MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS, 1842
VII
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS, 1842
MEN of the Western World! in Fate’s dark book Whence these opprobrious leaves of dire portent? Think ye your British Ancestors forsook Their native Land, for outrage provident; From unsubmissive necks the bridle shook To give, in their Descendants, freer vent And wider range to passions turbulent, To mutual tyranny a deadlier look? Nay, said a voice, soft as the south wind’s breath, Dive through the stormy surface of the flood 10 To the great current flowing underneath; Explore the countless springs of silent good; So shall the truth be better understood, And thy grieved Spirit brighten strong in faith.