THE VOICE.
See for yourself—Of Brahma's work no ill
I say: but what you hear, it is their speech.
THE DAUGHTER.
It sounds as if—it has no happy ring!
THE VOICE.
I fear me not—for even their mother-tongue
Is named complaint. A race most hard to please,
And thankless, are the dwellers on the earth
THE DAUGHTER.
O, say not so—for I hear cries of joy,
Hear noise and thunder, see the lightnings flash—
Now bells are ringing, fires are lit,
And thousand upon thousand tongues
Sing praise and thanks unto the heavens on high—
Too harshly, father, you are judging them.
THE VOICE.
Descend, that you may see and hear, and then
Return and let me know if their complaints
And wailings have some reasonable ground——