Still, in the violets, lazily dreaming Young Diana, the huntress, lies: One white side thro' the violets gleaming Heaves and sinks with her golden sighs; One white breast like a diamond crownet Couched in a velvet casket glows, One white arm, tho' the violets drown it, Thrills their purple with rose.
To celebrate the ascent of man, one gorgeous night Lucifer gave a feast. Its world-bewildering light Danced in Belshazzar's tomb, and the old kings dead and gone Felt their dust creep to jewels in crumbling Babylon.
Two nations were His guests--the top and flower of Time, The fore-front of an age which now had learned to climb The slopes where Newton knelt, the heights that Shakespeare trod, The mountains whence Beethoven rolled the voice of God.
Lucifer's feasting-lamps were like the morning stars, But at the board-head shone the blood-red lamp of Mars.
League upon glittering league, white front and flabby face Bent o'er the groaning board. Twelve brave men droned the grace; But with instinctive tact, in courtesy to their Host, Omitted God the Son and God the Holy Ghost, And to the God of Battles raised their humble prayers. Then, then, like thunder, all the guests drew up their chairs. By each a drinking-cup, yellow, almost, as gold. (_The blue eye-sockets gave the thumbs a good firm hold_) Adorned the flowery board. Could even brave men shrink?
Why if the cups _were_ skulls, they had red wine to drink! And had not each a napkin, white and peaked and proud, Waiting to wipe his mouth? A napkin? Nay, a shroud! This was a giant's feast, on hell's imperial scale. The blades glistened.
The shrouds--O, in one snowy gale, The pink hands fluttered them out, and spread them on their knees. Who knew what gouts might drop, what filthy flakes of grease, Now that o'er every shoulder, through the coiling steam, Inhuman faces peered, with wolfish eyes a-gleam, And grey-faced vampire Lusts that whinneyed in each ear Hints of the hideous courses?
None may name them here? None? And we may not see! The distant cauldrons cloak The lava-coloured plains with clouds of umber smoke. Nay, by that shrapnel-light, by those wild shooting stars That rip the clouds away with fiercer fire than Mars, They are painted sharp as death. If these can eat and drink Chatter and laugh and rattle their knives, why should we shrink From empty names? We know those ghastly gleams are true: Why should Christ cry again--_They know not what they do?_ They, heirs of all the ages, sons of Shakespeare's land, They, brothers of Beethoven, smiling, cultured, bland, Whisper with sidling heads to ghouls with bloody lips.