The Pickering Manuscript/The Grey Monk
For other versions of this work, see The Grey Monk.
The Grey Monk
I die I die the Mother saidMy Children die for lack of BreadWhat more has the merciless Tyrant saidThe Monk sat down on the Stony Bed
The blood red ran from the Grey Monks sideHis hands & feet were wounded wideHis Body bent his arms & kneesLike to the roots of ancient trees
His eye was dry no tear could flowA hollow groan first spoke his woeHe trembled & shudderd upon the BedAt length with a feeble cry he said
When God commanded this hand to writeIn the studious hours of deep midnightHe told me the writing I wrote should proveThe Bane of all that on Earth I lovd
My Brother starvd between two WallsHis Childrens Cry my Soul appallsI mockd at the wrack & griding chainMy bent body mocks their torturing pain
Thy Father drew his sword in the NorthWith his thousands strong he marched forth Thy Brother has armd himself in SteelTo avenge the wrongs thy Children feel
But vain the Sword & vain the BowThey never can work Wars overthrowThe Hermits Prayer & the Widows tearAlone can free the World from fear
For a Tear is an Intellectual ThingAnd a Sigh is the Sword of an Angel KingAnd the bitter groan of the Martyrs woeIs an Arrow from the Almighties Bow
The hand of Vengeance found the BedTo which the Purple Tyrant fledThe iron hand crushd the Tyrants headAnd became a Tyrant in his stead