Volume 147 — TO THE BITTER END.

A rumour comes from Rome (where rumours breed) That you are sick of taking blow on blow, And would inter with all convenient speed The hatchet wielded by your largest foe. Is it the shadow Christmas casts before That makes the iron of your soul unbend, And melt in prayer for this unholy war (Meaning the part that pinches most) to end? Is it your fear to mark at that high feast The writing on the wall that seals your fate, And where the Christ-star watches in the East To hear the guns that thunder at your gate? For on your heart no Christmas Peace can fall. The chimes shall be a tocsin, and the red Glow of the Yule-wood embers shall recall A myriad smouldering pyres of murdered dead. And anguish, wailing to the wintry skies, Shall with its dirges drown the sacred hymn, And round your royal hearth the curse shall rise Of lowly hearths laid waste to suit your whim. And you shall think on altars left forlorn, On temple-aisles made desolate at your nod, Where never a white-robed choir this holy morn Shall chant their greeting to the Birth of God. Peace? There is none for you, nor can be none; For still shall Memory, like a fetid breath, Poison your life-days while the slow hours run, Till it be stifled in the dust of Death.