Classic Poem

“Come , let us make a new world,” said the proud,—
“The iron image of our perfect plan.
Let those who cannot yield to those who can.
No place for tears, or pity, or the crowd
Of weaklings. Let no patriot's head be bowed
With his sire's shame: call no one courtesan
If she be breeder of the Mightier Man
Whose valor vaunts our glory far and loud.”

Mad pupils of a mad philosopher,
Think ye you have but armies to subdue?
Your foe is Woman! Hear the march of her
Through centuries, from the caverns to the blue
Of visioned peaks. Wrong ruled the years that were,
But Justice, queened by Pity, rules the new.