Summoning thy right arm’s vengeance, clasps thy feet,—
Thy sword that drinks her murderer’s blood is pure
As laughing sickles in the saffron wheat.
Clearing a crimson path where Peace may tread
More safely; thou dost play thy patient part,
Love’s pledged ally,—yea, though thy blade be red;
Thrusting War’s weapons thro’ his own false heart.
O goddess, arctic-crowned and tropic-shod
And belted with great waters, hear our cry,—
More honest never reached the ear of God,—