There came on the air a smother’d groan,
And a low and stifled cry,
And there struggled a child, a young fair child,
In its mortal agony.
"Now for its price," the murderer said;
"On earth we must live as we can;
And this is not a crime, but a sacrifice
In the cause of science and man."
Is this the curse that is laid on the earth?
And must it ever be so,
That there can be nothing of human good
But must from some evil flow?
On, on, and the dreary city's smoke
And the fog are left behind,
And the leafless boughs of the large old trees
Are stirred by the moaning wind;
And all is calm, like the happy dream
Which we have of an English home—
A lowly roof where cheerful toil
And healthy slumbers come.
Is there a foreign foe in the land,
That the midnight sky grows red—
That by homestead, and barn, and rick, and stack,
Yon cruel blaze is fed?
There were months of labour, of rain, and sun,
Ere the harvest followed the plough—
Ere the stack was reared, and the barn was filled,
Which the fire is destroying now.
