Bellona
Thou art moulded in marble impassive,False goddess, fair statue of strife,Yet standest on pedestal massive,A symbol and token of life.Thou art still, not with stillness of languor,And calm, not with calm boding rest;For thine is all wrath and all angerThat throbs far and near in the breastOf man, by thy presence possess’d.
With the brow of a fallen archangel,The lips of a beautiful fiend,And locks that are snake-like to strangle,And eyes from whose depths may be glean’dThe presence of passions, that trembleUnbidden, yet shine as they mayThrough features too proud to dissemble,Too cold and too calm to betrayTheir secrets to creatures of clay.
Thy breath stirreth faction and party,Men rise, and no voice can availTo stay them—rose-tinted AstarteHerself at thy presence turns pale.For deeper and richer the crimsonThat gathers behind thee throws forthA halo thy raiment and limbs on,And leaves a red track in the pathThat flows from thy wine-press of wrath.
For behind thee red rivulets trickle,Men fall by thy hands swift and lithe,As corn falleth down to the sickle,As grass falleth down to the scythe,Thine arm, strong and cruel, and shapely,Lifts high the sharp, pitiless lance,And rapine and ruin and rape lieAround thee. The Furies advance,And Ares awakes from his trance.
We, too, with our bodies thus weakly,With hearts hard and dangerous, thusWe owe thee—the saints suffered meeklyTheir wrongs—it is not so with us.Some share of thy strength thou hast givenTo mortals refusing in vainThine aid. We have suffered and strivenTill we have grown reckless of pain,Though feeble of heart and of brain.
Fair spirit, alluring if wicked,False deity, terribly real,Our senses are trapp’d, our souls trickedBy thee and thy hollow ideal.The soldier who falls in his harness,And strikes his last stroke with slack hand,On his dead face thy wrath and thy scorn isImprinted. Oh! seeks he a landWhere he shall escape thy command?
When the blood of thy victims lies red onThat stricken field, fiercest and last,In the sunset that gilds ArmageddonWith battle-drift still overcast—When the smoke of thy hot conflagrationsO’ershadows the earth as with wings,Where nations have fought against nations,And kings have encounter’d with kings,When cometh the end of all things—
Then those who have patiently waited,And borne, unresisting, the painOf thy vengeance unglutted, unsated,Shall they be rewarded again?Then those who, enticed by thy laurels,Or urged by thy promptings unblest,Have striven and stricken in quarrels,Shall they, too, find pardon and rest?We know not, yet hope for the best.