Martyrdom
BY LEONARD CHARLES VAN NOPPEN
THE world cries loud for blood; for never grewOne saving truth that blossomed, man to bless,That withered not in barren lonelinessTill watered by the sacrificial dew.Behold the prophets stoned—the while they blewA warning blast—the sad immortal guessOf Socrates—the thorn-crowned lowlinessOf Christ! And that black cross our Lincoln knew!’Tis only through the whirlwind and the stormThat man can ever reach his starry goal;Someone must bleed or else the world will die.Upon the flaring altar of reformSome heart lies quivering ever. To what soulThat dares be true, comes not the martyr’s agony?
THE world cries loud for blood; for never grewOne saving truth that blossomed, man to bless,That withered not in barren lonelinessTill watered by the sacrificial dew.Behold the prophets stoned—the while they blewA warning blast—the sad immortal guessOf Socrates—the thorn-crowned lowlinessOf Christ! And that black cross our Lincoln knew!’Tis only through the whirlwind and the stormThat man can ever reach his starry goal;Someone must bleed or else the world will die.Upon the flaring altar of reformSome heart lies quivering ever. To what soulThat dares be true, comes not the martyr’s agony?
THE world cries loud for blood; for never grewOne saving truth that blossomed, man to bless,That withered not in barren lonelinessTill watered by the sacrificial dew.Behold the prophets stoned—the while they blewA warning blast—the sad immortal guessOf Socrates—the thorn-crowned lowlinessOf Christ! And that black cross our Lincoln knew!’Tis only through the whirlwind and the stormThat man can ever reach his starry goal;Someone must bleed or else the world will die.Upon the flaring altar of reformSome heart lies quivering ever. To what soulThat dares be true, comes not the martyr’s agony?
The DebtBORROWBY—By Jove, old man! I owe you an everlasting debt of gratitude!Grimshaw—No, you don’t, Borrowby! You owe me fifty dollars in money.
The Debt
BORROWBY—By Jove, old man! I owe you an everlasting debt of gratitude!
Grimshaw—No, you don’t, Borrowby! You owe me fifty dollars in money.