Iii

Are these thy mighty deeds, O Past, thy gains, O Time? This wrack of ruin’d creeds, This scroll or two of rhyme?—

A temple earthquake-dasht; A false record of things; A picture, lightning-flasht, Of cruel eyes of kings;

A mangled race that bleeds In cruel custom’s claws, Besotted by their creeds, And murder’d by their laws?

Right easily understood Fate’s lesson is, tho’ slow; She takes a nation’s blood To jot a word or two.

And for sufficient space To write a line of hers, She wipes away a race And dashes down the verse,

And cries, ‘So much to each, And man may mark or not; But what I choose to teach Shall never be forgot.’

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