Classic Poem

I am War. The upturned eyeballs of piled dead men greet my eye,
And the sons of mothers perish — and I laugh to see them die —
Mine the demon lust for torture, mine the devil lust for pain,
And there is to me no beauty like the pale brows of the slain!
But my voice calls forth the godlike from the sluggish souls at ease,
And the hands that toyed with ledgers scatter thunders round the seas;
And the lolling idler, wakening, measures up to God's own plan,
And the puling trifler greatens to the stature of a man.
When I speak the centuried towers of old cities melt in smoke,
And the fortressed ports sink reeling at my faraimed thunder stroke;
And an immemorial empire flings its last flag to the breeze,
Sinking with its splintered navies down in the unpitying seas.
But the blind of sight awaken to an unimagined day,
And the mean of soul grow conscious there is greatness in their clay;
Where my bugle voice goes pealing slaves grow heroes at its breath,
And the trembling coward rushes to the welcome arms of death.

Pagan, heathen, and inhuman, devilish as the heart of hell,
Wild as chaos, strong for ruin, clothed in hate unspeakable —
So they call me — and I care not — still I work my waste afar,
Heeding not your weeping mothers and your widows — I am War!
But your soft-boned men grow heroes when my flaming eyes they see,
And I teach your little peoples how supremely great they be;
Yea, I tell them of the wideness of the soul's unfolded plan,
And the godlike stuff that's moulded in the making of a man.

Ah, the godlike stuff that's moulded in the making of a man!
It has stood my iron testing since this strong old world began.
Tell me not that men are weaklings, halting tremblers, pale and slow —
There is stuff to shame the seraphs in the race of men — I know .
I have tested them by fire, and I know that man is great,
And the soul of man is stronger than is either death or fate;
And where'er my bugle calls them, under any sun or star,
They will leap with smiling faces to the fire test of war.