 | Flotsam and Jetsam |  |
ON A RECENT CRY ABOUT SENTIMENT.
December 1876.
This—‘sentiment,’ foul Turks! that fires each drop
Of blood, at women—babes—by thousands slain?
How sentimental, then, the curse on Cain!
How morbid, to these ethics of the Shop,
The whirl of leaping flames that knew no stop
Till whitely glared the calcined Dead-Sea plain!
Nay, God himself, how superfine a strain
He rolled in thunders from black Sinai's top,
Launching at murderous Lust such lightning brands!
The cynical base taunt do Thou not heed,
Majestic England!—would'st thou sit alone
In one wide waste of selfish power and greed,
Deaf as a Statue 'mid Egyptian sands,
Gigantic—human-featured, yet—a stone?
| Flotsam and Jetsam | |