And all because they have forgot
   What ’tis to be a man—­to curb and spurn. 
   The tyrant in us:  the ignobler self
   Which boasts, not loathes, its likeness to the brute;
   And owns no good save ease, no ill save pain,
   No purpose, save its share in that wild war
   In which, through countless ages, living things
   Compete in internecine greed.  Ah, loving God,
   Are we as creeping things, which have no lord? 
   That we are brutes, great God, we know too well;
   Apes daintier-featured; silly birds, who flaunt
   Their plumes, unheeding of the fowler’s step;
   Spiders, who catch with paper, not with webs;
   Tigers, who slay with cannon and sharp steel,
   Instead of teeth and claws:—­all these we are. 
   Are we no more than these, save in degree? 
   Mere fools of nature, puppets of strong lusts,
   Taking the sword, to perish by the sword
   Upon the universal battle-field,
   Even as the things upon the moor outside?

      The heath eats up green grass and delicate herbs;
   The pines eat up the heath; the grub the pine;
   The finch the grub; the hawk the silly finch;
   And man, the mightiest of all beasts of prey,
   Eats what he lists.  The strong eat up the weak;
   The many eat the few; great nations, small;
   And he who cometh in the name of all
   Shall, greediest, triumph by the greed of all,
   And, armed by his own victims, eat up all. 
   While ever out of the eternal heavens
   Looks patient down the great magnanimous God,
   Who, Master of all worlds, did sacrifice
   All to Himself?  Nay:  but Himself to all;
   Who taught mankind, on that first Christmas Day,
   What ’tis to be a man—­to give, not take;
   To serve, not rule; to nourish, not devour;
   To lift, not crush; if need, to die, not live.

“He that cometh in the name of all”—­the popular military despot—­the “saviour of his country”—­he is our internecine enemy on both sides of the Atlantic, whenever he rises—­the inaugurator of that Imperialism, that Caesarism into which Rome sank, when not her liberties merely, but her virtues, were decaying out of her—­the sink into which all wicked States, whether republics or monarchies, are sure to fall, simply because men must eat and drink for to-morrow they die.  The Military and Bureaucratic Despotism which keeps the many quiet, as in old Rome, by panem et circenses—­bread and games—­or, if need be, Pilgrimages; that the few may make money, eat, drink, and be merry, as long as it can last.  That, let it ape as it may—­as did the Caesars of old Rome at first—­as another Emperor did even in our own days—­the forms of dead freedom, really upholds an artificial luxury by brute force; and consecrates the basest of all aristocracies, the aristocracy of the money-bag, by the divine sanction of the bayonet.

That at all risks, even at the price of precious blood, the free peoples of the earth must ward off from them; for, makeshift and stop-gap as it is, it does not even succeed in what it tries to do.  It does not last.  Have we not seen that it does not, cannot last?  How can it last?  This falsehood, like all falsehoods, must collapse at one touch of Ithuriel’s spear of truth and fact.  And—­