In a different tone, but displaying the same sureness of execution, is
the cry of the lowly folk, the wretched pawns in the great game of life:
Prince, and Bishop, and Knight, and Dame,
Plot, and plunder, and disagree!
O but the game is a royal game!
O but your tourneys are fair to see!
None too hopeful we found our lives;
Sore was labor from day to day;
Still we strove for our babes and wives--
Now, to the trumpet, we march away!
"Why?"--For some one hath will'd it so!
Nothing we know of the why or the where--
To swamp, or jungle, or wastes of snow--
Nothing we know, and little we care.
Give us to kill!--since this is the end
Of love and labor in Nature's plan;
Give us to kill and ravish and rend,
Yea, since this is the end of man.
States shall perish, and states be born:
Leaders, out of the throng, shall press;
Some to honor, and some to scorn:
We, that are little, shall yet be less.
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