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Updated: May 20, 2025
"Horses that, feeding on the grassy hills, Tread upon moonwort with their hollow heels, Though lately shod, at night go barefoot home, Their maister musing where their shoes become. O moonwort! tell me where thou bid'st the smith, Hammer and pinchers, thou unshodd'st them with.
"But God has fixed another part, And He has fixed it well: I said so with my bleeding heart, When first the anguish fell. "Thou God, hast taken our delight, Our treasured hope, away; Thou bid'st us now weep through the night And sorrow through the day. "These weary hours will not be lost, These days of misery, These nights of darkness, anguish-tost, Can I but turn to Thee.
But he that constantly keeps in his mind and maintains as his principle that the witchcraft of poetry consists in fiction, he that can at all turns accost it in this language, Riddle of art! like which no sphinx beguiles; Whose face on one side frowns while th' other smiles! Why cheat'st thou, with pretence to make us wise, And bid'st sage precepts in a fool's disguise?
Dread Master of the earth, Wahconda of the thunder, and the winds, Who bid'st the earth shake, and the hills be thick With hail and snow, Shall we arise, and take Our father's relics from the burial shed? Shall we depart, and wilt thou guide Our feet to fairer lands? Does success await us, In this, our distant pilgrimage? Will these, our young men, strike and overcome?
Our gallery gods immortalize thy song; Thy Newgate thefts impart ecstatic pleasure; Thou bid'st a Jew's harp charm a Christian throng, A Gothic salt-box teem with attic treasure. When Harlequin, entangled in thy clue, By magic seeks to dissipate the strife, Thy furtive fingers snatch his faulchion too; The luckless wizard loses wand and wife.
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