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the storm

What brain could conceive--what pen describe that elehty voice of persecuted Hu the woes and ills, the sorrows and torht, surely, the souls of the

unnumbered dead rode within the storm, and this was the voice of

their lamentation

From the red mire of battlefields are they come, from the flaeons,

froibbet, to pierce the heavens

once ony

Since the world was made, how many have lived and suffered, and

died, unlettered and unsung--snatched by a tyrant's whilooht, in

blood and flaion"

But there is a great and awful Book, whose leaves are countless,

yet every leaf of which is smirched with blood and fouled with

nameless sins, a record, howsoever brief and inadequate, of hulass, darkly," we ined; where Murder stalks, and ra back, s mouth, and sudden,

deadly hand; where Tyranny, fierce-eyed, and iron-lipped, grinds

the nations beneath a bloody heel Truly, man hath no enemy like

man And Christ is there, and Socrates, and Savonarola--and

there, too, is a cross of agony, a bowl of he fire