| |
| I DIE, 1 I die! the Mother said, | |
| My children die for lack of bread. | |
| What more has the merciless tyrant said? | |
| The Monk sat down on the stony bed. | |
| |
| The blood red ran from the Grey Monks side, | 5 |
| His hands and feet were wounded wide, | |
| His body bent, his arms and knees | |
| Like to the roots of ancient trees. | |
| |
| His eye was dry; no tear could flow: | |
| A hollow groan first spoke his woe. | 10 |
| He trembled and shudderd 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 the writing I wrote should prove | 15 |
| The bane of all that on Earth I love. | |
| |
| My brother starvd between two walls, | |
| His childrens cry my soul appalls; | |
| I mockd at the wrack and griding chain, | |
| My bent body mocks their torturing pain. | 20 |
| |
| Thy father drew his sword in the North, | |
| With his thousands strong he marchèd forth, | |
| Thy brother has armd himself in steel, | |
| To avenge the wrongs thy children feel. | |
| |
| But vain the sword and vain the bow, | 25 |
| They never can work Wars overthrow. | |
| The hermits prayer and the widows tear | |
| Alone can free the world from fear. | |
| |
| For a tear is an intellectual thing, | |
| And a sigh is the sword of an Angel King, | 30 |
| And the bitter groan of the martyrs woe | |
| Is an arrow from the Almightys bow. | |
| |
| The hand of Vengeance found the bed | |
| To which the purple tyrant fled; | |
| The iron hand crushd the tyrants head, | 35 |
| And became a tyrant in his stead. | |