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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) 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 shak’st the strong, Who shield’st 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 Life’s 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’ Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1443 |
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