I saw a Monk of Charlemaine
Arise before my sight:
I talk'd to the Grey Monk where he stood
In
beams of infernal light.
Gibbon arose with a lash of steel,
And Voltaire
with a wracking wheel:
The Schools, in clouds of learning roll'd,
Arose
with War in iron and gold.
`Thou lazy Monk,' they said afar,
`In vain
condemning glorious War,
And in thy cell thou shall ever dwell.
Rise,
War, and bind him in his cell!'
The blood red ran from the Grey Monk's side,
His hands and feet were wounded wide,
His body bent, his arms and knees
Like to the roots of ancient trees.
`I see, I see,' the Mother said,
`My children will die for lack of bread.
What more has the merciless tyrant
said?'
The Monk sat down on her stony bed.
His eye was dry, no tear could
flow;
A hollow groan first spoke his woe.
He trembled and shudder'd upon
the bed;
At length with a feeble cry he said:
`When God commanded this
hand to write
In the studious hours of deep midnight,
He told me that
all I wrote should prove
The bane of all that on Earth I love. |
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My brother starv'd between two walls;
Thy children's cry
my soul appals:
I mock'd at the wrack and griding chain;
My bent body
mocks at their torturing pain.
`Thy father drew his sword in the North;
With his thousands strong he is marchèd forth;
Thy brother has armèd
himself in steel
To revenge the wrongs thy children feel.
`But vain
the sword and vain the bow,
They never can work War's overthrow;
The hermit's
prayer and the widow's tear
Alone can free the world from fear.
`The
hand of Vengeance sought the bed
To which the purple tyrant fled;
The
iron hand crush'd the tyrant's head,
And became a tyrant in his stead.
`Until the tyrant himself relent,
The tyrant who first the black bow bent,
Slaughter shall heap the bloody plain:
Resistance and War is the tyrant's
gain.
`But the tear of love -- and forgiveness sweet,
And submission
to death beneath his feet --
The tear shall melt the sword of steel,
And
every wound it has made shall heal.
`For the tear is an intellectual thing,
And a sigh is the sword of an Angel King,
And the bitter groan of the martyr's
woe
Is an arrow from the Almighty's bow.'
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