Volume II Part 20 (1/2)
To celebrate the ascent of man, one gorgeous night Lucifer gave a feast.
Its world-bewildering light Danced in Belshazzar's tomb, and the old kings dead and gone Felt their dust creep to jewels in crumbling Babylon.
Two nations were His guests--the top and flower of Time, The fore-front of an age which now had learned to climb The slopes where Newton knelt, the heights that Shakespeare trod, The mountains whence Beethoven rolled the voice of G.o.d.
Lucifer's feasting-lamps were like the morning stars, But at the board-head shone the blood-red lamp of Mars.
League upon glittering league, white front and flabby face Bent o'er the groaning board. Twelve brave men droned the grace; But with instinctive tact, in courtesy to their Host, Omitted G.o.d the Son and G.o.d the Holy Ghost, And to the G.o.d of Battles raised their humble prayers.
Then, then, like thunder, all the guests drew up their chairs.
By each a drinking-cup, yellow, almost, as gold.
(_The blue eye-sockets gave the thumbs a good firm hold_) Adorned the flowery board. Could even brave men shrink?
Why if the cups _were_ skulls, they had red wine to drink!
And had not each a napkin, white and peaked and proud, Waiting to wipe his mouth? A napkin? Nay, a shroud!
This was a giant's feast, on h.e.l.l's imperial scale.
The blades glistened.
The shrouds--O, in one snowy gale, The pink hands fluttered them out, and spread them on their knees.
Who knew what gouts might drop, what filthy flakes of grease, Now that o'er every shoulder, through the coiling steam, Inhuman faces peered, with wolfish eyes a-gleam, And grey-faced vampire l.u.s.ts that whinneyed in each ear Hints of the hideous courses?
None may name them here?
None? And we may not see! The distant cauldrons cloak The lava-coloured plains with clouds of umber smoke.
Nay, by that shrapnel-light, by those wild shooting stars That rip the clouds away with fiercer fire than Mars, They are painted sharp as death. If these can eat and drink Chatter and laugh and rattle their knives, why should we shrink From empty names? We know those ghastly gleams are true: Why should Christ cry again--_They know not what they do?_ They, heirs of all the ages, sons of Shakespeare's land, They, brothers of Beethoven, smiling, cultured, bland, Whisper with sidling heads to ghouls with b.l.o.o.d.y lips.
Each takes upon his plate a small round thing that drips And quivers, a child's heart.
Miles on miles The glittering table bends o'er that first course, and smiles; For, through the wreaths of smoke, the grey l.u.s.ts bear aloft The second course, on leaden chargers, large and soft, Bodies of women, steaming in an opal mist, Red-branded here and there where vampire-teeth have kissed.
But white as pig's flesh, newly killed, and cleanly dressed, A lemon in each mouth and roses round each breast, Emblems to show how deeply, sweetly satisfied, The b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the lips, can sleep, whose children fought and died For--what? For country? G.o.d, once more Thy shrapnel-light!
Let those dark slaughter-houses burst upon our sight, These kitchens are too clean, too near the tiring room!
Let Thy white shrapnel rend those filthier veils of gloom, Rip the last fogs away and strip the foul thing bare!
One lightning-picture--see--yon bayonet-bristling square Mown down, mown down, mown down, wild swathes of crimson wheat, The white-eyed charge, the blast, the terrible retreat, The blood-greased wheels of cannon thundering into line O'er that red writhe of pain, rent groin and shattered spine, The moaning faceless face that kissed its child last night, The raw pulp of the heart that beat for love's delight, The heap of twisting bodies, clotted and congealed In one red huddle of anguish on the loathsome field, The seas of obscene slaughter spewing their blood-red yeast, Mult.i.tudes pouring out their entrails for the feast, Knowing not why, but dying, they think, for some high cause, Dying for ”hearth and home,” their flags, their creeds, their laws.
Ask of the Bulls and Bears, ask if they understand How both great grappling armies bleed for their own land; For in that faith they die! These hoodwinked thousands die Simply as heroes, gulled by h.e.l.l's profoundest lie.
Who keeps the slaughter-house? Not these, not these who gain Nought but the sergeant's s.h.i.+lling and the homeless pain!
Who pulls the ropes? Not these, who buy their crust of bread With the salt sweat of labour! These but bury their dead Then sweat again for food!
Christ, is the hour not come, To send forth one great voice and strike this dark h.e.l.l dumb, A voice to out-crash the cannon, one united cry To sweep these wild-beast standards down that stain the sky,
To hurl these Lions and Bears and Eagles to their doom, One voice, one heart, one soul, one fire that shall consume The last red reeking shreds that flicker against the blast And purge the Augean stalls we call ”our glorious past”!
One voice from dawn and sunset, one almighty voice, Full-throated as the sea--ye sons o' the earth, rejoice!
Beneath the all-loving sky, confederate kings ye stand, Fling open wide the gates o' the world-wide Fatherland.
Poor fools, we dare not dream it! We that pule and whine Of art and science, we, whose great souls leave no shrine Unshattered, we that climb the Sinai Shakespeare trod, The Olivets where Beethoven walked and talked with G.o.d, We that have weighed the stars and reined the lightning, we That stare thro' heaven and plant our footsteps in the sea, We whose great souls have risen so far above the creeds That we can jest at Christ and leave Him where He bleeds, A legend of the dark, a tale so false or true That howsoe'er we jest at Him, the jest sounds new.
(Our weariest dinner-tables never tire of that!
Let the clown sport with Christ, never the jest falls flat!) Poor fools, we dare not dream a dream so strange, so great, As on this ball of dust to found one ”world-wide state,”
To float one common flag above our little lands, And ere our little sun grows cold to clasp our hands In friends.h.i.+p for a moment!