And the the white and crimson bands of dawn,     And the Stars that glow and glance, Shall girdle them their armor on,     With buckler, sword, and lance, And leap to the charge and sweep the field     With the Trois Couleurs of France, .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    . If right is might and Honor lives—     Oh Sister? ’cross the seas— And Liberty and Justice still     Hold high commune with these; A four-fold vengeans waits the Hun,     And his iniquities. THE PACIFIST. Cowards and curs and traitors,     Fatuous dreaming fools— Binding us, stripped, for the madman     Nurtured of dastard schools, Where right of might and who springs first     Are the only known rules. Well fed, well housed and sleek and smug,     Full pursed and full of pride— Your fields are green, your lanes are fair     Where peaceful homes abide, And your children play by sunny streams     That laughing seaward glide. What Primal Power tells you eat     To the ends of your belly-greed— What holds your fields with harvests full,     And answers every need— And bids your bairns play laughingly     With never care or heed? The answer, Fool, is written large     In words of blazing light— They are rewards of dwelling in     A Land of kingly might, That grants you surety and wealth     And guards you, day and night. And whence, Fool, came its splendid strength—     And why, and how and when? In a World of strife and reddened knife     Did it rise by tongue and pen? No, Dolt, but by the strong right arms,     The arms of its fighting men. And Ye, Ye would sit with folded hands,     Agaze into Heaven’s blue, With sanctimonious murmurings     Of what the Lord will do; While your neighbor and your neighbor’s son     Go forth and fight for you. For you, you cur, and your belly-need—     For your hearth and kith and kin: For your harvest and your banking-house     Where you shovel the shekels in, Till the labor has hardened your hands and heart,     And your soul is parchment skin. Religion cannot cover     A dog whose liver is white. Your Christ, with righteous anger,     Smote hard to left and right The usurers. And never said     He was too proud to fight. When we are another Belgium     And the land with blood is dyed, And your homes are burned and your women raped,     And ye know that ye have lied— Mayhap ye will say with your final gasp     That ye are satisfied. BATTLE HYMN OF 17. On the entry, in 1917, of the United States into the World War. Not with vain boasts and mouthings—     Not with jesting light— But for Duty and Love of Country     Come we in armor dight. Not for our own advantage—     Not for Adventure’s lust— Not for the hope of honor—     But a Cause that is high and just. Not for the praise of our fellow-man,     Or greed or gain or creed, But for the sight of the suffering eyes     That call us in their need.