Oh yes, make no doubt,--you shall need them; If not now, at some near-upon time, P'rhaps fast as your mothers dare breed them, Those fools of his militant rhyme. For, tho' it be not a day that covers What stern Reckoners, withal, must try, And, ere Retribution that hovers Shall swoop down on the Greed and the lie; Yet, sure as red War do thin them, Your brave ranks dished cold on his tray, Shall your wits study hard how to win them-- Adding craft to his ravenous play-- Those flanneled fools where they dally, With yet good trick o' the human left, Who trace, thro' the bounce and the rally, The gross hand of the clumsiest theft; If still at his feet, the sad demon of Glory, Whose yet Star screens the Nemesis there, You trail foul the white mantle which Story, Long proud, deemed you worthy to wear. Have him drink, each Oaf, till he drains it, The sad rue of your rank abuse, Till he purge, where your grim lip stains it, The white, passioned font of the Truce. And you spill 'gainst some Day that darkens, The sweet blood which more blood must cleanse, To appease her, who evermore hearkens, With an ear 'bove all mortal mens'-- Whose hand, tho' thy now scarce regards it, Nay, with brute challenge her great bond bails, 'Gainst some audit, how so she retards it, Holds still those immutable scales, Whose tallies, past mortal doubting, Shall yet flame their etern script, Set forth b'yond what small gods flouting, Their word in your heart's-blood dipp'd. For out of the sad soil reeking, Unstilled while the blood-rain falls, Even there, goes a great Wrong seeking, From Camp and from pesthouse calls. Seeking--wondering, though waiting, Why so patient the ordering Stars; All-wisdomed Wills why so lating The Just which no time-let bars. Seeking--nay, all but finds it, In the path you must now pursue, The scourge, where some grim Fate winds it With her law of the outraged True; In the course now blind-blazed before you, Where, still warning her augurs stand, Invoking the love she bore you, For stay of your ruthless hand. Oh yes, you shall ill do without them, Those fools his rash fancy drew; But then, shall your conscience not doubt them, Shall they not lack faith in _you_? Shall then not the dead Days taunt you, Break their graves, and, with wild surmise, Fierce-ghosting the Coming haunt you, Ensanguine the placid skies? Oh, yes; Come Heaven or Hell, you shall need them, Where Unjust has so monst'red the score, Her purgers-in-fee, ere you breed them, Till Shame be your harlot no more! WAR.