The World Is Given To The Wicked Poem by John Bowring

'Tis sometimes hard to turn our eye
Upon that wreck of hopes and dreams,
Which lighted hours of ecstasy
With virtue's smiles and freedom's beams,-
To look upon that wreck-and see
A very blank of misery.


For who of mortal mould could e'er
Bend coldly o'er the aspiring mind,
That rear'd its vision'd temples fair,
And open'd wide on human kind
The portals whence the day-streams flow
Of love and liberty below?


Too long, too long the tyrant's might
Had chill'd the senses-cramp'd the soul-
Then, waking in their natural light,
They burst the twilight's dim control,
And, gathering blessings in their train,
Shed splendour o'er the earth again.


'Tis past!-'tis past!-The spreading shade
Of ignorance involves the world;
Our toils were vain-our hopes betray'd-
And freedom from her shrines is hurl'd;
She has no heroes-has no heirs-
The grave is ours-the world is theirs.


The noblest, holiest of our race
Die unrevenged-they spill their blood-
The gay earth is their slaughter-place-
The vast globe is a solitude,
Where their all-withering glance destroys
All virtuous deeds-all righteous joys.


Great God of vengeance! rouse Thee-shower
Thy fiery torrents on their path!
They hate Thy name-they scorn Thy power-
They laugh-proud rebels! at Thy wrath.
And dost Thou tarry?-Canst Thou yet
Their insults and Thy might forget?


Forgive! forgive!-Our wishes rove
Bewilder'd-darken'd by distress-
As if our passions, Lord! could move
Thine all-directing righteousness.
Thou knowest all-Thou rulest all-
To Thee we look-on Thee we call.


Wield then Thy thunders at Thy will,
Thou canst not err-our hearts subdued
Shall wait Thy mandate-calm and still-
Thy purposes are wise and good.
Gloom, mists and clouds surround our way;
Thou art all light-Thy path is day.

November, 1823