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17   I see the European headsman;
He stands mask'd, clothed in red, with huge legs, and      strong naked arms,
And leans on a ponderous axe.
18  Whom have you slaughter'd lately, European heads-     man?
Whose is that blood upon you, so wet and sticky?
19  I see the clear sunsets of the martyrs;
I see from the scaffolds the descending ghosts,
Ghosts of dead lords, uncrown'd ladies, impeach'd      ministers, rejected kings,
Rivals, traitors, poisoners, disgraced chieftains, and      the rest.
20   I see those who in any land have died for the      good cause;
The seed is spare, nevertheless the crop shall never run      out;
(Mind you, O foreign kings, O priests, the crop shall      never run out.)
21  I see the blood wash'd entirely away from the axe;
Both blade and helve are clean;
They spirt no more the blood of European nobles —      they clasp no more the necks of queens.
22  I see the headsman withdraw and become useless;
I see the scaffold untrodden and mouldy — I see no      longer any axe upon it;
I see the mighty and friendly emblem of the power of      my own race — the newest, largest race.