I retreat, yet I never quite escape.
Hellish hounds, so familiar with our scent,
Exhaust us till our very soul is spent,
Then drink the spoils of our wounds that gape.
How can we mortal men evade the hand,
Invisible, sure, but with deadly grip,
Whose shadow starves us of a sunny drip,
And is the very consequence we planned?
O! This smiling, sly, treacherous crusade,
This firm, insatiable inquisition,
Commenced to repeal all superstition,
Pursues till every single debt is paid.
We gave no idols place to rest their heads,
Now we lie with them—lifeless marble shreds.
Originally appeared on VoegelinView Read More