 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
Mansoul.
What Country-side, War-harried field, is this?
Our mirror shows, forsaken, ruinous!
The Voice.
Belges well-peopled, látely fruitful march;
Subvérted, rent, ploughed-up, with enemies' shot:
Are famous cities burning, like a wood!
Mansoul.
Who hath wrought this?
The Voice.
Invading impious hordes,
Of Hunnish enemies, thís Hell-horror made.
Midst fire and smoke, havoc! yelled their foul throats;
Known hardly from brute-beasts, by mankind voice.
By scelerate heathen deeds, vowed those to make;
Vast Sigh, a sty, a sink, GODS human World.
Even Oceans Streams have, (everlasting stain;
On their degenerate ensigns!) those profaned.
Mansoul.
Descend, with Bléssing, tó eternal rest!
Mansoul.
Belovéd young men, flames leap up in our hearts;
Hot welling Tide of Wrath for your young deaths;
That did not only your forefathers' worth,
Match to the full; oppósing your stout breasts,
To the fond Tyrants venom, steel and shot;
In a strange soil: but added have new wealth,
Of honour íncorruptible unto us.
The Voice.
They gave, with joy, their all, for Countrys sake.
Loud Echo.
Death seemed them joy, for Mother-Countrys sake!
The Voice.
They soul-stained foes rebutted; which divine
And human laws, trod down in gory dust.
Mansoul.
Who set them on?
The Voice.
What Country-side, War-harried field, is this?
Our mirror shows, forsaken, ruinous!
The Voice.
Belges well-peopled, látely fruitful march;
Subvérted, rent, ploughed-up, with enemies' shot:
Are famous cities burning, like a wood!
Mansoul.
Who hath wrought this?
The Voice.
Invading impious hordes,
Of Hunnish enemies, thís Hell-horror made.
Midst fire and smoke, havoc! yelled their foul throats;
Known hardly from brute-beasts, by mankind voice.
127
Vast Sigh, a sty, a sink, GODS human World.
Even Oceans Streams have, (everlasting stain;
On their degenerate ensigns!) those profaned.
Mansoul.
Perish, ye base Contrivers, wolf-hearts crowned!
That purposed but your self-aggrandisement:
Your Cóuncillors and the Executioners;
Likewise of your inhuman, wicked Wills:
Wherein men, well-nigh passing count, fell more
Than thirty million bereaved mothers' sons:
Being not much less, than numbered if all were;
Men, wives and babes, of such great Land, as ours.
That purposed but your self-aggrandisement:
Your Cóuncillors and the Executioners;
Likewise of your inhuman, wicked Wills:
Wherein men, well-nigh passing count, fell more
Than thirty million bereaved mothers' sons:
Being not much less, than numbered if all were;
Men, wives and babes, of such great Land, as ours.
Oh horror! and, past belief, was in their deaths;
A flood poured out, of murdered human gore:
And in these days of ours! And what moreo'er,
Of those, ne'er to be counted; which had else,
To comfort of dark homes, and now cold hearths;
Of them, in their appointed time, been born:
Oh, accúrsed, insáne, Héll-sprung, dire, Murder-War!
A flood poured out, of murdered human gore:
And in these days of ours! And what moreo'er,
Of those, ne'er to be counted; which had else,
To comfort of dark homes, and now cold hearths;
Of them, in their appointed time, been born:
Oh, accúrsed, insáne, Héll-sprung, dire, Murder-War!
Amongst those battle-slain, in World above;
Descending rife, before our troubled gaze,
In Underworld; thick companies pass to rest:
Known, by their comely looks, now wan in death;
To be of those our Island Empire sends,
Of Her magnanimous sons; to fight for life,
Of the whole World, gainst criminal enemies.
Descending rife, before our troubled gaze,
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Known, by their comely looks, now wan in death;
To be of those our Island Empire sends,
Of Her magnanimous sons; to fight for life,
Of the whole World, gainst criminal enemies.
Hail Britains sons! The mémory of yóur prowd deaths;
For ever our ensample, shall remain;
Whilst Brítain ís a Nation of the Earth.
The Voice.
For ever our ensample, shall remain;
Whilst Brítain ís a Nation of the Earth.
Descend, with Bléssing, tó eternal rest!
Mansoul.
Belovéd young men, flames leap up in our hearts;
Hot welling Tide of Wrath for your young deaths;
That did not only your forefathers' worth,
Match to the full; oppósing your stout breasts,
To the fond Tyrants venom, steel and shot;
In a strange soil: but added have new wealth,
Of honour íncorruptible unto us.
The Voice.
They gave, with joy, their all, for Countrys sake.
Loud Echo.
Death seemed them joy, for Mother-Countrys sake!
129
They soul-stained foes rebutted; which divine
And human laws, trod down in gory dust.
Mansoul.
Who set them on?
The Voice.
A mountebank criminal crowned;
Regent himself esteeming, on Worlds ground:
Óf The All-Mighty UPHOLDER, of the Universe!
Frown of his Tamerlanish countenance,
Deemed he, helmed, strútting forth, should quell West World.
Regent himself esteeming, on Worlds ground:
Óf The All-Mighty UPHOLDER, of the Universe!
Frown of his Tamerlanish countenance,
Deemed he, helmed, strútting forth, should quell West World.
Worlds Crime, This long time, cherished, he hugged close;
At first, fond childhoods whisper, in false breast:
Dark fantasy, infláming his presumptuous youth;
And eversith working ín his ruffling thought.
To out-Caesar, Caesar, his self-pleasing thought.
At first, fond childhoods whisper, in false breast:
Dark fantasy, infláming his presumptuous youth;
And eversith working ín his ruffling thought.
To out-Caesar, Caesar, his self-pleasing thought.
But Caesars wás a soul magnanimous,
Clement; and ás belongeth to noble worth;
Midst greatest deeds, full álway of knightly parts.
Caesar waged war, with honour; thís fellow hath,
It dástardized.
Clement; and ás belongeth to noble worth;
Midst greatest deeds, full álway of knightly parts.
Caesar waged war, with honour; thís fellow hath,
It dástardized.
Hé, who át no time rebuked;
The inhúman, thé Satánic outrages;
Of brutish kerel-hordes whom he commanded:
Chief Patron is, of áll their infamies.
The inhúman, thé Satánic outrages;
130
Chief Patron is, of áll their infamies.
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |