Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/139

 Rh

This is the Dark Immortal's hour;

His victory, whoever fail;

His prophets have not lost their power;

Cæsar and Attila prevail.

These are your legions still, proud ghosts,

These myriad embattled hosts.

How wanes Thine empire, Prince of Peace!

With the fleet circling of the suns

The ancient gods their power increase.

Lo, how Thine own anointed ones

Do pour upon the warring bands

The devil's blessings from their hands.

Who dreamed a dream 'mid outcasts born

Could overbrow the pride of kings?

They pour on Christ the ancient scorn.

His Dove its gold and silver wings

Has spread. Perhaps it nests in flame

In outcasts who abjure His name.

Choose ye your rightful gods, nor pay

Lip reverence that the heart denies,

O Nations! Is not Zeus to-day,

The thunderer from the epic skies,

More than the Prince of Peace? Is Thor

Not nobler for a world at war?

They fit the dreams of power we hold,

Those gods whose names are with us still.

Men in their image made of old

The high companions of their will.

Who seek an airy empire's pride,

Would they pray to the Crucified?

O outcast Christ, it was too soon

For flags of battle to be furled

While life was yet at the hot noon.

Come in the twilight of the world:

Its kings may greet Thee without scorn

And crown Thee then without a thorn. A. E.