BELLONA 



To Stay them — rose-tinted Astarte 

 Herself at thy presence turns pale. 



For deeper and richer the crimson 



That gathers behind thee throws forth 



A halo thy raiment and limbs on, 

 And leaves a red track in the path 

 That flows from thy wine-press of wrath. 



For behind thee red rivulets trickle, 

 Men fall by thy hands, swift and lithe, 



As corn falleth down to the sickle, 

 As grass falleth down to the scythe. 



Thine arm, strong, and cruel, and shapely, 

 Lifts high the sharp, pitiless lance. 



And rapine and ruin and rape lie 

 Around thee. The Furies advance. 

 And Ares awakes from his trance. 



We, too, with our bodies thus weakly, 

 With hearts hard and dangerous, thus 



We owe thee — the saints suffered meekly 

 Their wrongs — it is not so with us. 



Some share of thy strength thou hast given 

 To mortals refusing in vain 



