ge all,
And your vast piled-up power to chaos sink!

The earthquake gives slight time to ward its
shock;
But racks the earth, nor warns of where or
when;
The hurricane that makes the city rock,
Speaks not with previous voice unto your ken;
Vesuvius and Aetna horror mock,
And tidal waves. Think: These you crush are
Men!

=To the Enemies of Free Speech=

As well to lay your hands upon the sun
And try with bonds to bind the morning light,
As well on the four winds to spend your might,
As well to strive against the streams that run;
As well to bar the seasons, bid be done
The rain which falls; as well to blindly fight
Against the air, and at your folly's height
Aspire to make all power that is none.

As well to do this as to impeach
Man's tongue, and bid it answer to the schools;
As well to do all this, as give us rules.
And bid us hold our words within your reach;
As well as this, as try to chain man's speech.
So others learned before ye lived, O fools!

=Magdalene Passes=

What one is this, that bears the band of
shame within her breast,
And wanders through the mocking land, denied
a place of rest?
What one is this, your hue and cry pursue
with withering hate,
Until her best hope is to die, nor meet a
harder fate?

This, this is she who hides her head in shame
to gloom the sun;
Who waits, as in their graves the dead, until
the day is done;
Whose tasks make pitiful the dark, and dreadful
all the night,
And leave her spirit striken stark and crushed
at morning light.

Beneath the shadows of silk and lace her form
is spare and shrunk,
And through the rogue upon her face see how
her cheeks have sunk,
Her lightsome laugh hides not her thought;
her brow is scarred with care.
And her flashing rings with jewels wrought,
but gild and grace despair.

Has she no tears to weep for grief, no voice to
cry with woe,
No memories panged beyond belief for joys
of long ago,
Has she no tortured dreams to smart, no anguish
for her brow,
Has she no broken bleeding heart, that you
must curse her now?

Is here no innocence o'erthrown, no wrecked
sweet maidenhood,
No sense of loss, like heavy stone, to make her
doubt all good?
Are here no women's ruined charms, no dead
and withering breasts?
Are here no hapless, vacant arms, which
should lull babes to rest?

And what are you, who