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Page 92
The Church, like some deserted bride,
In trembling, at the Altar waits,
While, raging fierce on every side,
The foe is thundering at her gates.
No ivy green, nor glittering leaves,
Nor crimson berries, deck her walls:
But blood, red dripping from her eaves,
Along the sacred pavement falls.
IV.
Her silver bells no longer chime
In summons to her sacred home;
Nor holy song at matin prime,
Proclaims the God within the dome.
Nor do the fireside's happy bands
Assemble fond, with greetings dear,
While Patriarch Christmas spreads his hands
To glad with gifts and crown with cheer.
V.
In place of that beloved form,
Benignant, bland, and blessing all,
Comes one begirt with fire and storm,
The raging shell, the hissing ball!
Type of the Prince of Peace, no more,
Evoked by those who bear His name,
THE FIEND, in place of SAINT of yore,
Now hurls around Satanic flame.
VI.
In hate,--evoked by kindred lands,
But late beslavering with caress,
Lo, Moloch, dripping crimson, stands,
And curses where he cannot bless.
He wings the bolt and hurls the spear,
A _demon loosed_, that rends in rage,
Sends havoc through the homes most dear,
And butchers youth and tramples age!
VII.
With face of Fox--with glee that grins,
And apish arms, with fingers claw'd,
To snatch at all his brother wins,
And straight secrete, with stealth and fraud;--
Lo! Mammon, kindred Demon, comes,
And lurks, as dreading ill, in rear;
He blows the trumpet, beats the drums,
Inflames the torch, and sharps the spear!
VIII.
And furious, following in their train,
What hosts of lesser Demons rise;
Lust, Malice, Hunger, Greed and Gain,
Each raging for its special prize.
Too base for freedom, mean for toil,
And reckless all of just and right,
They rage in peaceful homes for spoil,
And where they cannot butcher, blight.
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