The Duellist.
"Thou shall not kill."
Holy is human life; a mystery
Beyond the surgeon's ken, the sage's thought.
Whence comes it? Why and whither doth it flee?
Science in vain its secret haunt hath sought;
Its mystic errand Nature never taught;
Man knows not even what bids those heart-springs move
By which life's current through his frame is wrought;
Yet, guiltily presumptuous, looks above,
And dares God's heart to search, God's attributes to prove!
Beyond the surgeon's ken, the sage's thought.
Whence comes it? Why and whither doth it flee?
Science in vain its secret haunt hath sought;
Its mystic errand Nature never taught;
Man knows not even what bids those heart-springs move
By which life's current through his frame is wrought;
Yet, guiltily presumptuous, looks above,
And dares God's heart to search, God's attributes to prove!
Can the white hand of pure and holy Right
Be in the hue of human slaughter dyed?
Can Piety a pretext find to smite,
Making libation of the gashed heart's tide?
What right to quench that flame to Heaven allied,
Which earth can ne'er relume? Could human deed
Have driven our Saviour to a homicide?
Dread should the danger be, and dire the need
That asks one sacred life, or bids a nation bleed.
Be in the hue of human slaughter dyed?
Can Piety a pretext find to smite,
Making libation of the gashed heart's tide?
What right to quench that flame to Heaven allied,
Which earth can ne'er relume? Could human deed
Have driven our Saviour to a homicide?
Dread should the danger be, and dire the need
That asks one sacred life, or bids a nation bleed.
Accurst the miscreant, whose spider care
Weaves o'er a people's fate the web of war!
Too cold to pity, and too base to dare,
He gloats o'er Murder's revel from afar:
Selfish, impassive, 't is his part to tar
Weaves o'er a people's fate the web of war!
Too cold to pity, and too base to dare,
He gloats o'er Murder's revel from afar:
Selfish, impassive, 't is his part to tar
