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Sangar
Now leaps one into the press—
The Hell 'twixt front and front—
Sangar, bloody and torn of dress
(He has borne the brunt).
"Hold!" cries "Peace! God's Peace!
"Heed ye what Christus says—"
And the wild battle gave surcease
In amaze.
"When will ye cast out hate?
"Brothers—my mad, mad brothers—
"Mercy, ere it be too late,
"These are sons of your mothers.
"For sake of Him who died on Tree,
"Who of all Creatures, loved the Least,"—
"Blasphemer! God of Battles, He!"
Cried a priest.
"Peace!" and with his two hands
Has broken in twain his glaive.
Weaponless, smiling he stands
(Coward or brave?)
"Traitor!" howls one rank, "Think ye
"The Hun be our brother?"
And "Fear we to die, craven, think ye?"
The other.
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