OF KINGS
Ye kings, upon your gilded thrones,
Hear ye not how the death-wind moans?
Can ye not see that naught
For what your hands have done?
Hark! how a stricken people's groans
Mount up against the sun!
The innocent, they starve and bleed;
And do ye list, and do ye heed,
Wrapt in your dreams of power and greed,
The hastening end of all?
Hapsburgs and Hohenzollerns, read
The writing on the wall!
Clinton Scollard.
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