Betrayal

I Strange, that the race relinquish to the hands, Mailed and relentless, of the haughty few Its destinies! The pomps Assyria knew Moan to the twilight of the bitter sands With lips of stone, and in the desert stands No record of the millions that she slew. There gleams no throne in Time's august review But sent a sword upon the patient lands. On Europe now, as once on Babylon, The vulture bands go forth beneath the sun, And ravens hover at the flanks of war With clamor echoless and desolate, As tho each bird cried hoarsely to its mate, 'The kings are at their bloody work once more!' II Why will ye suffer it, and give to kings The reins of government, O brothers blind? Upon their roads of empire ye shall find Despair and agony and shattered things. Their suns conspire; the throne's deep shadow swings Its midnight on the race's heart and mind; Your homes they open to the rain and wind, Your portals to the bat's familiar wings. Their feet take hold on Hell, and on their path Lie Beauty violate and Love profaned; Their armies trample and their chariots ride On harvests and the hearth-stone, and your wrath Wakes not, nor hath your purblind strength arraigned Their idiot 'honor' and insensate pride!