The Anarchist

God’s curse and man’s! A thing abhorr’d
     By Truth, by Justice, Reason, Sense;
     Black, soulless Murder’s vain pretense,
Hell’s fierce defiance of the Lord,
His law and order, and His word,
And all man’s wisdom, learn’d and stor’d
     Through all the ages; all atwist
     From every good—the Anarchist.

Prone stretch’d and lifeless, lain in state,
     One of the world’s true heroes sleeps;
     The people mourn, a nation weeps
Its ruler, kindly, wise and great;
A widow grieves, disconsolate,
While ’twixt the bars, insatiate
     Glares Murder still, and cons a list
     Of victims for the Anarchist.

“When others build we but tear down;
     When others weep we laugh and jeer;
     When others smile we scowl and leer,
And meet their gladness with a frown.
     All law is slavery; a knave
     Is every ruler true or brave,
     Or what you will, we must insist
     Nothing is right.”—The Anarchist.

What if the nations heed and set
     Aside some island far away,
     Where all these malcontents must stay
And rule themselves? No ban or let
To practice what they preach, and get
These things on which their hearts are set,
     Among themselves. Die or exist,
     They’d solve the riddle. “Anarchist.”

     Calmer, Iowa.