Extract

Chaunt of the Cholera (selected verses)1

John Banim (1798–1842 Ireland)

From my proper clime and subjects,

In my hot and swarthy East,

North and Westward I am coming

For a conquest and a feast—

And I come not until challenged,

Through your chilly lands to roam!

As a bride ye march'd to woo me,

And in triumph led me home!

He hears them onward tramping

To the tramp of other feet—

He hears the hostile shouting

Of the armies ere they meet—

Hush!—at one side and the other,

They are silent—and they stop—

An unseen hand hath touch'd them!

Down their weapons drop!

And they reel about like drunkards,

Or infants in their play,

And they fall, convulsed and bloated,

And blind to the bright day—

And in heaps they stir and struggle,

Until at last all lie

Dead, by the noble river

Which lonesomely runs by!

The hour of shrieks! the frantic!

He swells above your head!

Ye feel him! though he spareth

As yet to strike ye dead!

He tortures ye! he blisters!

The blood within your veins

Is boiling! and all verdure

Turns red upon your plains!

And in crowds ye go together—

All ye I may have spared—

The king, uncrown'd—the captain

Ungirded—not unsear'd—

The mean and ragged cripple—

The foolish and the wise—

The strong man, and the weak one

Who did never win a prize—–

With lolling tongues ye hoarsely

Cry out, and curse or pray—

Kneel down! kneel down! and wisely

Dream on of such a day!

And what though I should smite ye

Before it come so near—

Ho! were it not in mercy,

To make ye love or fear!

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