 | Songs in the Whirlwind |  |
THE GODS OF WAR.
The gods of old are born again.
Clothed with a flimsy fresh disguise,
They pass over the fields of slain—
On blood-stained wings across the skies.
Clothed with a flimsy fresh disguise,
They pass over the fields of slain—
On blood-stained wings across the skies.
Once more man worships at the shrine
Of lesser gods than that great soul
That makes the finite more divine
As one by one the ages roll.
Of lesser gods than that great soul
That makes the finite more divine
As one by one the ages roll.
The old illusion haunts us still—
Our faith is but a weed at best—
That man can serve both good and ill,
That might by might can be suppressed.
Our faith is but a weed at best—
That man can serve both good and ill,
That might by might can be suppressed.
The fairest flowers of our Youth
Upon the altar have been laid;
The purest gems of Hope and Truth,
Yet still the slaughter is unstayed.
Upon the altar have been laid;
The purest gems of Hope and Truth,
Yet still the slaughter is unstayed.
The gods of old are born again
To rule the people's prisoned will;
The Gods of War have come to reign
Where Peace was wont her court to fill.
To rule the people's prisoned will;
The Gods of War have come to reign
Where Peace was wont her court to fill.
Back to the beast mankind must reel
If none arise to stay the flood;
Ages of light be dark, and feel
The pagan sacrifice of blood.
If none arise to stay the flood;
Ages of light be dark, and feel
The pagan sacrifice of blood.
Then waking England rise and slay
The Gods of War who live to-day!
The Gods of War who live to-day!
| Songs in the Whirlwind | |