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ATLANTIS.
O graves from which the sheeted sleepers fled!
O martyr, heavenward caught from Olive's height!
Yet in the book shall listening prophets write;
Yet through the heavens the seven swift angels soar;
Vials shall yet be given and swords shall smite;
On sea and land red Wrath his plagues shall pour:
Lo, Babylon the Great shall fall to rise no more!
O martyr, heavenward caught from Olive's height!
Yet in the book shall listening prophets write;
Yet through the heavens the seven swift angels soar;
Vials shall yet be given and swords shall smite;
On sea and land red Wrath his plagues shall pour:
Lo, Babylon the Great shall fall to rise no more!
VIII.
Come out of her, my Country—stand afar!
To heaven her smoke of torment shall be rolled;
Her thousand streets shall feel the earthquake's jar;
Her strong-built temples crumble, waxing old.
Woe for her fruits, her merchandise unsold,
Her precious wood, her pearls and linen fine,
Her slaves and souls of men, her silks and gold!
Come out of her, my Country—stand afar!
To heaven her smoke of torment shall be rolled;
Her thousand streets shall feel the earthquake's jar;
Her strong-built temples crumble, waxing old.
Woe for her fruits, her merchandise unsold,
Her precious wood, her pearls and linen fine,
Her slaves and souls of men, her silks and gold!
