An’ Thou art God, and be not one With the god of the hun--Behold Thy Son! Only belov’d begotten Son And see with Thine eyes what the hun hath done. See how His tender temples bleed! How they have mocked Him in their scorn-- Thrust in his hands a withered reed To hail Him King--Thine only born-- And crowned His shrinking brow with thorn! Where must He pass--Lord Christ--Thy Son? Calvary looms in the West again:-- We thought the sad world lost and won When He died on the Cross for the sins of men. Must He die again? And where? And when? Where, in their hell, the heathen rage, The hun’s imperial priest appears Smeared with the blood of youth and age Dragging his god that nods and leers Dripping with murdered children’s tears. God of the bright, swift sword, how long? Moloch rides with the swinish hun:-- The boche is boasting with shout and song That Thou and his bestial god are one,-- Thou and Moloch and Christ, Thy Son! ROBERT W. CHAMBERS. _New York, April 30, 1918._ [Illustration] “_We Must so Destroy France That She can Never Again Resist Us_” Heine, when he warned the world that the real God of Germany was Thor and that when the Christian veneer wore off the old pagan god would with his hammer break in pieces the Gothic Cathedrals, especially warned France, whom above all the Beast hated. The warning has been justified by history. Before the war I have heard Germans speak gloatingly of what they did to France in 1870, and of what they meant to do next time. The phrase “bleed France white” had become a commonplace of German speech. This hatred is rather mysterious. England fought France many times during five hundred years, but whenever peace was declared Paris would be full of Englishmen to celebrate, to shake hands and be friends. There never was this ferocious hate, and France has always been generous and chivalrous and human. Germany hates Great Britain and America with her head, but she hates France with her soul. It must be that the modern Hun feels that there is something in his hated enemy which he does not possess and never can possess. And because the rest of the world loves France, he hates her all the more, with a cold and cruel and scientific hatred, as our artist depicts it in his terrible cartoon. Perhaps some light is thrown on the problem by a typical piece of Gallic wit. A French writer commenting on the wanton destruction of the Cathedral of Rheims declared it to be the greatest single calamity to art that was conceivable, and then added that there could be another greater calamity--to allow the Germans to restore it! It adds fuel to the flame to know that the only great period of German literature--the period of Heine himself--was when it was under the complete influence and inspiration of France.