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THE CRY OF HUMANITY
Oh what a weary pilgrimage I've paced
In learning only that I've nothing learned!
What will o' th' wisps and shadows have I chased!
For what unworthy objects have I yearned!
How vainly searched for truth in falsehood's mines!
What trust I've given only to be betrayed!
What pagan altars ta'en for holy shrines!
What vain fantastic prayers have I prayed!
What mirage-like illusions have I cherished!
In what blind alleys hoped a path to find!
My faith, my love, my hope, how have they perished!
For what imagined vices have I pined!
And in all ways what skill I've shown (poor elf!)
In finding means to plague and curse myself!
In learning only that I've nothing learned!
What will o' th' wisps and shadows have I chased!
For what unworthy objects have I yearned!
How vainly searched for truth in falsehood's mines!
What trust I've given only to be betrayed!
What pagan altars ta'en for holy shrines!
What vain fantastic prayers have I prayed!
What mirage-like illusions have I cherished!
In what blind alleys hoped a path to find!
My faith, my love, my hope, how have they perished!
For what imagined vices have I pined!
And in all ways what skill I've shown (poor elf!)
In finding means to plague and curse myself!
THE WASTE OF LIFE
How much doth run to waste of human life!
What dreary controversies, profitless
And inessential, fruitful but of strife,
Engage our thoughts, fill us with bitterness!
We fritter thus the precious hours away,
As though infinity of time were ours.
In serious trifling or in idle play.
Mistaking chaff for corn and weeds for flowers;
Wisdom we scorn and follies we pursue.
And such fantastic actions perpetrate,
We lose the power to tell the false from true,
And all our nature grows sophisticate:
Such has been, is, and—must I say?—shall be
The tragic lot of poor humanity.
What dreary controversies, profitless
And inessential, fruitful but of strife,
Engage our thoughts, fill us with bitterness!
We fritter thus the precious hours away,
As though infinity of time were ours.
In serious trifling or in idle play.
Mistaking chaff for corn and weeds for flowers;
Wisdom we scorn and follies we pursue.
And such fantastic actions perpetrate,
We lose the power to tell the false from true,
And all our nature grows sophisticate:
Such has been, is, and—must I say?—shall be
The tragic lot of poor humanity.
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