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ATLANTIS.
O graves from which the sheeted sleepers fled! O martyr, heavenward caught from Olive's height! Yet in the book shall listening prophets write;Yet through the heavens the seven swift angels soar; Vials shall yet be given and swords shall smite;On sea and land red Wrath his plagues shall pour:Lo, Babylon the Great shall fall to rise no more!
VIII.Come out of her, my Country—stand afar! To heaven her smoke of torment shall be rolled;Her thousand streets shall feel the earthquake's jar; Her strong-built temples crumble, waxing old. Woe for her fruits, her merchandise unsold,Her precious wood, her pearls and linen fine, Her slaves and souls of men, her silks and gold!
