 | The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang |  |
48
An Aspiration
When we have cut each other's throats
And robbed each other's land;
And turned, and changed, and lost our coats,
Till progress is at stand;
When every ‘programme's’ been gone through
This good old world will wake anew!
And robbed each other's land;
And turned, and changed, and lost our coats,
Till progress is at stand;
When every ‘programme's’ been gone through
This good old world will wake anew!
When science, art, and learning cease
As wealth and commerce die—
The children they of wealth and peace,
With peace and wealth they fly—
Then ghosts will walk, and in their train
Bring old religion back again.
As wealth and commerce die—
The children they of wealth and peace,
With peace and wealth they fly—
Then ghosts will walk, and in their train
Bring old religion back again.
49
When hunger, war, and pestilence
Have run their ancient round;
When law has long been banished hence;
When hate has cleared the ground;
When men grown few, as once they were,
Breathe uncontaminated air—
Have run their ancient round;
When law has long been banished hence;
When hate has cleared the ground;
When men grown few, as once they were,
Breathe uncontaminated air—
Till then I fain would sleep, and then
Be born in other days—
A hermit in some happy glen
Where some clear river strays;
Nursed in some faith—I know not, I—
Wherein a man might live and die.
Be born in other days—
A hermit in some happy glen
Where some clear river strays;
Nursed in some faith—I know not, I—
Wherein a man might live and die.
Ah, early would I rise to pray,
And early would I steal
From chapel, in the dawning gray,
To earn the Friday's meal—
A monk who never dreamed of doubt,
I'd catch uneducated trout!
And early would I steal
From chapel, in the dawning gray,
To earn the Friday's meal—
A monk who never dreamed of doubt,
I'd catch uneducated trout!
A priest where woman might not come,
Nor any household care;
A land where newspapers were dumb
From scandal and from scare—
That priest I'd be, that land I'd see,
Would fortune work my wish for me!
Nor any household care;
A land where newspapers were dumb
From scandal and from scare—
That priest I'd be, that land I'd see,
Would fortune work my wish for me!
50
O Buddha, if thy tale be true,
Of still returning life;
A monk may I be born anew
In valleys far from strife—
A monk where Meggatt winds and laves
The lone St. Mary's of the waves.
Of still returning life;
A monk may I be born anew
In valleys far from strife—
A monk where Meggatt winds and laves
The lone St. Mary's of the waves.
| The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang | |