Who Shall Forgive?

Battalions of Germany,—myriads arrayed,— With savage hate rushed from the north to invade The fertile sweet vallies, the lily-starred vales, Where lovely maids rival the loved nightingales.

And the glint of their swords, and the gleam of their guns, Was the glory of God to the brutalized Huns; But His temples and altars they leveled to dust, And the shriek of despair was the life of their lust.

The shout of their triumph, the boast of their king, High heaven assaulted as vultures a-wing; But why should they reck on the wrath of the Lord?— The glut of their glory achieved by the sword!—

The Spirit of God breathed over the world, And far to the west a proud banner unfurled; And the Army of Liberty crossed the wide sea, That woman might worship and man might be free.

And the hosts of the Huns are dismayed and perplexed, Their blasphemous king in his vaunting is vexed; For where is the pity for those who had none, And who shall forgive what the dastard has done?—

Their bodies are strewn by the Marne on the plain Where the hordes of Attila were routed and slain; And the fate of the past that dishonoured the Huns Is the doom of defeated, degenerate sons.