The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott Edited by his Son Edwin Elliott ... A New and Revised Edition: Two Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott |  |
[The present, future, past]
The present, future, past,
What are they, Lord, but Thee?
Thou art, and ever wast,
What hath been and will be.
What are they, Lord, but Thee?
Thou art, and ever wast,
What hath been and will be.
Thou only seest the sun
To which slow ages tend—
And art the Unbegun,
Which is, and cannot end.
To which slow ages tend—
And art the Unbegun,
Which is, and cannot end.
The generations gone,
What are they but a word?
All, all that all have done,
Is but thy whisper, Lord.
What are they but a word?
All, all that all have done,
Is but thy whisper, Lord.
The deeds which, in old song,
Like stars of morning shine,
Are accents from thy tongue—
Unwritten words of thine.
Like stars of morning shine,
Are accents from thy tongue—
Unwritten words of thine.
162
Before Thee, Homer's name,
Ere Greece was named, went forth;
And, like a word of flame,
Glared Alaric from the North.
Ere Greece was named, went forth;
And, like a word of flame,
Glared Alaric from the North.
Methinks I hear thy voice,
Prophetic, at this hour—
Where evil powers rejoice,
And worship evil power.
Prophetic, at this hour—
Where evil powers rejoice,
And worship evil power.
A word of fatal tone,
The blind shall hear and see;
A word of fire unblown
On them shall written be.
The blind shall hear and see;
A word of fire unblown
On them shall written be.
Lo! things of earth combine,
To curse the blessèd sod!
Bid God his power resign!
And clench their fists at God.
To curse the blessèd sod!
Bid God his power resign!
And clench their fists at God.
And dreadful art Thou, Lord,
Thy words are dreadful then,
When men make law a sword,
To smite the rights of men!
Thy words are dreadful then,
When men make law a sword,
To smite the rights of men!
The dust of patriots dead
Hears then thy stillest tones;
Pale tyrants, waxing red,
Crouch frighted on their thrones;
Hears then thy stillest tones;
Pale tyrants, waxing red,
Crouch frighted on their thrones;
163
For wrongs go forth in might,
Like whirlwind on the sea;
When vengeance strikes for right,
What is he, Lord, but Thee?
Like whirlwind on the sea;
When vengeance strikes for right,
What is he, Lord, but Thee?
| The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott | |