Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — The Challenge

I have a vague remembrance        &nbsp Of a story, that is told In some ancient Spanish legend        &nbsp Or chronicle of old. It was when brave King Sanchez        &nbsp Was before Zamora slain, And his great besieging army        &nbsp Lay encamped upon the plain. Don Diego de Ordonez        &nbsp Sallied forth in front of all, And shouted loud his challenge        &nbsp To the warders on the wall. All the people of Zamora,        &nbsp Both the born and the unborn, As traitors did he challenge        &nbsp With taunting words of scorn. The living, in their houses,        &nbsp And in their graves, the dead! And the waters of their rivers,        &nbsp And their wine, and oil, and bread! There is a greater army,        &nbsp That besets us round with strife, A starving, numberless army,        &nbsp At all the gates of life. The poverty-stricken millions        &nbsp Who challenge our wine and bread, And impeach us all as traitors,        &nbsp Both the living and the dead. And whenever I sit at the banquet,        &nbsp Where the feast and song are high, Amid the mirth and the music        &nbsp I can hear that fearful cry. And hollow and haggard faces        &nbsp Look into the lighted hall, And wasted hands are extended        &nbsp To catch the crumbs that fall. For within there is light and plenty,        &nbsp And odors fill the air; But without there is cold and darkness,        &nbsp And hunger and despair. And there in the camp of famine,        &nbsp In wind and cold and rain, Christ, the great Lord of the army,        &nbsp Lies dead upon the plain!