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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=523216" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To A Cathedral Tower: On The Evening Of The Thirty-Fifth Anniversay of Waterloo</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">And since thou art no older, 'tis to-day!<br>And I, entranced,-with the wide sense of gods<br>Confronting Time-receive the equal touch<br>Of Past and Present. Yet I am not moved<br>To frenzy; but, with how much calm befits<br>The insufficient passions of a soul<br>Expanding to celestial limits, take<br>Ampler vitality, and fill, serene,<br>The years that are and were. Unchanging Pile!<br>Our schoolboy fathers play in yonder streets,<br>Wherethro' their mothers, new from evening prayer,<br>Speak of the pleasant eve, and say Good Night.<br>Say on! to whom, oh never more shall night<br>Seem good; to whom for the last time hath eve<br>Been pleasant! Look up to the sunset skies<br>As a babe smiles into his murderer's face,<br>Nor see the Fate that flushes all the heaven,<br>Unconscious Mother! Hesper thro' the trees<br>Palpitates light; and thou, beholding peace,<br>Keepest thy vigil and art fond to think<br>His heart is beating for a world of bliss.<br>'Oh Sabbath Land!' Ah Mother, doth thine ear<br>Discern new silence? Dost thou dream what right<br>The earth may have to seem so still to thee?<br>Oh Sabbath Land! but on the Belgian plain<br>The bolt has fallen; and the storm draws off<br>In scattered thunders groaning round the hills<br>And tempest-drops of woe upon the field.<br>The king of men has turned his charger's head<br>Whose hoofs did shake the world, but clatter now<br>Unheeding sod. He turns, and in his track<br>The sorrows of the centuries to come<br>Cry on the air. He rides into the night,<br>Which as a dreadful spirit hails him in<br>With lightnings and with voices. Far behind,<br>In the War-marish, Victory and Glory<br>Fall by each other's hands, like friends of old,<br>Unconquered. And the genius of his race,<br>Pale, leaning on a broken eagle, dies.<br>High in the midst departing Freedom stands<br>On hills of slain; her wings unfurled, her hands<br>Toward heaven, her eyes turned, streaming, on the earth,<br>In act to rise. And all the present Fortunes,<br>Hopes, Oracles, and Omens of the world<br>Sitting alow, as mourners veiled and dumb,<br>Draw, with weird finger, in the battle-slime<br>The signs of Fate. Behold whom War salutes<br>Victor of victors. War, red-hot with toil,<br>Spokesman of Death. Death, pale with sated lust<br>And hoarse with greed. Behold! At his strong call<br>The bloody dust takes life, and obscene shapes<br>Clang on contending wings, wild wheeling round<br>His head exulting. How they hate the light<br>And rout the fevered sunset that looks back<br>Obtesting! How they scream up at the stars<br>And smite in rage the invisible air! How, like<br>A swoop of black thoughts thro' a stormy soul,<br>They rush about the Victor and snatch joys<br>For all the tyrants of the darkened globe.<br>Who shall withstand him? Him the evening star<br>Trembled to see. Our despots, from the first,<br>Bequeathed him each a feature, and he walks<br>The sum of all oppression and the sign.<br>O Earth! O Heaven! O Life! O Death! O Man!<br>Flesh of my flesh, my brother! Is there hope?<br>Soul, soul! behold the portent of the time.<br>High in the Heaven, the angels, much-attent,<br>With conscious faces and averted eyes<br>(As one who feels the wrong he will not see,)<br>Gaze upon God, and neither frown nor smile.<br>Grey Pile,<br>Who lookest with thy kindred hills upon<br>This quiet England, shadow-robed for sleep,<br>I also speak to thee as one whom kin<br>Emboldens. Demigod among the gods,<br>I charge thee by thy human nature speak!<br>Doth she sleep well? Thou who hast watched her face,<br>Tell me, for thou canst tell, doth the flesh creep?<br>Ah! and the soil of Albion stirred that day!<br>Ah! and these fields, at midnight, heaved with graves!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The vision ends. Collapsing to a point<br>In Time, I see thee, O red Waterloo,<br>A deadly wound now healed. From whose great scar<br>Upon the brow of Man, the bloody husks<br>Have newly fallen. 'Twas a Felon's blow<br>On one who reeling, drunk with life, above<br>A precipice, fell by the timely steel;<br>Bled, and, deplete, was whole; saw with sane eyes<br>The gulph that yawned; and rises, praising God,<br>To bind the Assassin.</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=523216" data-title="To A Cathedral Tower: On The Evening Of The Thirty-Fifth Anniversay of Waterloo de Sydney Thompson Dobell" data-description="And since thou art no older, 'tis to-day!
And I, entranced,-with the wide sense of gods
Confronting Time-receive the equal touch
Of Past and Present. Yet I am not moved
To frenzy; but, with how much calm befits
The insufficient passions of a soul
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