Sunrise

Foul times there are when nations spiritless Throw honour away For tinsel glory, to base happiness A mournful prey. Then from the nations, fain of lustful rest, Dull slavery's dreams, All virtue ebbs, as from a sponge tight-prest Clear water streams. Then men, to vice and folly docile slaves, Aye lowly inclined, Ape the vile, fearful reed that stoops and waves For every wind. Then feasts and kisses; naught that saith the soul Stirs shame or dread; One drinks, one eats, one sings, one skips,—is foul And comforted. Crime, ministered to by loathsome lackeys, reigns; Yea, 'neath God's fires Laughs; and ye shiver, sombre dread remains Of glorious sires. All life seems foul, with vice intoxicate, Aye, thus to be.— Sudden a clarion unto all winds elate Peals liberty! And the dull world whose soul this blast doth smite, Is like to one Drunken all night, up-staggering 'neath the light O' the risen sun!