Classic Poem

Again we hear thy stirring bugles blow,
O god of Battles! Now the sands are red
Where treachery strews the desert with our dead,
And dying throats are parched in Mexico;
Was not our War—that deep fraternal blow—
When brothers' blood for conscience sake was shed—
When dauntless Youth in countless thousands bled—
Was not that crime an all-sufficient Woe?

Demon of battles! is thy maw not filled
With old-world slaughter, that thy jaws, accurst,
Lust for our ranks as tigers roar for food?
Insatiate art thou till all men are killed?
Monster, forbear! nor slake thy crimson thirst
On peaceful fields untainted now by blood!