CHALLENGEI have a vague remembranceOf a story that is toldIn some ancient Spanish legendOr chronicle of old.It was when brave King SanchezWas before Zamora slain,And his great besieging armyLay encamped upon the plain.Don Diego de OrdenezSallied forth in front of all,And shouted loud his challengeTo the warders on the wall.All the people of Zamora,Both the born and the unborn,As traitors did he challengeWith taunting words of scorn.The living in their houses,And in their graves the dead,And the waters in their rivers,And their wine, and oil, and bread.There is a greater armyThat besets us round with strife,A starving, numberless armyAt all the gates of life.The poverty-stricken millionsWho challenge our wine and bread,And impeach us all as traitors,Both the living and the dead.And whenever I sit at the banquet,Where the feast and song are high,Amid the mirth and musicI can hear that fearful cry.And hollow and haggard facesLook into the lighted hall,And wasted hands are extendedTo catch the crumbs that fall.And within there is light and plenty,And odours fill the air;But without there is cold and darkness,And hunger and despair.And there in the camp of famine,In wind, and cold, and rain,Christ, the great Lord of the Army,vLies dead upon the plain.LONGFELLOW
I have a vague remembranceOf a story that is toldIn some ancient Spanish legendOr chronicle of old.It was when brave King SanchezWas before Zamora slain,And his great besieging armyLay encamped upon the plain.Don Diego de OrdenezSallied forth in front of all,And shouted loud his challengeTo the warders on the wall.All the people of Zamora,Both the born and the unborn,As traitors did he challengeWith taunting words of scorn.The living in their houses,And in their graves the dead,And the waters in their rivers,And their wine, and oil, and bread.There is a greater armyThat besets us round with strife,A starving, numberless armyAt all the gates of life.The poverty-stricken millionsWho challenge our wine and bread,And impeach us all as traitors,Both the living and the dead.And whenever I sit at the banquet,Where the feast and song are high,Amid the mirth and musicI can hear that fearful cry.And hollow and haggard facesLook into the lighted hall,And wasted hands are extendedTo catch the crumbs that fall.And within there is light and plenty,And odours fill the air;But without there is cold and darkness,And hunger and despair.And there in the camp of famine,In wind, and cold, and rain,Christ, the great Lord of the Army,vLies dead upon the plain.
LONGFELLOW