(I will accept the incense that He loathes.)
"Poets sublime who sway the souls of men!
Sing still of arms and human hecatombs,
And wrath and glory and the pride of race;
Let rhymesters mumble of love, pity, peace.
(Sing ye the spear
That glances from its victims to Christ's heart.)
"And thou, enthusiast, whose genius caught
The soul of Revolution and enchained
The fiery spirit in a song, thy strains