With their works amassing,

Like heaving waves, in my footsteps flow,

Till, last, no ripples their murmur show.

[Pg 23]

'Gainst me in vain are your wit and letters,

'Gainst me nor weapons nor arts prevail.

I freedom give to the slave in fetters,—

His ruler's will I in irons nail.

I lead the battle—

And armies tumble,

Like slaughtered cattle,

While cannons rumble,

And never rise from their sudden fall

Until alarmed by the judgment-call.

[Pg 24]

I wave my hand—and, with whirlwinds' sweeping

All life on earth to that place doth fly,

Where not a sound to the ear is creeping,

Where not a tongue moves to make reply.

My foot meanders—

 Prev. P 11/31 next