SLAVES

A host of bloody centuries lie prone

Upon the fields of Time — but still the wake

Of Progress loud is haunted with the groan

Of myriads, from whose peaceful veins, to slake

His scarlet thirst, has War, fierce Polypheme

Of fate, insatiately drunk life's stream.

We bid the courier lightning leap along

Its instant path with spirit speed — command

Stars lost in night-eternity to throng

Before the magnet eye of Science — stand

On Glory's peak and triumphingly cry

Out mastery of earth and sea and air.

But unto War's necessity we bare

Our piteous breasts — and impotently die.