I

How long, oh Lord, shall war and strife be rolled

On the God‑breathing breast of slumbering man,

Horrible nightmares in the doubtful span

Of his sleep blind to heaven? As of old,

Shall we, more wise, in frantic joy behold

The bloody fall of nation and of clan,

And ever others' woes with rough glee scan,

And war's dark names in Glory's charts inscrolled?

We now that in vile joy our egoist fears

Behold dispelled, one day shall mourn the more

That blood of men erased them‑bitter tears

Of desolated woe, as wept of yore

(Yet not for the short space of ten long years)

The Grecian archer on the Lemnian shore.