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I WITHOUT, the lonely night is sweet with stars: | |
But me an ancient grewsome tale has bound | |
Of them He chose and later cast aground | |
As on a raging sea to drift like spars. | |
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Great God! Was it but mockery Thy choice? | 5 |
Is martyrdom the highest crown you give? | |
And shall a People, maimed and fugitive, | |
Be bearer of the thunder of Thy Voice? | |
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Burn low, my lamp, I cannot further read; | |
The woes of countless thousands oer me flood! | 10 |
From out the shadows lurid shapes arise: | |
Of executioners who foam with greed, | |
Of holy swords that drip with infants blood, | |
Of flames that roar and shapes that agonize! | |
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II Behold! What strange procession do I see? | 15 |
Before my vision dimmed with tears of rage, | |
Emerging as from mists that mar the page, | |
In sadness stern they tread so solemnly. | |
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The shadows grimly lie to left and right | |
Like huge and moving forests oer them bent: | 20 |
Up winds the road in tortuous ascent, | |
And far and faint a Peak in misty white. | |
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And see! From out the lurking shadows leap | |
Uncanny shapes of beasts with howl and shriek! | |
White flash their fangs, like points of fire their eyes! | 25 |
The victims fall and neither groan nor weep; | |
Each lifts his eyes unto the gleaming Peak | |
And cries: The Lord our God is One! and dies! | |
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III And yet the night is sweet with stars: away | |
Then put the tale of martyrs red with blood, | 30 |
Of them He chose to prove in fire and flood, | |
Of saints defiled, and blazing auto-da-fé. | |
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Come! Ope your lattice: why forever read? | |
The million-jewelled heavens are awake | |
As when to Abraham the Voice outspake: | 35 |
As numberless as Heavens stars thy seed! | |
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Sweet, friendly stars! Your splendor calm | |
Has not since then diminished by a gleam! | |
Are ye not witness to the promise still? | |
Then, heir of sorrow, purge your heart of qualm! | 40 |
Shall bitterness of soul dislodge the dream? | |
The Peak still glimmers: thrill, my spirit, thrill! | |
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