Page:Fifes and Drums, Poems of America at War, Vigilantes, 1917.djvu/57

Now frothing in his rage, a scourge to youth and age,
Caked with blood he stands at bay, with his feet upon his prey.
Ringed with surf of guns resounding, raw and fetid from the hounding,
Smites he still in baffled fury and the roar of hate releast;
But the huntsmen of the ranks, with their steel at breast and flanks,
Give no truce nor sign of respite at the binding of the Beast.

He is cunning, he is strong, and the war shall yet be long,
Where the seven thunders wake and the walls of heaven shake.
He is cruel, blind and ruthless; he is boastful, sly and truthless;