 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
Mansoul.
Whose be yond coasts that loom now in our glass?
The Voice.
They wrongfully them hold, whose criminal boast,
Is godless Wars machinal homicide arts.
Malignant fruit, of Máns malicious thought.
Mansoul.
Dimly do we discern a rumbling shore;
Whereon long-tiding wave-rows, rise and break;
And race o'er some low strand. Vast confuse sound
Affrays our ears, increasing móre and more;
To an hideous roaring noise, as we approach.
The Voice.
'Tis impious Wars tremendous bellowing Voice!
Are loost a thousand cánnon-shots every moment.
Each levelled, with inhuman bloody intent;
To quench, in their best age, much human life.
Mansoul.
Regardest not, ín Thy Righteousness, THOU LORD, this?
Red slaughter, in Earths Fold, of Mánkinds Life!
The Voice.
Whose be yond coasts that loom now in our glass?
The Voice.
They wrongfully them hold, whose criminal boast,
Is godless Wars machinal homicide arts.
Malignant fruit, of Máns malicious thought.
Mansoul.
Dimly do we discern a rumbling shore;
Whereon long-tiding wave-rows, rise and break;
And race o'er some low strand. Vast confuse sound
Affrays our ears, increasing móre and more;
To an hideous roaring noise, as we approach.
The Voice.
'Tis impious Wars tremendous bellowing Voice!
Are loost a thousand cánnon-shots every moment.
Each levelled, with inhuman bloody intent;
To quench, in their best age, much human life.
Mansoul.
Regardest not, ín Thy Righteousness, THOU LORD, this?
Red slaughter, in Earths Fold, of Mánkinds Life!
The Voice.
The guilt is in a few, presumptuous spirits:
Black hearts, that vaunt, (their high Inheritance;)
Brief lordship, over Peoples of their States.
Which wídows long and órphans, must lament;
Yea and éven the unbórn. And parents childless left,
Forlorn, of valiant sons, in their lone age.
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Brief lordship, over Peoples of their States.
Which wídows long and órphans, must lament;
Yea and éven the unbórn. And parents childless left,
Forlorn, of valiant sons, in their lone age.
Hundred leagues'-long enranged, lie ópposed armies,
In their wár-trenches dígged. What agony of strife,
Is there! that never ceaseth day nor night.
In their wár-trenches dígged. What agony of strife,
Is there! that never ceaseth day nor night.
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |