To the Hun

By George Sterling

Not for the lust of conquest do we blame
    Thy monstrous armies, nor the blinded rage
    That holds thee traitor to this gentler age,
Nor yet for cities given to the flame;
For changing Europe finds thy heart the same
    And as of old thy bestial heritage.
    The Light is not for thee. The war we wage
Is less on thee than on thy deathless shame.

Lo! this is thy betrayal—that we know,
    Gazing on thee, how far Man's footsteps stray
        From the pure heights of love and brotherhood,—
How deep in undelivered night we go,—
    How long on bitter paths we shall delay,
        Held by thy bruteship from the Gates of Good.

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