War

THE serpent-horror writhing in her hair,And crowning cruel brows bent o'er the groundThat she would crimson now from many a wound,Medusa-like, I seem to see her there—War! with her petrifying eyes astare—And can no longer listen to the soundOf song-birds in the harvest fields around;Such prophecies do her mute lips declare.

Evils? Can any greater be than theyThat troop licentious in her brutal train?Unvindicated honour? She brings shame—Shame more appalling than men dare to name,Betraying them that die and them that slay,And making of this earth a hell of pain!