Page:Undivine Comedy - Zygmunt Krasiński, tr. Martha Walker Cook.djvu/514



this slough kneaded with blood and tears, This world where none his Golgotha avoids, In vain the spirit struggles when the hand Of sorrow strikes. Against the storms of life No port of refuge here is ever found.

At every moment we are mocked by Fate; The brave engulfed within the dark abyss; The loved, the saintly, die,—the hated, live; All eddies in a maze without a clue: Pale Death is near, and far—so far—away Across the loitering waves of future ages. Yet scarcely breaks the Resurrection's dawn.

Must we then grow inert, insensible, And still the voice of conscience? 'Mid the vile Grow viler, murder with the murderers, Lie, hate, blaspheme, and kill? . . . Unto this world Return the evil it hath wrought on us? At such price Power is ours,—else wield we none! Then let us eat and drink, the body sate, And, chasing from the brain each noble thought, Swell high the list of fortunate, and fools!

Oh, no! Pause! Pause, my soul! Not with such arms Can those who guide humanity meet evil! There is no force but that of sacrifice Able to crush the fate that crushes us! 508