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[A poet sits at ease]
A poet sits at ease
Before his study-fire;
Gently warms his knees,
And heaps the fuel higher.
Before his study-fire;
Gently warms his knees,
And heaps the fuel higher.
Without, the storm-wind blows;
Within, how calm it is!
Books stand round in rows;
Few more famed than his.
Within, how calm it is!
Books stand round in rows;
Few more famed than his.
70
The Poet fills his glass
And lights a fresh cigar;
In words more firm than brass
He sings the praise of War.
And lights a fresh cigar;
In words more firm than brass
He sings the praise of War.
Blood he would not spill,
Stroke deal, save with pen;
He to-night shall kill
Fifty thousand men;
Stroke deal, save with pen;
He to-night shall kill
Fifty thousand men;
Villages and towns
Burn in his study fire;
Tune to women's groans
And children's shrieks, his lyre.
Burn in his study fire;
Tune to women's groans
And children's shrieks, his lyre.
Mild the Poet's eyes;
Murderous his song;
Supporting ancient lies,
Confusing right and wrong.
Murderous his song;
Supporting ancient lies,
Confusing right and wrong.
German he, or French,
Or English, matters not,—
Would his cheek might blench
Ere the page he blot;
Or English, matters not,—
Would his cheek might blench
Ere the page he blot;
From beyond the stars
Hearing “He whose breath
Blows the flame of wars,
Merits bloody death!”
Hearing “He whose breath
Blows the flame of wars,
Merits bloody death!”
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