I <br />Strange, that the race relinquish to the hands, <br />Mailed and relentless, of the haughty few <br />Its destinies! The pomps Assyria knew <br />Moan to the twilight of the bitter sands <br />With lips of stone, and in the desert stands <br />No record of the millions that she slew. <br />There gleams no throne in Time's august review <br />But sent a sword upon the patient lands. <br /> <br />On Europe now, as once on Babylon, <br />The vulture bands go forth beneath the sun, <br />And ravens hover at the flanks of war <br />With clamor echoless and desolate, <br />As tho each bird cried hoarsely to its mate, <br />'The kings are at their bloody work once more!' <br /> <br />II <br /> <br />Why will ye suffer it, and give to kings <br />The reins of government, O brothers blind? <br />Upon their roads of empire ye shall find <br />Despair and agony and shattered things. <br />Their suns conspire; the throne's deep shadow swings <br />Its midnight on the race's heart and mind; <br />Your homes they open to the rain and wind, <br />Your portals to the bat's familiar wings. <br /> <br />Their feet take hold on Hell, and on their path <br />Lie Beauty violate and Love profaned; <br />Their armies trample and their chariots ride <br />On harvests and the hearth-stone, and your wrath <br />Wakes not, nor hath your purblind strength arraigned <br />Their idiot 'honor' and insensate pride!<br /><br />George Sterling<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/betrayal-100/
