FROM A VERANDAH

By Francis William Lauderdale Adams

O city lapped in sun and Sabbath rest,

With happy face of plenteous ease possessed,

Have you no doubts that whisper, dreams that moan

Disquietude, to stir your slumbering breast?

Think you the sins of other climes are gone?

The harlot's curse rings in your streets — the groan

Of out-worn men, the stabbed and plundered slaves

Of ever-growing Greed, these are your own!

O'er you shall sweep the fiery hell that craves

For quenchment the bright blood of human waves:

For you, if you repent not, shall atone

For Greed's dark death-holes with War's swarming graves!