“This old stone”—growl’d Atta Troll,—
“Is the altar where the Druids
“In the days of superstition
“Human sacrifices offer’d.
“O their cruelty accursèd!
“All the hair upon my back
“Bristles when I think upon it;
“Blood was pour’d out to God’s honour!
“Now these men are more enlighten’d,
“And no longer kill each other
“Merely in excessive zeal
“For the interests of heaven.
“’Tis no longer pious fancies,
“Madness, nor enthusiasm,
“But mere vanity and self-love
“Makes them now commit their murders.
“On the good things of the earth
“Eagerly they’re ever seizing;
“’Tis an endless round of fighting,
“For himself each person stealeth!
“Yes! the heritage of all
“Is the individual’s booty;
“Of the rights, then, of possession
“Speaks he, thinking of his own!
“Of his own! Possession’s rights too!
“O, the cruel theft, the lying!
“None but man could have invented
“Such commingled fraud and madness.
“Private property was never
“Made by Nature; pocketless,
“With no pockets in our skins, we
“Ev’ry one the world first entered.
“Not a single one amongst us
“At his birth had such a pocket
“In his body’s outer skin,
“Where he might conceal his robb’ries.
“Man alone, that smooth-skinn’d being,
“Who with foreign wool so nicely
“Clothes himself, had e’er the sharpness
“To provide himself with pockets.