I see the European headsman,
He stands mask’d, clothed in red, with huge legs and strong naked arms,
And leans on a ponderous axe.
(Whom have you slaughter’d lately European headsman? Whose is that blood upon you so wet and sticky?)
I see the clear sunsets of the martyrs, I see from the scaffolds the descending ghosts,
- Ghosts of dead lords, uncrown’d ladies, impeach’d ministers, rejected kings,
- Rivals, traitors, poisoners, disgraced chieftains and the rest.
I see those who in any land have died for the good cause,
- The seed is spare, nevertheless the crop shall never run out,
- (Mind you O foreign kings, O priests, the crop shall never run out.)
I see the blood wash’d entirely away from the axe, * Both blade and helve are clean, * They spirt no more the blood of European nobles, * they clasp no more the necks of queens.
I see the headsman withdraw and become useless, I see the scaffold untrodden and mouldy, I see no longer any axe upon it, I see the mighty and friendly emblem of the power of my own race, the newest, largest race.