Anger and Indignation

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.

Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?

Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

Man’s inhumanity to man. Makes countless thousands mourn!

A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all Heaven in a rage.

I was angry with my friend; I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe; I told it not, my wrath did grow.

The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.

Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait, Though fann’d by Conquest’s crimson wing They mock the air with idle state.

Religion blushing veils her sacred fires, And unawares Morality expires. Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread empire Chaos! is restor’d: Light dies before thy uncreating word; Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall, And universal darkness buries all.

The Right Divine of Kings to govern wrong.

Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings, This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings; Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, Yet wit ne’er tastes, and beauty ne’er enjoys.

Let Sporus tremble—“What? that thing of silk, Sporus, that mere white curd of ass’s milk? Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel? Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?”

The wrath of Peleus’ son, the direful spring Of all the Grecian woes, O goddess sing!

Curse on his virtues! they’ve undone his country.

Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.

And prove their doctrine orthodox, By apostolic blows and knocks.

And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, 1 Was beat with fist, instead of a stick.

When civil fury first grew high, And men fell out they knew not why.

He’s gone; and who knows how he may report Thy words by adding fuel to the flame?

A dismal universal hiss, the sound Of public scorn.

More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchang’d To hoarse or mute, though fall’n on evil days, On evil days though fall’n, and evil tongues; In darkness, and with dangers compass’d round, And solitude.

To sit in darkness here Hatching vain empires.

Which if not victory is yet revenge.

My sentence is for open war.