xxxix.
That he should hasten to his hut and veil
His face[1], and dread the Dæmon of the storm.
Nor that the ancient Poet, he who fed
His flock beside the stream of Helicon,
Should let creative fancy people earth
With unseen powers, that clad in darkness roam
Around the world, and mark the deeds of men[2].
But that the Priest with solemn mockery,
Or monstrous faith, should call on God to lead
His armies forth, and desolate and kill,
And over the red banners of the war,
Even in the blessed name of Jesus, pour
Prayers of a bloodier hate than ever rose
At Odin’s altar, or the Mexican,
The victim’s heart still quivering in his grasp,
His face[1], and dread the Dæmon of the storm.
Nor that the ancient Poet, he who fed
His flock beside the stream of Helicon,
Should let creative fancy people earth
With unseen powers, that clad in darkness roam
Around the world, and mark the deeds of men[2].
But that the Priest with solemn mockery,
Or monstrous faith, should call on God to lead
His armies forth, and desolate and kill,
And over the red banners of the war,
Even in the blessed name of Jesus, pour
Prayers of a bloodier hate than ever rose
At Odin’s altar, or the Mexican,
The victim’s heart still quivering in his grasp,
