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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=523119" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Musing On A Victory</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Down by the Sutlej shore,<br>Where sound the trumpet and the wild tum-tum,<br>At winter's eve did come<br>A gaunt old northern lion, at whose roar<br>The myriad howlers of thy wilds are dumb,<br>Blood-stained Ferozepore!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>In the rich Indian night,<br>And dreaming of his mate beyond the sea,<br>Toil-worn but grand to sight,<br>He made his lair, in might,<br>Beneath thy dark palm-tree,<br>And thou didst rouse him to the unequal fight-<br>And woe for thee!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>For some of that wild land<br>Had heard him in the desert where he lay;<br>And soon he snuffs upon their hurtling way,<br>The hunters-bandby band;<br>And up he gat him from the eastern sand<br>And leaped upon his prey.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Alas for man! Alas for all thy dreams,<br>Thou great somnambulist, wherein, outlawed<br>From right and thought, thou workest out unawed<br>Thy grand fantastic fancies! Thro' the flood,<br>The pestilence, the whirlwind, the dread plain<br>Of thunders-thro' the earthquake and the storm,<br>The deluge and the snows, the whirling ice<br>Of the wild glacier, every ghastly form<br>Of earth's most vexed vicissitudes of pain,-<br>Thro' worlds of fire and seas of mingled bloods<br>Thou rushest, dreadful as a maniac god;<br>And only finding that thou wert not sane<br>When some great sorrow thunders at thy brain<br>And wakes thee trembling by a precipice.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Alas for thee, thou grey-haired man that still<br>Art sleeping, and canst hold thy grandchild high<br>That he may see the gorgeous wrong go by<br>Which slew his father! And for thee, thou bright<br>Inheritress of summer-time and light,<br>Alas for thee, that thy young cheek is flush'd<br>With dreaming of the lion and the foe,<br>Tho' it had been yet paler than the snow<br>Upon the battle-hill, if once had gush'd,<br>But once before thee, even the feeblest flow<br>Of that life's blood that swept in floods below.<br>Alas! that even thy beauty cannot break<br>The vampyre spell of such a war-dream's woe,-<br>Alas! tho' waking might have been to know<br>Things which had made it sweeter not to wake.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Alas for man!-poor hunchback-all so proud<br>And yet so conscious; man that stalks divine<br>Because he feels so mortal, speaking loud<br>To drown the trembling whisper in his heart,<br>And wildly hurrying on from crowd to crowd,<br>In hope to shun the faithful shapes that start<br>Wherever lake doth sleep or streamlet shine<br>In silent solitudes. When once in youth<br>Fresh from the spheres, and too severely wise,<br>Truth drew the face he longed yet feared to view,<br>Stung with the instinct that confessed it true<br>He dashed the tablets from her sacred hand;<br>She drops her singing robes and leaves his land;<br>And Fiction, decent in the garb of Truth,<br>While lurking mischief lights her lambent eyes,<br>Seizes the fallen pencil, and with grave<br>Historic features paints the lies we crave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>So war became a welcome woe. The grass<br>Grows tear-bedewed upon a lonely grave,<br>And we plant sad flow'rs and sweet epitaphs,<br>And every grief of monumental stone,<br>Above a single woe; but let men sleep<br>In thousands, and we choose their hideous heap<br>For Joy to hold his godless orgies on.<br>Is it that some strange law's unknown behest<br>Makes gladness of the greatest woes we have<br>And leaves us but to sorrow for the less?<br>Even as in outward nature light's excess<br>Is blindness, and intensest motion rest;<br>Or is it not-oh conscious heart declare-<br>That the vast pride of our o'erwrought despair,<br>Seeing the infinite grief, and knowing yet<br>We have no tears to pay such deep distress,<br>Grown wild, repudiates the direful debt,<br>And in its very bankrupt madness laughs?-</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Yet when this Victory's fame shall pass, as grand<br>And griefless as a rich man's funeral,<br>Thro' nations that look on with spell-bound eye,<br>While echoing plaudits ring from land to land,<br>Alas! will there be none among the good<br>And great and brave and free, to speak of all<br>The pale piled pestilence of flesh and blood,<br>The common cold corruption that doth lie<br>Festering beneath the pall?<br>Alas! when time has deified the thought<br>Of this day's desperate devilry, and men<br>(Who scorn to inherit virtue, but will ape<br>Their sires, and bless them, when they sin) shall shape<br>A graven image of the thought, and then<br>Fall down to worship it-will no one dare,<br>While nations kneel before the idol there,<br>To stand and tell them it is Juggernaut?<br>Alas for man! if this new crime shall yield<br>To truth no harvest for the sighs it cost;<br>If this crowned corpse, this pale ensceptred ghost<br>That stalks, Ferozepore, from thy red field<br>Robed as a king, shall all unchallenged pass<br>Down the proud scene of Time. Alas, alas!<br>If there are some to weep and some to pray,<br>And none to bow their humbled heads and say,<br>Low sighing,-There hath been a mortal strife;<br>And thirteen thousand murdered men lie there,<br>And day and night upon the tainted air<br>Blaspheme the Lord of Life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sydney+Thompson+Dobell">Sydney Thompson Dobell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=523119" data-title="A Musing On A Victory de Sydney Thompson Dobell" data-description="Down by the Sutlej shore,
Where sound the trumpet and the wild tum-tum,
At winter's eve did come
A gaunt old northern lion, at whose roar
The myriad howlers of thy wilds are dumb,
Blood-stained Ferozepore!


In the rich Indian night,
And dreaming ..."></div>
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