But for your greed the world were now at peace.

Month after month your countless chimneys roar,--
Slaughter your object, and your motive gain;
Look at your money,--it is wet with gore
Nothing can cleanse it from the loathsome stain.

You, who prolong this hideous hell on earth,
Making a by-word of your native land,
Stripped of your wealth, how paltry is your worth!
See how men shrink from contact with your hand!

There is pollution in your blood-smeared gold,
There is corruption in your pact with Death,
There is dishonor in the lie, oft-told,
Of your "Humanity"! 'Tis empty breath.

What shall it profit you to heap on high,
Makers of orphans! a few millions more,
When you must face them--those you caused to die,
And God demands of you to pay your score?

He is not mocked; His vengeance doth not sleep;
His cup of wrath He lets you slowly fill;
What you have sown, that also shall you reap;
God's law is adamant,--"Thou shalt not kill"!

Think not to plead:--"I did not act alone,"
"Custom allows it," and "My dead were few";
Each hath his quota; yonder are your own!