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| HAGGARD faces and trembling knees, | |
| Eyes that shine with a weaklings hate, | |
| Lips that mutter their blasphemies, | |
| Murderous hearts that darkly wait: | |
| These are they who were men of late, | 5 |
| Fit to hold a plow or a sword. | |
| If a prayer this wall may penetrate, | |
| Have pity on these my comrades, Lord! | |
| |
| Poets sing of life at the lees | |
| In tender verses and delicate; | 10 |
| Of tears and manifold agonies | |
| Little they know of what they prate. | |
| Out of this silence, passionate | |
| Sounds a deeper, a wilder chord. | |
| If sound be heard through the narrow grate, | 15 |
| Have pity on these my comrades, Lord! | |
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| Hark, that wail of the distant breeze, | |
| Piercing ever the close-barred gate, | |
| Fraught with torturing memories | |
| Of eyes that kindle and lips that mate. | 20 |
| Ah, by the loved ones desolate, | |
| Whose anguish never can pen record, | |
| If thou be truly compassionate, | |
| Have pity on these my comrades, Lord! | |
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LENVOI These are pawns that the hand of Fate | 25 |
| Careless sweeps from the checker-board. | |
| Thou that knowst if the game be straight, | |
| Have pity on these my comrades, Lord! | |
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