Джеральд Масси (Gerald Massey)

Eden

THERE is not a rift in the blue sky now,
    Where a million tempests tore it;
There is not a furrow on Ocean's brow,
    Tho' a million years have past o'er it.
And for all the storms and the strifes that have rufl'd
    Down the ages grim and gory;
Earth weareth her pleasant face, as of old,
    And laughs in her morning glory.
And Man—tho' he beareth the brand of Sin,
    And the flesh and the devil have bound him—
Hath a spirit within, to old Eden akin,
    Only nurture up Eden around him.

O the cloud may have fall'n on the human face,
    And its lordliest beauty blighted;
For love hath gone out with a dark'ning trace,
    Where the inward glory lighted.
Yet the old world of love liveth still in the heart,
    As we've many a sweet revealing:
And its rich fossil-jewels in tears will up-start
    With the warm flood of holier feeling.
Ay, Man—tho' he beareth the brand of Sin,
    And the flesh and the devil have bound him—
Hath a spirit within, to old Eden akin,
    Only nurture up Eden around him

O the terrors, the tortures, the miseries dark
    That have curst us, and crusht, and cankered!
Yet, aye, from the Deluge, Humanity's Ark
    Hath on some serene Ararat anchored.
O the golden chains that link heaven to earth,
    The rusts of all time cannot sever!
Evil shall die in its own dark dearth,
    And the Good liveth on for ever.
And Man—tho' he beareth the brand of Sin,
    And the flesh and the devil have bound him—
Hath a spirit within, to old Eden akin,
    Only nurture up Eden around him.

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