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F.J. Webb

Poem: To The Princes of The Church

To The Princes of The Church

    You prate of love and murmur of goodwill,

    Turn sanctimonious eyes toward your God,

    Write on your walls the text "Thou shalt not kill,"

    Point out the path your "Prince of Peace" once trod,

    While all the time, with murder in your hearts,

    You lie, cajole, and bully that the fools

    Who heed your words may play their foolish parts

    As slaves of Mammon, as the War-Lord's tools.

    On many a field, in many a river bed,

    Of Flanders and of Poland and of France,

    Your bloody-minded words bear fruit indeed.

    Preachers of Death! the thought of maimed and dead

    Will nerve us when our hosts of Life advance

Poem: The Call

The Call

        Come from the slum and the hovel,

        From the depth of your dumb despair;

        From the hell where you writhe and grovel

        Crushed by the woes you bear;

        There are joys that are yours for the taking,

        There are hopes of a height unknown,

        A harvest of life in the making

        From the sorrows the past has sown.


        Come from the dust of the battle,

        Where your blood, like a river, runs,

        Where helpless as driven cattle

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