Page:Songs before sunrise (IA beforesunrisongs00swinrich).pdf/63

 Whose hand is stretched forth upon her? Whose curb is white with her foam? Clothed with the cloud of his deeds, Swathed in the shroud of his creeds, Who is this that has trapped her and leads, Who turns to despair and dishonour Her name, her name that was Rome?

Over fields without harvest or culture, Over hordes without honour or love, Over nations that groan with their kings, As an imminent pestilence flings Swift death from her shadowing wings, So he, who hath claws as a vulture, Plumage and beak as a dove.

He saith, "I am pilot and haven, Light and redemption I am Unto souls overlaboured," he saith; And to all men the blast of his breath Is a savour of death unto death; And the Dove of his worship a raven, And a wolf-cub the life-giving Lamb.

He calls his sheep as a shepherd, Calls from the wilderness home,