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Rh Not pride, alas, it is, but love of man, To mourn so terrible a stroke as this.

Would it console the sad inhabitants Of these aflame and desolated shores To say to them: "Lay down your lives in peace; For the world's good your homes are sacrificed; Your ruined palaces shall others build, For other peoples shall your walls arise; The North grows rich on your unhappy loss; Your ills are but a link in general law; To God you are as those low creeping worms That wait for you in your predestined tombs"? What speech to hold to victims of such ruth! Add not such cruel outrage to their pain.

Nay, press not on my agitated heart These iron and irrevocable laws, This rigid chain of bodies, minds, and worlds. Dreams of the bloodless thinker are such thoughts. God holds the chain: is not himself enchained; By his indulgent choice is all arranged; Implacable he's not, but free and just. Why suffer we, then, under one so just? There is the knot your thinkers should undo. Think ye to cure our ills denying them? All peoples, trembling at the hand of God, Have sought the source of evil in the world. When the eternal law that all things moves Doth hurl the rock by impact of the winds,

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