om the depths and whirlpools of the stormful currents sounds the
moan of eternal sorrow!
Behind roars the bottomless abyss, black with the gloomy mists rising
from the woes of the Past:
Before lies the far-off Heaven, burning and blazing with flames red
as of blood:
Around struggle the swimmers, in surges so cold, hopeless,
and murky,
That from each as he floats onward is forced the cry; 'WOE! THE
CURSE IS UPON ME!'

Mother, many times murdered! Unhappy mother! with the long and countless
blades of thy ever-green grasses, with the waving stems of thy grain
fields, thou wilt bind our undying memories closely to thee, but
henceforth must thy sons wander and suffer, as they love thee. Behind
them, from sea to sea, is the Grave; before them, wheresoever they may
roam, the Sun set; while monarchs and merchants curse the endless
progression!

The Living cannot understand those reared on the bosom of the
Dead--human faces grow pale at the approach of the spectres--at the echo
of their footsteps the home-fires glimmer and flicker low on the
hearthstone--the mother hides her child--the wife leads away the husband
that he may not clasp hands with the wandering exile,--the evening star
alone, the star of graves, smiles from Heaven on them!

* * * * *

Was not the silence of the forests holy? When the wind swept over the
Pines, did not the mystic murmurs, sacred as the prayers of the Priest,
say to you: 'Nowhere there will you find your God!' The spaces are
filled with the giant skeletons torn from the dim woods; they are
chained and clamped with iron and fed with steam; the eagles soar not in
the air above them, nor do the glad birds twitter in the swaying
branches; none among you may mount the strong horse of the desert and
fly afar over the boundless steppes, rejoicing in his arrowy
swiftness;--you are alone in the midst of the world!

* * * * *

As you wander on, poor exiles, your very gratitude is half disdain! When
they lead you into cities without castles or temples, where trade and
commerce rule; among whitewashed houses where the spirit of Beauty is
not, and the green window-shutters are the sole adornment--murmur ye:
THE DEAD!

* * * * *

On the shores of the seas when you dwell with Jews, Armenians, and
Greeks, quarrelling forever over their vile profits; seeing not the
heavens,