To Ronge

Strike home, strong-hearted man! Down to the root     Of old oppression sink the Saxon steel.     Thy work is to hew down. In God's name then     Put nerve into thy task. Let other men     Plant, as they may, that better tree whose fruit     The wounded bosom of the Church shall heal.     Be thou the image-breaker. Let thy blows     Fall heavy as the Suabian's iron hand,     On crown or crosier, which shall interpose     Between thee and the weal of Fatherland.     Leave creeds to closet idlers. First of all,     Shake thou all German dream-land with the fall     Of that accursed tree, whose evil trunk     Was spared of old by Erfurt's stalwart monk.     Fight not with ghosts and shadows. Let us hear     The snap of chain-links. Let our gladdened ear     Catch the pale prisoner's welcome, as the light     Follows thy axe-stroke, through his cell of night.     Be faithful to both worlds; nor think to feed     Earth's starving millions with the husks of creed.     Servant of Him whose mission high and holy     Was to the wronged, the sorrowing, and the lowly,     Thrust not his Eden promise from our sphere,     Distant and dim beyond the blue sky's span;     Like him of Patmos, see it, now and here,     The New Jerusalem comes down to man     Be warned by Luther's error. Nor like him,     When the roused Teuton dashes from his limb     The rusted chain of ages, help to bind     His hands for whom thou claim'st the freedom of the mind