IF!

Suppose ’twere done! The lanyard pulled on every shotted gun; Into the wheeling death-clutch sent Each millioned armament, To grapple there On land, on sea and under, and in air! Suppose at last ’twere come— Now, while each bourse and shop and mill is dumb And arsenals and dockyards hum,— Now all complete, supreme, That vast, Satanic dream!— Each field were trampled, soaked, Each stream dyed, choked, Each leaguered city and blockaded port Made famine’s sport; The empty wave Made reeling dreadnought’s grave; Cathedral, castle, gallery, smoking fell ’Neath bomb and shell; In deathlike trance Lay industry, finance; Two thousand years’ Bequest, achievement, saving disappears, In blood and tears, In widowed woe That slum and palace equal know, In civilization’s suicide,— What served thereby, what satisfied? For justice, freedom, right, what wrought? Naught!— Save, after the great cataclysm, perhap On the world’s shaken map New lines, more near or far, Binding to King or Czar In fostering hate Some newly vassaled state; And passion, lust and pride made satiate; And just a trace Of lingering smile on Satan’s face!