Classic Poem

And lo! the pale announcer of new moons,
High on the flowerful Temple of Eschm├┤n,
Cried to the winds and smote his palsied cheek,
For he was feverish by the midnight air
Of many decades, and his blood was thin
Attending to the motions of the orb
That turned his eyes to whiteness, but he knew
That, when fell blindness shrouded them at last,
He would be sacred held, and he was glad
Within his bosom, for the moon's thin slaves,
When ravaged by the splendor of her rays,
Were holy ever after, and could dwell
In Megara, the suburb of the town,
Under green palms and fountains, with the birds,
There to praise Melcarth in the glorious sun,
And feast on fat, and know the taste of quails,
Or drain Campanian amphoras at night.
Therefore, Maharbal on the temple's crown
Signaled a wondrous darkness on the moon,
That presaged death to animals that night,
And on his silver trumpet he announced
The serious changes in the heavens afar.

His words, caught up by sentries at the gates,
Were hurried to a myriad of ears,
And Schahabarim, the anointed priest,
Paused in the act of sacrifice, and bade
A thousand slaves to hasten to the pits,
And shackle thirty lions with strong gyves.

And this was done amid a storm of roars
And death to many by colossal fangs;
For twenty men sufficed to bind a beast;
Yea, twenty only! When the beast was bound,
Two, sometimes three, of the lithe negro slaves
Lived to narrate the combat to the town!
And as the sacred number, thirty, stood,
Full half a thousand human lives were lost.
But loss of life it was not, they being slaves
Unworthy to drag offal to old bears.
Then all the people shouted at the groans
Of bleeding wretches, and the living slaves,
Tottering from effort and terrific wounds,
With strips of skin still dangling on their loins,
With opened shoulders bitten to the bone,
Led forth the monsters to the neighboring grove,
Where Tanit shone in miracles of light.

Here were a hundred crosses black with blood
Of man and beast, the victims of the mouth.
Some were alive and howled aloud for death,
And some were dead, and others had no eyes,
But breathed amid the rustling wings of birds,
Half frenzied by the approach of golden light,
Loath to abandon many a half-picked bone,
Glossy through clots of blood below the moon.
And many crosses held no putrid weight,
But skeletons of prisoners of war
Who paid no ransom, and these bones were torn
Free from the rusty nails and hurled away,
To give a place for all the lions there.
Ay, with such savage force, such eager haste,
That many a rotting palm or foot remained
And stunk upon the cross, the body gone!

Then the high priests of Moloch oiled and robed,
With ringed finger and large ebon lyres,
Advanced and stood before the crosses grim,
Singing their holy souls forth to the moon.
Then with a rush, a tumult and great cries,
The thousand slaves fell on the shackled beasts
And nailed their writhing limbs upon the cross,
Biting their brows and tearing out their manes,
While angry teeth snapped loudly in their arms,
And yells excruciating moved the gods.
For many hours in bloody sweat and fear
They fought the monsters maddened by the light,
And when the last was firm upon the cross,
Slaves there were few to taunt the vanquished foe.
The lions roared in agony of pain,
And clamoring echoed to the halls of Bel,
Filling the hearts of worshipers with bliss,
And as they roared, the people, red with joy,
Seized the bright flaring torches all about
To singe their open jaws, their shattered limbs,
And hail their gods and thank them for the sport.
But, as they trifled in this way, the hours
Passed slowly on, and from the temple's heights,
A chant proclaimed the pleasure of the gods,
And that white Tanit's heart was satisfied.
Therefore, the people hurried to the town
And left the groaning lions to the moon.