RESURRECTURIS.
WRITTEN IN 1846.
Amid this slough kneaded with blood and tears,
This world where none his Golgotha avoids,
In vain the spirit struggles when the hand
Of sorrow strikes. Against the storms of life
No port of refuge here is ever found.
At every moment we are mocked by Fate;
The brave engulfed within the dark abyss;
The loved, the saintly, die,—the hated, live;
All eddies in a maze without a clue:
Pale Death is near, and far—so far—away
Across the loitering waves of future ages.
Yet scarcely breaks the Resurrection's dawn.
Must we then grow inert, insensible,
And still the voice of conscience? 'Mid the vile
Grow viler, murder with the murderers,
Lie, hate, blaspheme, and kill? . . . Unto this world
Return the evil it hath wrought on us?
At such price Power is ours,—else wield we none!
Then let us eat and drink, the body sate,
And, chasing from the brain each noble thought,
Swell high the list of fortunate, and fools!
Oh, no! Pause! Pause, my soul! Not with such arms
Can those who guide humanity meet evil!
There is no force but that of sacrifice
Able to crush the fate that crushes us!
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