Classic Poem

We sat before the study fire
In Cambridge on a night of March;
Outside the wind had his desire
Of moaning pine and larch.
From many a tome that graced our nook
Of deeds done since the world began,
It chanced that Froissart was the book,
The tale a siege of Vannes.

The Monforts watched stout Charles of Blois
With crested towns that burnt and bled;
And he who won, his word was law
O'er those who lay not dead.
City by city fell undone,
As blight of battle swept the coast,
And he who greatest honour won
Was he who ruined most.

“Paul, fling that book away!” I said;
“The wasted valour of the world,
The million voices of the dead
Who vainly died, are hurled
Through histories of pomp and power
That feasted on men's feebleness;
From Eden to this latest hour,
I hear the wild distress.

“Moses or Froissart, sanctioning Time
Has lost its potency with me;
The motive must have been sublime
That hallows butchery!”

And Paul: “The world's arousing fast
To scorn of strength and strength alone:
Fade, fade the blood-stains of the Past,
Let Love proclaim its own.”