Poem by Thomas Hardy

The Sick Battle-God

                            I

    In days when men found joy in war,
A God of Battles sped each mortal jar;
    The peoples pledged him heart and hand,
    From Israel’s land to isles afar.

                            II

    His crimson form, with clang and chime,
Flashed on each murk and murderous meeting-time,
    And kings invoked, for rape and raid,
    His fearsome aid in rune and rhyme.

                            III

    On bruise and blood-hole, scar and seam,
On blade and bolt, he flung his fulgid beam:
    His haloes rayed the very gore,
    And corpses wore his glory-gleam.

                            IV

	Often an early King or Queen,
And storied hero onward, caught his sheen;
	’Twas glimpsed by Wolfe, by Ney anon,
	And Nelson on his blue demesne.

                            V

	But new light spread. That god’s gold nimb
And blazon have waned dimmer and more dim;
	Even his flushed form begins to fade,
	Till but a shade is left of him.

                            VI

	That modern meditation broke
His spell, that penmen’s pleadings dealt a stroke,
	Say some; and some that crimes too dire
	Did much to mire his crimson cloak.

                            VII

	Yea, seeds of crescent sympathy
Were sown by those more excellent than he,
	Long known, though long contemned till then –
	The gods of men in amity.

                            VIII

	Souls have grown seers, and thought outbrings
The mournful many-sidedness of things
	With foes as friends, enfeebling ires
	And fury-fires by gaingivings!

                            IX

	He rarely gladdens champions now;
They do and dare, but tensely – pale of brow;
	And would they fain uplift the arm
	Of that weak form they know not how.

                            X

	Yet wars arise, though zest grows cold;
Wherefore, at times, as if in ancient mould
	He looms, bepatched with paint and lath;
	But never hath he seemed the old!

                            XI

	Let men rejoice, let men deplore,
The lurid Deity of heretofore
	Succumbs to one of saner nod;
	The Battle-god is god no more.

1. At the Word ‘Farewell’
2. The Three Tall Men
3. The Dead Bastard
4. The Supplanter
5. Evening Shadows

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