Poems Sigourney 1834/The War-Spirit
THE WAR-SPIRIT.
War-Spirit! War-Spirit! how gorgeous thy path,
Pale Earth shrinks with fear from thy chariot of wrath,
The king at thy beckoning comes down from his throne,
To the conflict of fate the armed nations rush on,
With the trampling of steeds, and the trumpet's wild cry,
While the folds of their banners gleam bright o'er the sky.
Thy glories are sought, till the life-throb is o'er,
Thy laurels pursued, though they blossom in gore,
Mid the ruins of columns and temples sublime,
The arch of the hero doth grapple with time;
The Muse o'er thy form throws her tissue divine,
And History her annal emblazons with thine.
War-Spirit! War-Spirit! thy secrets are known,
I have looked on the field when the battle was done,
The mangled and slain in their misery lay,
And the vulture was shrieking and watching his prey;
But the heart's gush of sorrow, how hopeless and sore,
In the homes that those loved ones revisit no more.
I have traced out thy march, by its features of pain,
While Famine and Pestilence stalked in thy train,
And the trophies of sin did thy victory swell,
And thy breath on the soul, was the plague-spot of hell;
Death lauded thy deeds, and in letters of flame
The realm of perdition recorded thy name.
War-Spirit! War-Spirit! go down to thy place,
With the demons that thrive on the woe of our race;
Call back thy strong legions of madness and pride,
Bid the rivers of blood thou hast opened be dried—
Let thy league with the grave and Aceldama cease,
And yield the torn world to the Angel of Peace.