Classic Poem

Thou canst not right the ancient wrong,
Or mend the broken thread;
Thou canst not raise with spell or song
The countless martyrs dead,—
Yet one kind thought may sometimes bless
Lives which the dark gods ban;
Wherefore, since they are pitiless,
Be pitiful, O Man !

Raised on the rock of endless woe,
Thy throne is built, O King!
Yet from that rock some dews may flow
To show the hidden spring;—
Lord in thy place of life and death,
Complete the cruel plan,
But gazing down on things of breath,
Be pitiful, O Man !

Be pitiful! be pitiful!
More grace in Pity lies
Than in the gladdest flowers they call
In Passion's Paradise!
Thron'd on the earth even as a god,
All creatures gently scan—
Thy sceptre then like Anron's rod
Shall bud and bloom, O Man !

Be pitiful to every thing
That creeps around thy throne.
Yea, with thy love as with a wing
Shelter the lost and lone:—
Tho' from the cradle to the tomb
Thy reign is but a span.
Still, in despite of Death and Doom,
Be pitiful, O Man !

So shall thy soul arise in strength
Above the coward's dread,
So shall thy love avenge at length
The blood the gods have shed,
So shalt thou scorn the cruel Law
That is since Time began,
And, held by Heaven and Hell in awe,
Shame all the gods, O Man !