TO RONGE.

Strike home, strong-hearted man! Down to the root

Of old oppression sink the Saxon steel.

Thy work is to hew down. In God's name then

Put nerve into thy task. Let other men

Plant, as they may, that better tree whose fruit

The wounded bosom of the Church shall heal.

Be thou the image-breaker. Let thy blows

Fall heavy as the Suabian's iron hand,

On crown or crosier, which shall interpose

Between thee and the weal of Fatherland.

Leave creeds to closet idlers. First of all,

Shake thou all German dream-land with the fall

Of that accursed tree, whose evil trunk

Was spared of old by Erfurt's stalwart monk.

Fight not with ghosts and shadows. Let us hear

The snap of chain-links. Let our gladdened ear

Catch the pale prisoner's welcome, as the light

Follows thy axe-stroke, through his cell of night.

Be faithful to both worlds; nor think to feed

Earth's starving millions with the husks of creed.

Servant of Him whose mission high and holy

Was to the wronged, the sorrowing, and the lowly,

Thrust not his Eden promise from our sphere,

Distant and dim beyond the blue sky's span;

Like him of Patmos, see it, now and here,

The New Jerusalem comes down to man

Be warned by Luther's error. Nor like him,

When the roused Teuton dashes from his limb

The rusted chain of ages, help to bind

His hands for whom thou claim'st the freedom of the mind