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The Schoolmaster.
Priest, feed the people;—see, they sink.
Many Voices.
A miracle! A miracle!
Brand.
O, the slave-stamp has branded deep;
The toil you shirk, the hire you crave.
Up, and shake off this deadly sleep,—
Or else, get back into the grave!
The Schoolmaster.
Ay, he is right; first face the foe;
The hire comes afterwards, you know.
Brand.
It shall, as sure as God looks forth
Over the breadth and depth of Earth!
Many Voices.
He's prophesying! He's prophesying
Several.
Hark, priest, will it be warm, this fight?
Others.
And bloody? And will it last till night?
The Schoolmaster.
[Aside.]
I trust there is no risk of dying?
A Man.
Priest, must we really face the fire?
