ORPSES are cold in the tomb; Stones on the pavement are dumb; Abortions are dead in the womb, And their mothers look pale-like the white They are trodden, and move not away,- III. Then trample and dance, thou Oppressor! For thy victim is no redresser; Thou art sole lord and possessor Of her corpses, and clods, and abortions they pave Thy path to the grave. IV. Hearest thou the festival din Of Death, and Destruction, and Sin, And Wealth crying Havoc! within ? 'Tis the bacchanal triumph which makes Truth dumb, Thine epithalamium. V. Ay, marry thy ghastly wife! Let Fear and Disquiet and Strife Spread thy couch in the chamber of Life! Marry Ruin, thou Tyrant! and God be thy guide To the bed of the bride! The Birth of Pleasure T the creation of the Earth Pleasure, that divinest birth, Wrapt in sweet wild melodies - Her life-breathing [limbs] did flow Of an ever-lengthening line Which enwrapt her perfect form With a beauty clear and warm. |