Since then (as emmets, their small world o’erthrown)
We, sore-amazed, from out earth’s ruins crawl,
And rise to fate extreme of foul or fair,
As man’s own choice (controller of the skies!)
As man’s despotic will, perhaps one hour
(O how omnipotent is time!) decrees;
Should not each warning give a strong alarm?
Warning, far less than that of bosom torn 403
From bosom, bleeding o’er the sacred dead!
Should not each dial strike us as we pass,