of prayer and insolent praise to Thee,
Lord God, for Thy high help and proved complicity.
Nay Lord, 'tis not a lie, the thing I tell Thee thus.
Their bishops in their Churches lead, incredulous,
The public thanks profane. They sanctify the sword--
"Te Deum laudamus. Give peace in our time, O Lord."
Hast Thou not heard their chanting? Nay, Thou dost not hear,
Or Thou hadst loosed Thy hand like lightning in the clear
To smite their ribald lips with palsy, these false priests,
These Lords who boast Thine aid at their high civic feasts,
The ignoble shouting crowds, the prophets of their Press,
Pouring their daily flood of bald self-righteousness,
Their poets who write big of the "White Burden." Trash!
The White Man's Burden, Lord, is the burden of his cash.
--There. Thou hast heard the truth. Thy world, Lord God of Heaven,
Lieth in the hands of thieves who pillage morn and even.
And Thou still sleepest on! Nay but Thou needs must hear
Or abdicate Thy name of High Justiciar
Henceforward and for ever. It o'erwhelmeth Thee
With more than temporal shame. Thy silence is a Sea
Crying through all the spheres in pain and ceasing not
As blood from out the ground to mark crime's murder spot:
"There is no hope--no truth. He hath betrayed the trust.
"The Lord God is unjust. The Lord God is unjust." (_A cry without._)
This is their cry in Heaven who give Thee service true.
Arise, Lord, and avenge as was Thy wont to do.

(_The Angels re-enter in disorder, weeping_).

THE LORD GOD

What tears be these, my Sons? What ails ye that ye weep?
Speak, Shepherds of the flock! Ye that have cared my sheep,
Ye that are charged with Man. Is it as this One saith?
Is Satan then no liar who loudly witnesseth
Man's ruin of the World?

THE ANGEL OF PITY (_coming forward_)

Lord, it is even so
Thy Earth is a lost force, Man's lazar-house of woe,
Undone by his lewd will. We may no longer strive.
The evil hath prevailed. There is no soul alive
That shall escape his greed. We spend our days in tears
Mourning Thy world's lost beauty in the night of years.
All pity is departed. Each once happy thing
That on Thy fair Earth went, how fleet of foot or wing,
How glorious in its strength, how wondrous in design,
How royal in its raiment tinctured opaline,
How rich in joyous life, the inheritor of forms
All noble, all of worth, which ha