| 412 | 413 | 414 | 415 | 416 |
| 1 | 154 | 308 | 461 | 615 |
|
nor the animals that in the midst of plenty basked in the sunshine. Our
enemy, like the Calamity of Homer, trod our hearts, and no sound was echoed
from her steps--
With ills the land is rife, with ills the sea,
Diseases haunt our frail humanity,
Through noon, through night, on casual wing they glide,
Silent,--a voice the power all-wise denied.[1]
Once man was a favourite of the Creator, as the royal psalmist sang, "God
had made him a little lower than the angels, and had crowned him with glory
and honour. God made him to have dominion over the works of his hands, and
put all things under his feet." Once it was so; now is man lord of the
creation? Look at him--ha! I see plague! She has invested his form, is
incarnate in his flesh, has entwined herself with his being, and blinds his
heaven-seeking eyes. Lie down, O man, on the flower-strown earth; give up
all claim to your inheritance, all you can ever possess of it is the small
cell which the dead require. Plague is the companion of spring, of sunshine,
and plenty. We no longer struggle with her. We have forgotten what we did
when she was not. Of old navies used to stem the giant ocean-waves betwixt
Indus and the Pole for slight articles of luxury. Men made perilous
journies to possess themselves of earth's splendid trifles, gems and gold.
Human labour was wasted--human life set at nought. Now life is all that
we covet; that this automaton of flesh should, with joints and springs in
order, perform its functions, that this dwelling of the soul should be
capable of containing its dweller. Our minds, late spread abroad through
414
Page
Quick Jump
|