War Poetry of the South

by Unknown

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!