 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
18
ABEL.
Our fresh young world lay basking in its prime,And all around was peace; the leprous spot
On her fair forehead Nature heeded not,
So beauteously she smiled in love sublime;
Yet, even then, upon thy gentle form
Rush'd the black whirlwind of a brother's crime,
Breaking that calm of universal love
With the fierce blast of murder's pitiless storm,
Awroth at goodness:—thee, truth's stricken dove,
First victim of oppression's iron feet,
Religion's earliest martyr, slain by pride
And man's self-righteousness, with praises meet
Thee would my soul's affection humbly greet,
Trusting the Lamb whereon thy faith relied.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |