 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
What dísmayed cónfused voice is that we hear?
Lo, a drooping fugitive multitude, rich and poor;
Our glass shows, thronged together, a thick Press.
All midst salt bitter reek, of homesteads burned:
Fathers, wives, maidens, babes, óld broken wights;
With desolate looks of Winter, ín their hearts.
Bearing at back, in hand-carts, hound-carts, sacks;
What little they might save of household stuff.
Lo, a drooping fugitive multitude, rich and poor;
Our glass shows, thronged together, a thick Press.
All midst salt bitter reek, of homesteads burned:
Fathers, wives, maidens, babes, óld broken wights;
With desolate looks of Winter, ín their hearts.
Bearing at back, in hand-carts, hound-carts, sacks;
What little they might save of household stuff.
Sighs of wives outraged, choking wailful sobs,
Of maidens wronged, undone; bereaved souls' cries,
Lifting lean hands to Heaven! with hunger-starved looks.
Hark tó those dying groans of murdered men!
From ruinous battered streets. Whereby these pass:
Bludgeoned at their house-doors and violate hearths,
By godless enemies; fencing to their deaths,
Their womens honour, from brute hellish force;
Of outlaws, from Gods Covenant of mankind.
Of maidens wronged, undone; bereaved souls' cries,
Lifting lean hands to Heaven! with hunger-starved looks.
Hark tó those dying groans of murdered men!
From ruinous battered streets. Whereby these pass:
Bludgeoned at their house-doors and violate hearths,
By godless enemies; fencing to their deaths,
Their womens honour, from brute hellish force;
Of outlaws, from Gods Covenant of mankind.
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |