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And there rang on a sudden a passionate cry,
for a brother's blood:
It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I die, till
Is it gone ? my pulses beat-
A shadow there at my feet,
High over the shadowy land.
The feeble vassals of wine and
The little hearts that know not how to forgive :
Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold Thee just,
Strike dead the whole weak race of venomous
That sting each other here in the dust;
SEE what a lovely shell,
Made so fairily well
With delicate spire and whorl,
What is it ? a learned man
Could give it a clumsy name.
Let him name it who can,
The beauty would be the same.
The tiny cell is forlorn,
Void of the little living will
That made it stir on the shore.
Did he stand at the diamond door
Of his house in a rainbow frill ?
Did he push, when he was uncurld,
Slight, to be crush'd with a tap
Frail, but of force to withstand,
Plagued with a flitting to and fro,
Am I to be overawed
By what I cannot but know
Back from the Breton coast,
Sick of a nameless fear,
Back to the dark sea-line
Looking, thinking of all I have lost;
An old song vexes my ear;
But that of Lamech is mine.
For years, a measureless ill,
For years, for ever, to part-
Have a grain of love for me,
So long, no doubt, no doubt,
Shall I nurse in my
However weary, a spark of will