 | Lyrics: By Martin F. Tupper |  |
48
The Sense of Wrong.
Swollen torrent, dark and deep,
Rushing down the rocky steep,—
Tempest-driven cloud on high
Scudding wildly through the sky,—
Dread volcano, muttering death
From red-hot lips with burning breath,—
Scarce shall these in type reveal
What the nobler spirits feel
When, in silence stern and strong,
They wrestle with the Sense of Wrong.
Rushing down the rocky steep,—
Tempest-driven cloud on high
Scudding wildly through the sky,—
Dread volcano, muttering death
From red-hot lips with burning breath,—
Scarce shall these in type reveal
What the nobler spirits feel
When, in silence stern and strong,
They wrestle with the Sense of Wrong.
49
Ha!—when insult hisses near,
Or scorn drops hemlock on the ear,
Or fraud has triumph'd over right,
Or gentleness is mock'd by might,
Or only, worth is seen unprized,
Or only, honour goes despised,
Then, in a whirlwind chafes along
The soul beneath a Sense of Wrong!
Or scorn drops hemlock on the ear,
Or fraud has triumph'd over right,
Or gentleness is mock'd by might,
Or only, worth is seen unprized,
Or only, honour goes despised,
Then, in a whirlwind chafes along
The soul beneath a Sense of Wrong!
Yes,—Patriot of a race downtrod;
Yes, Martyr for a slander'd God;
Yes, Man of large and liberal mind
Wroth with the meanness of mankind;
Yes, all who love the lovely still,
And hate the vile with right good will,—
Your hearts can echo to my song,
And ache beneath the Sense of Wrong!
Yes, Martyr for a slander'd God;
Yes, Man of large and liberal mind
Wroth with the meanness of mankind;
Yes, all who love the lovely still,
And hate the vile with right good will,—
Your hearts can echo to my song,
And ache beneath the Sense of Wrong!
| Lyrics: By Martin F. Tupper | |