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War is the father of us all, King of all. Some it makes gods, some it makes men, some it read more
War is the father of us all, King of all. Some it makes gods, some it makes men, some it makes slaves, some free.
And that dismal cry rose slowly
And sank slowly through the air,
Full of spirit's melancholy
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And that dismal cry rose slowly
And sank slowly through the air,
Full of spirit's melancholy
And eternity's despair!
And they heart the words it said--
Pan is dead! great Pan is dead!
Pan, Pan is dead!
Yet verily these issues lie on the lap of the gods.
Yet verily these issues lie on the lap of the gods.
The Graces, three erewhile, are three no more;
A fourth is come with perfume sprinkled o'er.
'Tis read more
The Graces, three erewhile, are three no more;
A fourth is come with perfume sprinkled o'er.
'Tis Berenice blest and fair; were she
Away the Graces would no Graces be.
The heathen in his blindness
Bows down to wood and stone.
The heathen in his blindness
Bows down to wood and stone.
Speak of the gods as they are.
Speak of the gods as they are.
With ravish'd ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,
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With ravish'd ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.
I, Phoebus, sang those songs that gained so much renown
I, Phoebus, sang them; Homer only wrote them down.
I, Phoebus, sang those songs that gained so much renown
I, Phoebus, sang them; Homer only wrote them down.
