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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343018" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To A Word-Warrior</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Frank Pixley, you, who kiss the hand<br>That strove to cut the country's throat,<br>Cannot forgive the hands that smote<br>Applauding in a distant land,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Applauding carelessly, as one<br>The weaker willing to befriend<br>Until the quarrel's at an end,<br>Then learn by whom it was begun.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When North was pitted against South<br>Non-combatants on either side<br>In calculating fury vied,<br>And fought their foes by word of mouth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That devil's-camisade you led<br>With formidable feats of tongue.<br>Upon the battle's rear you hung<br>With Samson's weapon slew the dead!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So hot the ardor of your soul<br>That every fierce civilian came,<br>His torch to kindle at your name,<br>Or have you blow his cooling coal.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Men prematurely left their beds<br>And sought the gelid bath-so great<br>The heat and splendor of your hate<br>Of Englishmen and 'Copperheads.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">King Liar of deceitful men,<br>For imposition doubly armed!<br>The patriots whom your speaking charmed<br>You stung to madness with your pen.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There was a certain journal here,<br>Its English owner growing rich-<br>Your hand the treason wrote for which<br>A mob cut short its curst career.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If, Pixley, you had not the brain<br>To know the true from false, or you<br>To Truth had courage to be true,<br>And loyal to her perfect reign;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If you had not your powers arrayed<br>To serve the wrong by tricksy speech,<br>Nor pushed yourself within the reach<br>Of retribution's accolade,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I had not had the will to go<br>Outside the olive-bordered path<br>Of peace to cut the birch of wrath,<br>And strip your body for the blow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Behold how dark the war-clouds rise<br>About the mother of our race!<br>The lightnings gild her tranquil face<br>And glitter in her patient eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her children throng the hither flood<br>And lean intent above the beach.<br>Their beating hearts inhibit speech<br>With stifling tides of English blood.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Their skies, but not their hearts, they change<br>Who go in ships across the sea'-<br>Through all centuries to be<br>The strange new land will still be strange.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Island Mother holds in gage<br>The souls of sons she never saw;<br>Superior to law, the law<br>Of sympathetic heritage.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Forgotten now the foolish reign<br>Of wrath which sundered trivial ties.<br>A soldier's sabre vainly tries<br>To cleave a spiritual chain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The iron in our blood affines,<br>Though fratricidal hands may spill.<br>Shall Hate be throned on Bunker Hill,<br>Yet Love abide at Seven Pines?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Ambrose+Bierce">Ambrose Bierce</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343018" data-title="To A Word-Warrior de Ambrose Bierce" data-description="Frank Pixley, you, who kiss the hand
That strove to cut the country's throat,
Cannot forgive the hands that smote
Applauding in a distant land,

Applauding carelessly, as one
The weaker willing to befriend
Until the quarrel's at an end,
Then learn..."></div>
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