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66 Is it a jest that Europe's stainless snows

In beauty mask her burning, bleeding scars,

Where man's blaspheming thunder comes and goes?—

Is this unholiest his last of wars?

Is this the freedom that we bought so dear,—

To live among the wolf-pack in a cage,

Spurr'd by a Sycorax to hate and fear—

Ingenious brutes that cower and kill and rage?

Have we no further end, no nobler plan,

No subtler vision and no bolder will?

Is this the creature that we called a man?

Is this the jungle that we live in still?

Be dumb! ye bells, nor wake the frosty air

With joyful clamor while the nations bleed;

Let sorrow's silence speak a people's prayer

Whose legion'd sons lie crucified by greed.

Be dumb, sweet bells: or ring more wild and clear,

Proclaim a sunrise on youth's Calvary!

Ring out the madness with the dying year,—

Let nations pass so Man himself be free!