(Thomas Hardy)






Chorus of the Pities


     (After the Battle)

To Thee whose eye all Nature owns,
Who hurlest Dynasts from their thrones,
And liftest those of low estate
We sing, with Her men consecrate!

Yea, Great and Good, Thee, Thee we hail,
Who shakst the strong, Who shieldst the frail,
Who hadst not shaped such souls as we
If tendermercy lacked in Thee!

Though times be when the mortal moan
Seems unascending to Thy throne,
Though seers do not as yet explain
Why Suffering sobs to Thee in vain;

We hold that Thy unscanted scope
Affords a food for final Hope,
That mild-eyed Prescience ponders nigh
Lifes loom, to lull it by and by.

Therefore we quire to highest height
The Wellwiller, the kindly Might
That balances the Vast for weal,
That purges as by wounds to heal.

The systemed suns the skies enscroll
Obey Thee in their rhythmic roll,
Ride radiantly at Thy command,
Are darkened by Thy Masterhand!

And these pale panting multitudes
Seen surging here, their moils, their moods,
All shall fulfil their joy in Thee,
In Thee abide eternally!

Exultant adoration give
The Alone, through Whom all living live,
The Alone, in Whom all dying die,
Whose means the End shall justify!   Amen.

From The Dynasts




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