Written by
Thomas Gray |
Now the storm begins to lower,
(Haste, the loom of Hell prepares!)
Iron-sleet of arrowy shower
Hurtles in the darkened air.
Glittering lances are the loom,
Where the dusky warp we strain,
Weaving many a soldier's doom,
Orkney's woe and Randver's bane.
See the grisly texture grow,
('Tis of human entrails made!)
And the weights that play below,
Each a gasping warrior's head.
Shafts for shuttles, dipped in gore,
Shoot the trembling cords along.
Sword, that once a monarch bore,
Keep the tissue close and strong.
Mista, black, terrific maid,
Sangrida, and Hilda, see,
Join the wayward work to aid;
'Tis the woof of victory.
Ere the ruddy sun be set,
Pikes must shiver, javelins sing,
Blade with clattering buckler meet,
Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.
(Weave the crimson web of war!)
Let us go, and let us fly
Where our friends the conflict share,
Where they triumph, where they die.
As the paths of fate we tread,
Wading through the ensanguined field,
Gondula and Geira, spread
O'er the youthful king your shield.
We the reins to slaughter give;
Ours to kill, and ours to spare;
Spite the dangers he shall live.
(Weave the crimson web of war!)
They whom once the desert beach
Pent within its bleak domain,
Soon their ample sway shall stretch
O'er the plenty of the plain.
Low the dauntless earl is laid,
Gored with many a gaping wound;
Fate demands a nobler head;
Soon a king shall bite the ground.
Long his loss shall Eirin weep
Ne'er again his likeness see;
Long her strains in sorrow steep,
Strains of immortality!
Horror covers all the heath;
Clouds of carnage blot the sun.
Sisters, weave the web of death;
Sisters, cease, the work is done.
Hail the task, and hail the hands!
Songs of joy and triumph sing!
Joy to the victorious bands
Triumph to the younger king.
Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale,
Learn the tenor of our song.
Scotland, through each winding vale
Far and wide the notes prolong.
Sisters, hence with spurs of speed;
Each her thundering falchion wield;
Each bestride her sable steed.
Hurry, hurry to the field!
|
Written by
Amy Lowell |
August 14th, 1914
Into the brazen, burnished sky, the cry hurls itself.
The
zigzagging cry
of hoarse throats, it floats against the hard winds, and binds the
head
of the serpent to its tail, the long snail-slow serpent of marching
men.
Men weighed down with rifles and knapsacks, and parching with war.
The cry jars and splits against the brazen, burnished sky.
This is the war of wars, and the cause? Has
this writhing worm of men
a cause?
Crackling against the polished sky is an eagle
with a sword.
The eagle is red
and its head is flame.
In the shoulder of the worm is a teacher.
His tongue laps the war-sucked air in drought,
but he yells defiance
at the red-eyed eagle, and in his ears are the bells of new philosophies,
and their tinkling drowns the sputter of the burning sword.
He
shrieks,
"God damn you! When you are broken, the word will strike
out new shoots.
"
His boots are tight, the sun is hot, and he may
be shot, but he is in
the shoulder of the worm.
A dust speck in the worm's belly is a poet.
He laughs at the flaring eagle and makes a long
nose with his fingers.
He will fight for smooth, white sheets of paper, and uncurdled ink.
The sputtering sword cannot make him blink, and his thoughts are
wet and rippling.
They cool his heart.
He will tear the eagle out of the sky and give
the earth tranquillity,
and loveliness printed on white paper.
The eye of the serpent is an owner of mills.
He looks at the glaring sword which has snapped
his machinery
and struck away his men.
But it will all come again, when the sword is broken
to a million dying stars,
and there are no more wars.
Bankers, butchers, shop-keepers, painters, farmers -- men, sway
and sweat.
They will fight for the earth, for the increase of the slow, sure
roots
of peace, for the release of hidden forces.
They jibe
at the eagle
and his scorching sword.
One! Two! -- One! Two! --
clump the heavy boots.
The cry hurtles
against the sky.
Each man pulls his belt a little tighter, and shifts
his gun
to make it lighter.
Each man thinks of a woman, and slaps
out a curse
at the eagle.
The sword jumps in the hot sky, and the
worm crawls on
to the battle, stubbornly.
This is the war of wars, from eye to tail the serpent
has one cause:
PEACE!
|