The result of his amour with Venus has been related in another part of this
work.
He is usually represented in a chariot of steel, conducted by Bellona,
goddess of War: on his cuirass are painted several monsters; the figures of
Fury and Anger ornament his helmet, while Renown precedes him.
His priests, named Salii, carried small bucklers, supposed to be sacred,
and to have fallen from the skies. To him was consecrated the cock, because
it was vigilant and courageous, but they preferred offering the wolf; they
sacrificed however, to him, all kinds of animals, and even human victims.
The statues and portraits of Mars, as the God of War, and consequently the
winner of victory, have been very numerous. {97}
His most celebrated temple at Rome, was built by Augustus, after the battle
of Phillippi, and was dedicated to "Mars the avenger."
[Illustration]
"_Rivers._ And this is he, the fabled God of War.
_Evadne._ Aye, Mars the conqueror, see how he stands;
The lordly port, the eye of fierce command,
The threatening brow, and look that seems to dare
A thousand foes to battle.
--It was a beautiful faith that gave these gods
A name and office! Is he not glorious?
_Rivers._ To my poor thought, there's that within his glance
So fierce, I scarce dare meet it.
_Evadne._ It is your studious nature, yet methinks
To gaze upon that proud and haughty form,
To think upon the glorious deeds of war,
The pomp and pride and circumstance of battle,
The neighing of the steed, the clash of arms,
The banner waving in the glowing breeze,
The trumpet sound, the shout.
Oh! there is nought so beautiful as this.
_Rivers._ Aye, but to see the living and the dead,
Lying in mortal agony, side by side,
Their bright hair dabbled in unrighteous blood,
Their vestures tinctured with its gory red,
The quivering limb, the eye that's glazed in death,
The groan--
_Evadne._ 'Tis lost boy, in the drum and trumpet's voice.
'Tis lost in shouts of glorious victory,
'Tis lost in high, triumphal tones of gladness.
{98}
_Rivers._ But then to think upon the hearts that grieve.
For those who peril thus their lives in war,
The misery that sweeps along the brain,
The widows' moan, the orphans' tears of woe,
The love that watcheth at the midnight hour,
And hopeth on, but hopeth on in vain.
_Evadne._ And that is lost too in their country's shouts
The voice of gratitude for those that fell,
Drowns every thought in those who live to mourn;
The hand of charity for those who are left.
Fills every heart and dries up every fear;
The record of a nation's loud applause,
Writes on their tombs in characters of brass.
And graves within our very souls, the words,
'Here lies his country's saviour.'
_Rivers._ But these can never pay the wrung in heart:
Pride is a poor exchange for those adored:
And even a nation with its giant strength,
Cannot supply the vacant place of love!
_Evadne._ Shame on such craven thoughts,
The image of the God frowns on your words--
All glorious Mars! be thou my god and guide,
Be thou the image to fill up my heart,
Be thou the spirit leading me to glory,
And be my latest hour still cheered by thee,
While round me dwells the shout of victory!"