Page:Poems (IA poemslowell00lowe).pdf/88

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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
From clouds in travail of the lightning, whenThe great wave of the storm, high-curled and blackRolls steadily onward to its thunderous break.Why art thou made a god of, thou poor typeOf anger, and revenge, and cunning force?True Power was never born of brutish Strength,Nor sweet Truth suckled at the shaggy dugsOf that old she-wolf. Are thy thunderbolts,That quell the darkness for a space, so strongAs the prevailing patience of meek Light,Who, with the invincible tenderness of peace,Wins it to be a portion of herself?Why art thou made a god of, thou, who hastThe never-sleeping terror at thy heart,That birthright of all tyrants, worse to bearThan this thy ravening bird on which I smile?Thou swear'st to free me, if I will unfoldWhat kind of doom it is whose omen flitsAcross thy heart, as o'er a troop of dovesThe fearful shadow of the kite. What needTo know that truth whose knowledge cannot save?Evil its errand hath, as well as Good;
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