From Last Poems of Alexander Robertson, 1918
Your idol is a bloody sword
And you the worshipper:
So the one word, the saving word
You spoke it not for her.
You had your way. But you will be
Accurséd of mankind,
Both for the unexpressed decree
And motives, undivined,—
Her tending of the wounded foe,
Her dauntlessness, forgot,—
And for the lies you spoke, that so
Unchanged might be her lot.
And having slain, you spoke a word
That showed your soul of mire,
Yet the toiler, said your feignéd Lord,
Is worthy of his hire.
All who have lied before they killed
And slandered whom they slew,
Behold, with admiration filled
Yet envious of you!