A Toast
Lola Ridge
Not your martyrs anointed of heaven—
The ages are red where they trod—
But the Hunted—the world’s bitter leaven—
Who smote at your imbecile God—
A being to pander and fawn to,
To propitiate, flatter and dread
As a thing that your souls are in pawn to,
A Dealer who traffics the dead;
A Trader with greed never sated,
Who barters the souls in his snares,
That were trapped in the lusts he created,
For incense and masses and prayers—
They are crushed in the coils of your halters;
’Twere well—by the creeds ye have nursed—
That ye send up a cry from your altars,
A mass for the Martyrs Accursed;
A passionate prayer from reprieval
For the Brotherhood not understood—
For the Heroes who died for the evil,
Believing the evil was good.
To the Breakers, the Bold, the Despoilers,
Who dreamed of a world over-thrown…
They who died for the millions of toilers—
Few—fronting the nations alone!
—To the Outlawed of men and the Branded,
Whether hated or hating they fell—
I pledge the devoted, red-handed,
Unfaltering Heroes of Hell!
