Page:Enoch Arden, etc - Tennyson - 1864.djvu/106

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AYLMER’S FIELD.
Yes, as your moanings witness, and myselfAm lonelier, darker, earthlier for my loss.Give me your prayers, for he is past your prayers, Not past the living fount of pity in Heaven.But I that thought myself long-suffering, meek, Exceeding "poor in spirit"—how the wordsHave twisted back upon themselves, and mean Vileness, we are grown so proud—I wish'd my voice A rushing tempest of the wrath of GodTo blow these sacrifices thro' the world—Sent like the twelve-divided concubineTo inflame the tribes: but there—out yonder—earth Lightens from her own central Hell—O thereThe red fruit of an old idolatry—The heads of chiefs and princes fall so fast,They cling together in the ghastly sack—The land all shambles—naked marriagesFlash from the bridge, and ever-murder'd France, By shores that darken with the gathering wolf,Runs in a river of blood to the sick sea.
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