Stones from The Quarry or, Moods of Mind. By Henry Browne [i.e. Henry Ellison] |
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GERMANY AND “ARMED PEACE.” |
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GERMANY AND “ARMED PEACE.”
Thou canst not serve two masters, Germany!
Would'st thou the bodies rule, or minds of men?
Wield Sword, or sceptre spiritual, Pen?
Wear Mars's or Minerva's panoply?
The first will crush thee with its weight; belie
Its specious, thy true promise; alien
To thy grand Past and Calling: now as then
The brain of Europe, th' intellectual eye
O' the World! From thy so great conceptive brain
Thought leap'd, a modern Pallas, to new birth!
To that true weapon cleave (no mortal brand!),
Thy own Ithuriel-spear to probe the Earth
And transfix Error. Thy heart's median vein
Oh drain not thus, lest thy great Brain have dearth!
Would'st thou the bodies rule, or minds of men?
Wield Sword, or sceptre spiritual, Pen?
Wear Mars's or Minerva's panoply?
The first will crush thee with its weight; belie
Its specious, thy true promise; alien
To thy grand Past and Calling: now as then
The brain of Europe, th' intellectual eye
O' the World! From thy so great conceptive brain
Thought leap'd, a modern Pallas, to new birth!
To that true weapon cleave (no mortal brand!),
Thy own Ithuriel-spear to probe the Earth
And transfix Error. Thy heart's median vein
Oh drain not thus, lest thy great Brain have dearth!
If all the members suffer in degree,
If all and several with the belly grow,
How much more with the brain, whence come and go
Imperial messengers, to bind and free;
The seat of Government. The eye to see,
The ear to hear, the hand to deal the blow,
The feet like wingèd Mercury, or slow
As creeping tortoise,—paralysed all be,
That not supreme! The hypocrite, the mask
Of War; from under which he cries “Peace, peace!”
And stabs poor Peace bent on her blessèd task.
Worse Tartuffe of the Sword! sucking at ease
The Nations' lifeblood; who, with blade by flask,
“God send I need thee not,” for strife seeks pleas!
If all and several with the belly grow,
How much more with the brain, whence come and go
Imperial messengers, to bind and free;
The seat of Government. The eye to see,
The ear to hear, the hand to deal the blow,
The feet like wingèd Mercury, or slow
As creeping tortoise,—paralysed all be,
That not supreme! The hypocrite, the mask
Of War; from under which he cries “Peace, peace!”
And stabs poor Peace bent on her blessèd task.
Worse Tartuffe of the Sword! sucking at ease
The Nations' lifeblood; who, with blade by flask,
“God send I need thee not,” for strife seeks pleas!
| Stones from The Quarry | |