let them suffer while they live below, Bear in silence weariness and pain; For the heavier is their earthly woe, Verily the heavenlier is their gain

In the mansions where Sorrow and despair, Yea, all moan shall cease With the moan of immemorial seas.

And to save their threatened souls from sin, Save them from the world, the flesh, the devil, Men and Women break from bonds of kin And in cloistered cell draw bar on evil,

Worship on their knees Sacred Images, And all Saints above, The Madonna, mystic Rose of love.

Mystic Rose of Maiden Motherhood, Moon of Hearts immaculately mild, Beaming o'er the turbulent times and rude With the promise of her blessed Child:

Whom pale Monks adore, Pining evermore For the heaven of love Which their homesick lives are dying of.

But the flame of mystical desires Turns to fury fiercer than a leopard's, Holy fagots blaze with kindling fires As the priests, the people's careful shepherds,

In Heaven's awful name, Set the pile on flame Where, for Conscience’ sake, Heretics burn chaunting at the stake.

Subterranean secrets of the prison, Throbs of anguish in the crushing cell, Torture-chambers of the Inquisition Are the Church's antidotes to Hell.

Better rack them here, Mutilate and sear, Than their souls should go To the place of everlasting woe.

And a lurid universal night, Lit by quenchless fires for unquenched sages, Thick with spectral broods that shun the light, Looms impervious o'er the stifled ages

Where the blameless wise Fall a sacrifice, Fall as fell of old The unspotted firstlings of the fold.

And the violent feud of clashing creeds Shatters empires and breaks realms asunder; Cities tremble, sceptres shake like reeds At the swift bolts of the Papal thunder;

Yea, the bravest quail, Cast from out the pale Of all Christendom By the dread anathemas of Rome.

And like one misled by marish gleams When he hears the shrill cock's note of warning, Europe, starting from its trance of dreams, Sees the first streak of the clear-eyed morning

As it broadening stands Over ravaged lands Where mad nations are Locked in grip of fratricidal war.

Castles burn upon the vine-clad knolls, Huts glow smouldering in the trampled meadows; And a hecatomb of martyred souls Fills a queenly town with wail of widows

In those branded hours When red-guttering showers Splash by courts and stews To the Bells of Saint Bartholomew's.

Seed that's sown upon the wanton wind Shall be harvested in whirlwind rages, For revenge and hate bring forth their kind, And black crime must ever be the wages

Of a nation's crime Time transmits to time, Till the score of years Is wiped out in floods of staunchless tears.

Yea, the anguish in a people's life May have eaten out its heart of pity, Bred in scenes of scarlet sin and strife, Heartless splendours of a haughty city;

Dark with lowering fate, At the massive gate Of its kings it may Stand and knock with tragic hand one day.

For the living tomb gives up its dead, Bastilles yawn, and chains are rent asunder, Little children now and hoary head, Man and maiden, meet in joy and wonder;

Throng on radiant throng, Brave and blithe and strong, Gay with pine and palm, Fill fair France with freedom's thunder-psalm.

Free and equal — rid of king and priest — The rapt nation bids each neighbour nation To partake the sacramental feast And communion of the Federation:

And electrified Masses, far and wide, Thrill to hope and start Vibrating as with one common heart.

From the perfumed South of amorous France With her wreath of orange bloom and myrtle, From old wizard woods of lost Romance Soft with wail of wind and voice of turtle,

From the roaring sea Of grey Normandy, And the rich champaigns Where the vine gads o'er Burgundian plains;

From the banks of the blue arrowy Rhone, And from many a Western promontory, From volcanic crags of cloven stone Crowned with castles ivy-green in story;

From gay Gascon coasts March fraternal hosts, Equal hosts and free, Pilgrims to the shrine of liberty.

But king calls on king in wild alarms, Troops march threatening through the vales and passes, Barefoot Faubourgs at the cry to arms On the frontier hurl their desperate masses:

The deep tocsin's boom Fills the streets with gloom, And with iron hand The red Terror guillotines the land.

For the Furies of the sanguine past Chase fair Freedom, struggling torn and baffled, Till infuriate — turned to bay at last — Rolled promiscuous on the common scaffold,

Vengeful she shall smite A Queen's head bleached white, And a courtesan's Whose light hands once held the reins of France.

She shall smite and spare not — yea, her own, Her fair sons so pure from all pollution, With their guiltless life-blood must atone To the goddess of the Revolution;

Dying with a song On their lips, her young Ardent children end, Meeting death even as one meets a friend.

And her daughter, in heroic shame, Turned to Freedom's Moloch statue, crying: “Liberty, what crimes done in thy name!” Spake, and with her Freedom's self seemed dying

As she bleeding lay ‘ Neath Napoleon's sway: Europe heard her knell When on Waterloo the Empire fell.