English poem
A Toast
by Lola Ridge (1873–1941)
Not your martyrs anointed of heaven-- The ages are red where they trod-- But the Hunted--the world's bitter leaven-- Who smote at your imbecile God--
A being to pander and fawn to, To propitiate, flatter and dread As a thing that your souls are in pawn to, A Dealer who traffics the dead;
A Trader with greed never sated, Who barters the souls in his snares, That were trapped in the lusts he created, For incense and masses and prayers--
They are crushed in the coils of your halters; 'Twere well--by the creeds ye have nursed-- That ye send up a cry from your altars, A mass for the Martyrs Accursed;
A passionate prayer from reprieval For the Brotherhood not understood-- For the Heroes who died for the evil, Believing the evil was good.
To the Breakers, the Bold, the Despoilers, Who dreamed of a world over-thrown... They who died for the millions of toilers-- Few--fronting the nations alone!
--To the Outlawed of men and the Branded, Whether hated or hating they fell-- I pledge the devoted, red-handed, Unfaltering Heroes of Hell!