Pale Pestilence, with stenchful breath, then spoke and said,—­
    “Great Prince, my brother, Famine, attacks the poor. 
    He is most terrible against the helpless and the old. 
    But I have made a charnel-house of the mightiest cities of men. 
    When I strike, neither their stores of gold or of grain avail. 
    With a breath I lay low their strongest, and wither up their fairest. 
    I come upon them without warning, lancing invisible death. 
    From me they flee with eyes and mouths distended;
    I poison the air for which they gasp, and I strike them down fleeing. 
    ’Tis thus, great Prince, that I have scourged mankind.”

    And Satan nodded his head.

    Then the red monster, War, rose up and spoke,—­
    His blood-shot eyes glared ’round him, and his thundering voice
    Echoed through the murky vaults of Hell.—­
    “O, mighty Prince, my brothers, Famine and Pestilence,
    Have slain their thousands and ten thousands,—­true;
    But the greater their victories have been,
    The more have they wakened in Man’s breast
    The God-like attributes of sympathy, of brotherhood and love
    And made of him a searcher after wisdom. 
    But I arouse in Man the demon and the brute,
    I plant black hatred in his heart and red revenge. 
    From the summit of fifty thousand years of upward climb
    I haul him down to the level of the start, back to the wolf. 
    I give him claws. 
    I set his teeth into his brother’s throat. 
    I make him drunk with his brother’s blood. 
    And I laugh ho! ho! while he destroys himself. 
    O, mighty Prince, not only do I slay,
    But I draw Man hellward.”

    And Satan smiled, stretched out his hand, and said,—­
    “O War, of all the scourges of humanity, I crown you chief.”

    And Hell rang with the acclamation of the Fiends.

A MID-DAY DREAMER

    I love to sit alone, and dream,
    And dream, and dream;
    In fancy’s boat to softly glide
    Along some stream
    Where fairy palaces of gold
    And crystal bright
    Stand all along the glistening shore: 
    A wondrous sight.

    My craft is built of ivory,
    With silver oars,
    The sails are spun of golden threads,
    And priceless stores
    Of precious gems adorn its prow,
    And ’round its mast
    An hundred silken cords are set
    To hold it fast.

    My galley-slaves are sprightly elves
    Who, as they row,
    And as their shining oars they swing
    Them to and fro,
    Keep time to music wafted on
    The scented air,
    Made by the mermaids as they comb
    Their golden hair.

    And I the while lie idly back,
    And dream, and dream,
    And let them row me where they will
    Adown the stream.