In Those Barbaric Days

“In those barbaric days,”
Recalling scenes of savag’ry long past,
Over etheric waves the message sped
To this quiet bushland where my lot is cast
’Mid peace, upon this sunlit Sabbath day,
And strife and bitterness seem worlds away.
Idly my mind is heedful of the phrase
Spoken again: “In those barbaric days.”

The voice goes on. He draws a picture then—
While bird-songs punctuate the preacher’s drone—
Of man’s vast inhumanity to men
Thro’ countless ages happily long flown.
From history’s sullied pages he draws forth
Old tales of fury and insensate wrath;
And, while a score of songsters lift their praise,
I hear again, “In those barbaric days.”

Out from the speaker sounds the preacher’s voice
Telling of past injustice, ancient ills,
About me all the world seems to rejoice
From the sun-flecked grassland to the dreaming hills
That never knew the tramp of conqueror’s feet.
A scene of peace: the picture is complete,
Spring at its zenith. Then, as from a maze,
I wake to hear: “In those barbaric days.”

“In those barbaric days . . .” Now the scene fades.
I see a land laid waste. All beauty dies.
I see fair cities shattered by the raids
Of “supermen” who rain death from the skies.
Here is the modern scene, the creed of Might,
And all our boast of progress put to flight
By bitter irony rife in the phrase
That mocks all peace: “In those barbaric days.”