ON THE MASSACRE OF THE CHRISTIANS IN BULGARIA
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HRIST, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bonesStill straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?And was Thy Rising only dreamed by herWhose love of Thee for all her sin atones?For here the air is horrid with men’s groans,The priests who call upon Thy name are slain,Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of painFrom those whose children lie upon the stones?Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloomCurtains the land, and through the starless nightOver Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!If Thou in very truth didst burst the tombCome down, O Son of Man! and show Thy mightLest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!
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