O ye who shake hills with the scream of your mirth
  When cities sink howling in ruin; and ye
  Who with wingless footsteps trample the sea,
  And close upon Shipwreck and Famine's track
  Sit chattering with joy on the foodless wreck;
  Come, come, come!
  Leave the bed, low, cold, and red,
  Strewed beneath a nation dead;
  Leave the hatred, as in ashes
  Fire is left for future burning;
  It will burst in bloodier flashes
  When ye stir it, soon returning;
  Leave the self-contempt implanted
  In young spirits, sense-enchanted,
  Misery's yet unkindled fuel;
  Leave Hell's secrets half unchanted
  To the maniac dreamer; cruel
  More than ye can be with hate
  Is he with fear.
  Come, come, come!
  We are steaming up from Hell's wide gate
  And we burden the blasts of the atmosphere,
  But vainly we toil till ye come here.