 | Ephemeron |  |
False of heart, of front defiant,
Two vile Shapes, in crown and cowl,
On their ancient craft reliant,
Sharp-eyed pigmies, cheek by jowl,
Drive yon blinded, stumbling Giant
To his labor fierce and foul—
Grieving, groaning, yet compliant—
Luckless, day-bewildered owl.
Two vile Shapes, in crown and cowl,
On their ancient craft reliant,
Sharp-eyed pigmies, cheek by jowl,
Drive yon blinded, stumbling Giant
To his labor fierce and foul—
Grieving, groaning, yet compliant—
Luckless, day-bewildered owl.
Strong of arm, of brain how feeble!
This your tyrants know too well.
Toil and die, unhappy People!
That some paltry triumph swell—
Every clang from tower and steeple
Sounding Freedom's mortal knell.
This your tyrants know too well.
Toil and die, unhappy People!
That some paltry triumph swell—
Every clang from tower and steeple
Sounding Freedom's mortal knell.
18
From the farthest dale of Annan
To the dead lagoons of Aigue—
From the Dnieper to the Shannon—
From the Pyrenees to Prague—
Ye are come, as food for cannon,
Come, as victual for the Plague.
To the dead lagoons of Aigue—
From the Dnieper to the Shannon—
From the Pyrenees to Prague—
Ye are come, as food for cannon,
Come, as victual for the Plague.
Hard your hands, your hearts enduring—
Let yon Tartar plain be tilled!
Here are fields that want manuring—
Here's a trench that must be filled!
Let yon Tartar plain be tilled!
Here are fields that want manuring—
Here's a trench that must be filled!
Rest at last is sweet from labor.
Yours shall be, how long and deep!
Home, and wife, and child, and neighbor,
Haunt no more that dreamless sleep.
Yours shall be, how long and deep!
Home, and wife, and child, and neighbor,
Haunt no more that dreamless sleep.
Where, in hues of flame and opal,
Burns the oriental sky
Over old Constantinople—
Spreads a vaster City nigh.
There is rest from Sevastópol—
Rest, and room for all to lie.
Burns the oriental sky
Over old Constantinople—
Spreads a vaster City nigh.
There is rest from Sevastópol—
Rest, and room for all to lie.
The “Peoples,” (the Universal Yankee Nation, of course, always excepted,) have now, for a long time, approved themselves, as it were.
“Darbyshire born, and Darbyshire bred,Strong i' th' yarn, and weak i' th' yead.”
Let it be hoped that, as their heads become clearer, their arms may be found none the less strong.
| Ephemeron | |