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And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloomTheir country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.

Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,

And thy sad floor an altar; for 'twas trod Until his very steps have left a trace

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God.

BOOK VII

Jesus

Jesus

BY EUGENE V. DEBS

(See page 144)

THE martyred Christ of the working class, the inspired

evangel of the downtrodden masses, the world's supreme revolutionary leader, whose love for the poor and the children of the poor hallowed all the days of his consecrated life, lighted up and made forever holy the dark tragedy of his death, and gave to the ages his divine inspiration and his deathless name.

THE

Crusaders

BY ELIZABETH WADDELL

(Contemporary American writer)

HEY have taken the tomb of our Comrade Christ-
Infidel hordes that believe not in Man;

Stable and stall for his birth sufficed,

But his tomb is built on a kingly plan.

They have hedged him round with pomp and parade,
They have buried him deep under steel and stone-

But we come leading the great Crusade

To give our Comrade back to his own.

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