 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
TO A WORD-WARRIOR
Frank Pixley, you, who kiss the hand
That strove to cut the country's throat,
Cannot forgive the hands that smote
Applauding in a distant land,—
That strove to cut the country's throat,
Cannot forgive the hands that smote
Applauding in a distant land,—
Applauding carelessly, as one
The weaker willing to befriend
Until the quarrel's at an end,
Then learn by whom it was begun.
The weaker willing to befriend
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Then learn by whom it was begun.
When North was pitted against South
Non-combatants on either side
In calculating fury vied,
And fought their foes by word of mouth.
Non-combatants on either side
In calculating fury vied,
And fought their foes by word of mouth.
That made logomachy you led
With formidable feats of tongue.
Then on the battle's rear you hung—
With Samson's weapon slew the dead!
With formidable feats of tongue.
Then on the battle's rear you hung—
With Samson's weapon slew the dead!
So hot the ardor of your soul
That every fierce civilian came
His torch to kindle at your flame,
Or have you blow his cooling coal.
That every fierce civilian came
His torch to kindle at your flame,
Or have you blow his cooling coal.
Men prematurely left their beds
And sought the gelid bath—so great
The heat and splendor of your hate
Of Englishmen and “Copperheads.”
And sought the gelid bath—so great
The heat and splendor of your hate
Of Englishmen and “Copperheads.”
King Liar of deceitful men,
For imposition doubly armed!
The patriots whom your speaking charmed
You stung to madness with your pen.
For imposition doubly armed!
The patriots whom your speaking charmed
You stung to madness with your pen.
There was a certain journal here,
Its English owner growing rich—
Your hand the treason wrote for which
A mob cut short its curst career.
Its English owner growing rich—
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A mob cut short its curst career.
If, Pixley, you had not the brain
To know the true from false, or you
To Truth had courage to be true,
And loyal to her perfect reign;
To know the true from false, or you
To Truth had courage to be true,
And loyal to her perfect reign;
If you had not your powers arrayed
To serve the wrong by tricksy speech,
Nor pushed yourself within the reach
Of retribution's accolade,
To serve the wrong by tricksy speech,
Nor pushed yourself within the reach
Of retribution's accolade,
I had not had the will to go
Outside the olive-bordered path
Of peace to cut the birch of wrath,
And strip your body for the blow.
Outside the olive-bordered path
Of peace to cut the birch of wrath,
And strip your body for the blow.
Behold how dark the war-clouds rise
About the mother of our race!
The lightnings gild her tranquil face
And glitter in her patient eyes.
About the mother of our race!
The lightnings gild her tranquil face
And glitter in her patient eyes.
Her children throng the hither flood
And lean intent above the beach.
Their beating hearts inhibit speech
With stifling tides of English blood.
And lean intent above the beach.
Their beating hearts inhibit speech
With stifling tides of English blood.
“Their skies, but not their hearts, they change
Who go in ships across the sea”—
Through all the centuries to be
The strange new land will still be strange.
Who go in ships across the sea”—
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The strange new land will still be strange.
The Island Mother holds in gage
The souls of sons she never saw;
Superior to law, the law
Of sympathetic heritage.
The souls of sons she never saw;
Superior to law, the law
Of sympathetic heritage.
Forgotten now the foolish reign
Of wrath that sundered trivial ties.
A soldier's sabre vainly tries
To cleave a spiritual chain.
Of wrath that sundered trivial ties.
A soldier's sabre vainly tries
To cleave a spiritual chain.
The iron in our blood affines,
Though fratricidal hands may spill.
Shall Hate be throned on Bunker Hill,
Yet Love abide in Seven Pines?
Though fratricidal hands may spill.
Shall Hate be throned on Bunker Hill,
Yet Love abide in Seven Pines?
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |