O miserere, O miserere,
O miserere. . .
Yet twain in this place have splendour:
The burials and the sunset. . .
(vi.)
The son of motion, thus hearing,
The son of radiance pondered with sorrow:
Wherefore doth Europe passionately embrace
Only the soothly alive,
Only the venturesome, strong and self-certain
Peering into the most sequestered corners,
Those, scouring the oceans,
Those, cruising on tracks of the globe,
Those, blithely trafficking with settlements,
Those, mustering courage, unshipping wallets of gold
Yonder in regions, where the armourers sing
Amid passionate roaring of blow-pipes,
Where newly-moulded cannon are upreared,
Where in havens of war dusky vessels tower aloft?. . .
O, long since was the son of motion witness:
That Europe doth paasionate embrace
Only those, who in sooth are alive.
Those victorious after dreadful combats,
Those, loving fruits of the centuries' lore,
Those, who in contest have won them a place,
