Where hideous Theria of the wild rended their fellows limb by limb; Where horrid Saurians of the sea in waves of blood were wont to swim: The “fair young Earth” was only fit to spawn her frightful monster-brood; Now fiery hot, now icy frore, now reeking wet with steamy flood. Yon glorious Sun, the greater light, the “Bridegroom” of the royal Lyre, A flaming, boiling, bursting mine; a grim black orb of whirling fire: That gentle Moon, the lesser light, the Lover’s lamp, the Swain’s delight, A ruined world, a globe burnt out, a corpse upon the road of night. What reckt he, say, of Good or Ill who in the hill-hole made his lair, The blood-fed rav’ening Beast of prey, wilder than wildest wolf or bear? How long in Man’s pre-Ad’amite days to feed and swill, to sleep and breed, Were the Brute-biped’s only life, a perfect life sans Code or Creed? His choicest garb a shaggy fell, his choicest tool a flake of stone; His best of orn’aments tattoo’d skin and holes to hang his bits of bone; Who fought for female as for food when Mays awoke to warm desire; And such the Lust that grew to Love when Fancy lent a purer fire. Where then “Th’ Eternal nature-law by God engraved on human heart?” Behold his simiad sconce and own the Thing could play no higher part. Yet, as long ages rolled, he learnt from Beaver, Ape and Ant to build Shelter for sire and dam and brood, from blast and blaze that hurt and killed; And last came Fire; when scrap of stone cast on the flame that lit his den, Gave out the shining ore, and made the Lord of beasts a Lord of men. The “moral sense,” your Zâhid-phrase, is but the gift of latest years; Conscience was born when man had shed his fur, his tail, his pointed ears. What conscience has the murd’erous Moor, who slays his guest with felon blow, Save sorrow he can slay no more, what prick of pen’itence can he know? You cry the “Cruelty of Things” is myst’ery to your purblind eye, Which fixed upon a point in space the general project passes by: For see! the Mammoth went his ways, became a mem’ory and a name; While the half-reasoner with the hand* survives his rank and place to claim. * The Elephant. Earthquake and plague, storm, fight and fray, portents and curses man must deem Since he regards his self alone, nor cares to trace the scope, the scheme; The Quake that comes in eyelid’s beat to ruin, level, ’gulf and kill, Builds up a world for better use, to general Good bends special Ill: The dreadest sound man’s ear can hear, the war and rush of stormy Wind Depures the stuff of human life, breeds health and strength for humankind: What call ye them or Goods or Ills, ill-goods, good-ills, a loss, a gain, When realms arise and falls a roof; a world is won, a man is slain?