Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World :: :: University of Virginia Library

Great son of Jove, no pæans please thy ear,
No song of hunters 'mid the forest drear;
No chant of shepherd, when they slay the lamb,
No hymn of maidens when they lead the ram,
Bound round with flower-wreaths, to the mystic shrine
Of mighty Pan, or the wood-nymphs divine;
No praise delighteth thee, no whispered prayer,
Breathed by a kneeler to the midnight air.
If costly offering, in palace or in den,
Alike displease thee, god, what lov'st thou, then?
O, when despair's wild shriek goes up from burning town,
Then, with a smile, from heaven thou lookest down.

II.

Thy temple is some blasted battle plain,
Strewn with the mossy skulls of ancient slain;
Thy priests, the howling wolf, the mountain-fox,
That roam at daybreak from the caverned rocks;
Thy song of praise, the savage eagle's scream,
Soaring above the lightning's lurid gleam.
Thy votaries, the raven and that hooded bird,
Whose croak, by night, amid the dead is heard;
Who thatches, with the hair of those that rest,
The bloody chamber of his lonely nest.
O, when despair's wild shriek goes up from burning town,
Then, with a smile, from heaven thou lookest down.

III.

The din of arms delights thee, and the sound is sweet,
When warring millions on the broad plain meet,
When Roman falchion cleaves the gilded mail,
When the fierce spear drives through the pliant scale,

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When the harsh clarion roars its demon note,
And pours wild panic from its brazen throat;
When the wolf standard summons from afar,
The armed Latin, hurrying to the war;
When the red beacon glares with baleful light,
And glaring, like a comet, through the troubled night;
Then, when the savage Tuscan shouteth loud,
Thy brazen chariot thunders through the cloud.
O, when despair's wild shriek goes up from burning town,
Then, with a smile, from heaven thou lookest down.

IV.

No blood of gentle lamb is shed for thee,
Mailed son of Jove, thou lovest more to see
The living turf, around thy shrine bedewed
With gore, dripped from the beak of vulture; when the rude
Scythian herdsman, the libation pours
The while, with battered targe, and savage roars,
He thee invokes, by sword thy right hand wields,
By reddened lances, and by flaming shields,
To thee, whose glaring eye rejects the sacrifice,
Mocks at the incense wreathing to the skies;
Whose victims are the warriors slain, whose altar is the grave,
Thy best libation blood that stains the wave.
O, when despair's wild shriek goes up from burning town,
Then, with a smile, from heaven thou lookest down.

V.

All worship thee,—from Italy's rich plains,
To where the dusky King of Egypt reigns.
The thousand islands of the Grecian sea,
The quiver-bearing Gauls shout praise to thee.
The Syrian, kneeling to the sun's bright ray,
Hails thee more potent than the god of day.

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To honour thee, the life's-blood crimson rain,
Man poureth forth, and will pour forth again.
Many a peasant, many a king his life
Hath yielded to the sword, thy sacrificial knife.
O, when despair's wild shriek goes up from burning town,
Then, with a smile from heaven, thou lookest down.