Classic Poem

THE DEVIL .

Well met, good friend; I sought thee even now.

THE SPIRIT OF WAR .

And wherefore greet me with a frowning brow?
Art not content with what I have achieved?
Have I not filled the orders I received?
Have I not scourged the land from shore to shore,
Until its shuddering waters blush with gore;
Until the air is rife with dying groans,
And the earth big with dead men's mouldering bones:
Till night is weary of the widow's wail,
And human sorrow is an idle tale?
Ay, thou hast done all this, and more, I know;
And yet, methinks, thy steps move wondrous slow.
The earth has well-nigh made around the sun
Two revolutions since the work begun
In this fair land; yet there is little done.
What are the boasted trophies in thy train?
Bethink thee now: A hundred thousand slain;
A path of desolation here and there;
The sounds of battle dying in the air;
Fair homes despoiled: the voice of woe and wail —
These give me no sensation, all are stale!
On, on! nor stay thy devastating tread
Till thou canst count me full a million dead.
Spoil their highways, burn hamlet, village, town;
Sack their fair cities, tear their churches down;
Where there are homes to waste or hearts to feel,
Send forth the flaming fagot, flashing steel;
Plough up their fertile fields with shot and shell,
Make their fair land the vestibule of hell.
On, on! I long to see the infernal play —
In Hades it shall be a holiday!
On! over hill and valley, river, plain,
Where there is life pour thou the leaden rain.
Leave them no remnant of their lustful wealth,
No trust in God, no love, hope, strength nor health;
Bring ruin, desolation on the land,
Till famine stalk from ocean strand to strand,
And men shall stand by their uncoffined dead,
And vex the ear of Heaven with cries for bread!