Scourge of the Nations! thy appointed time
Is near its close—exhausted is thy quiver.
Vain is thy complex thought, thy grasp sublime;
Nor whirlwind, plague, nor tyrant lasts for ever!
Couldst thou not from the ground one blade dissever
Of joyous herbage, save with butchering steel,
Nor give one glory to the Eternal Giver?
Couldst thou but wound that mightst so nobly heal?
I see thy end begin—for Man thou didst not feel!
XLIV.