Classic Poem

Warrior by warriors smitten,
Gambler whose luck has turned,
Read not the small words written,
Who know what love you earned:
You know, and none shall tell you,
What and how long and how
They did endure in silence
That smite in silence now.

A Liberal may belabour
With rods your reckless dead,
As the Tory licked your sabre
For the blood he dared not shed;
Since from the creedless chapel
And the cushioned prize-ring came
The men that feared your glory
And they that praised your shame.

With us too rage against the rood
Your devils and your swine;
A colder scorn of womanhood,
A baser fear of wine.
And lust without the harem,
And Doom without the God.
Go. It is not this rabble
Sayeth to you " Ichabod."

Because our sorrow has sufficed
And what we know we know;
And because you were great, Lord Antichrist,
In the name of Christ you go;
But you shall not turn your turban
For the little dogs that yell,
When a man rides out of a city
In the name of God; farewell.