Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE ART OF WAR: THE FEAST OF BLOOD, by JOSEPH FAWCETT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE ART OF WAR: THE FEAST OF BLOOD, by                    
First Line: What mean these showy and these sounding signs
Last Line: Light-footed trip,—the feast, the feast of blood!
Subject(s): Blood; War


WHAT mean these showy and these sounding signs
Of general joy, my senses that salute?
That bid my brow be smooth, and bosom bound,
And all my heart be holiday?—What means
The cannon's roar that rends the shattered sky?
The stunning peal the merry steeples pour?
At dead of night, along the starry street,
This flaring luxury of festive light,
From every window flung?—Wherefore thus laughs
The hour of gloom?—Now that 'the midnight bell
Doth with his iron tongue and brazen mouth
Strike one,'—why walks abroad the undrowsy world?
Night's ghosts and goblins, groans and shadows dire,
All shone away, that e'en unshudd'ring walks
Bold Superstition forth? why is 'proud Night,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Thus all so wanton and so full of gauds?'
What fair event, to polished bosoms dear,
In polished life inspires this pomp of joy?—
Say, hath the African fair freedom found?
Spite of his shade at length confessed a man,
Nor longer whipped because he is not white?—
That were a jubilee for heav'n to join;
To extort the gelid hermit from his cell,
Inflame his brook-fed blood, and force him bring
His sober foot to swell the city rout,
With virtuous riot reeling, and with joy
Gloriously giddy!—But 'tis not for this,
'Tis not for this, the midnight vies with noon.
Sing Io Paean, Io Paean sing!—
Thousands of pulses high with health that leaped,
Whose sprightly spring, to Time's oppression left
Or to Disease's weight, had played perhaps
A length of years, by speedier fates laid still,
Ne'er to go on again or stir, have stopped.—
On yon blest sun, all as a bridegroom gay,
Whom to behold it is a pleasant thing
For every eye; who gives the painted globe
This pomp of colour and this beauteous bloom;
A multitude (th' ecstatic tidings tell)
A multitude of eyes, at which the heart
Looked laughing out upon the day, are closed.—
On his delicious light (transporting thought!)
They never more shall look!—Illume, illume
The glowing street! nor let one window rob
The general rapture of a ray it owes!
Religion joins the joy:—of those fair works,
Which He, whose wondrous wisdom all things made,
Made in his image, or defacement foul
Or fatal rent (more lights, more lights emit!)
A myriad has received.—This is th' event,
The fair event to polished bosoms dear,
In polished life that lights this pomp of joy.
For this the cannon's thunder thumps the ear;
For this their merry peal the steeples pour,
For this dun Night her raven hue resigns,
And, in this galaxy of tapers pranked,
Mimics meridian day!—hence the high joy
That calls the city's swarms from out their cells,
Laughs in each eye and dances in each heart,
Prolongs their vigils, and shakes off the dews
That hovering Sleep from off her wings lets fall
On their light lids, that will not let lie on 'em
The poppy drops, the high excitement such!
All to the feast, the feast of blood! repair.
The high, the low, old men and prattling babes,
Young men and maidens, all to grace the feast,
Light-footed trip,—the feast, the feast of blood!





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