 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
“Demon! thy power is o'er me—none behold—
Rome's banded legions could not rescue me—
Yet I scorn, loathe, dare, trample thee, proud priest!
What art thou but corrupted clay beneath
The furnace? but the loathsome bird that feasts
On desolation's relics?—Oh, there comes
A glad sound on mine ear—a triumph sound—
The deep earth-hymn of ruin! hark! it swirls
Along the abysses of the hills and seas,
Lifting the mountains with its breath—it comes!
Ye manes of mine ancestors! it comes!”
Rome's banded legions could not rescue me—
Yet I scorn, loathe, dare, trample thee, proud priest!
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The furnace? but the loathsome bird that feasts
On desolation's relics?—Oh, there comes
A glad sound on mine ear—a triumph sound—
The deep earth-hymn of ruin! hark! it swirls
Along the abysses of the hills and seas,
Lifting the mountains with its breath—it comes!
Ye manes of mine ancestors! it comes!”
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |